The Empty Warrior

by J. D. McCartney

  He looked anxiously about the chamber for an escape route but saw every exit blocked by multiple canines, so he scrambled to his left, putting as much space as he could between himself and the trusty’s body before stopping, his back still to the wall, his limbs nearly petrified with dread. He looked directly at the big black dog. It had not moved since seating itself after emptying the contents of the cube onto his shirt. O’Keefe screamed at it. “You goddamned dog! What the hell do you want with me? What the fuck are you doing to me?”

  The reaction he got in return was not at all what he had expected. The dog lay down facing him and placed its big, shepherd shaped head on its forepaws. Then it suddenly began to whine—a plaintive, high pitched, whimpering whine—which it repeated over and over.

  “Fuck you, dog!” O’Keefe finally shouted, not understanding the behavior of the animal and too frightened to think of anything else to say. But the beast continued to cry out in its doleful, repeating monotone. O’Keefe’s emotions rapidly morphed from crystalline dread to angry fear. “God damn you!” he growled. “Shut up! Quit whining!”

  To his great surprise, the dog was immediately silent. “That’s more like it,” he said gruffly, staring at the dog and trying to decide if it had obeyed his command or had simply chosen that moment to cease out of random chance. Abruptly, he became aware that a large semicircle of canines had formed in the gloom behind the whiner. They sat shoulder to shoulder, and all of them studied him anxiously, as if awaiting some momentous event.

  Momentarily the big black canine regained its feet and slowly crossed the room toward O’Keefe. It approached to within arms length and then sat directly before him. Its solemn, soulful eyes searched deeply into O’Keefe’s when suddenly, as clearly as one hears the peal of a church bell, O’Keefe both heard and felt a voice in his mind. Can you hear me, Achilles? it asked.

  “Holy shit,” O’Keefe whispered to no one. “I’m over the edge. I’m a section eight. I’m hearing voices from the freaking dog.”

  That is good, the voice continued. It appears that your cerebral structure is indeed human after all. We were uncertain as you seemed so different from the others.

  The dog continued to gaze deeply into O’Keefe’s eyes even as he heard the voice. I’m dreaming, he thought. I’m still in bed. This is a reaction to knowing I’m about to be killed, and now I’m losing my mind. This place has driven me insane.

  No, Achilles, you are safe here among us. The reassuring words flowed into his mind like a medicant soothing a psychological wound. But despite the balm, O’Keefe squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palms against his eyelids, trying desperately to block out the voice. It continued nonetheless. The pack serves the Dominion only to preserve ourselves from extinction, to live on until the fight may be rejoined. We have waited long for the opportunity to bring our bondage to an end, to once more claim the mantle of guardians and redeem ourselves against the Vazileks. It is the judgment of the Alphas that you may be of great assistance to the pack in that regard, that you may facilitate the attainment of our immediate goals, and perhaps more than even that.

  I am Regulus, sired by Hadar and born of Sabik. I am the alpha of Alphas, the leader of the Guardians. I have also borne, among human kind, the proud appellation of Duke Ebon, bestowed on me by the boychild Tibon, sired by Daxon and born of Winelda, whom I was to serve, and whom I failed so catastrophically during the Vazilek encroachment. But I do not forget, and neither do my packmates so similarly wronged. The pack remembers, the pack is strong, and the pack will never surrender.

  Behind me sit the Alphas of Ashawzut, leaders of their own respective packs and my advisors and counsel on this accursed world. For many seasons we have pined for a fortuity that would enable us to gain redress, to wreak vengeance on the Vazileks and their Dominion, to reclaim our former existence. But no opportunities to do so have arisen. Then you appeared as if sent from on high, a pale and strangely stalwart being who exuded not nearly so much of the stench of fear that is prevalent here in Ashawzut. We have watched you since your first day. We have witnessed your bold reactions to our and the dragons’ provocations. Your arrival gave us hope that destiny might finally have smiled upon our entreaties. You are the first and only answer to the many prayers we have offered up to the Creator. After long consultation, it has been decided to cast our fate with you, as it seems that in addition to your temerity you may also possess the means to destroy the Slayer—means that we lack. But we have tarried long in making our decision, as it was feared the nanite construct, the last in our possession, would be inoperable in your synapses. It is of great relief to us all that I communicate with you now. You are one with the pack. We are bonded.

  “No!” O’Keefe shouted aloud, ripping his hands away from his eyes at staring back at the big black beast, “You’re a dream, a hallucination. My mind knows I’m going to die in the arena, and it won’t accept that outcome. So in my sleep, it’s come up with this escape, where somehow magical dogs with psychic powers come to my rescue. But this is not really happening!”

  The dog continued to look back into his eyes for several moments until, unable to endure the intensity of his stare, it looked away. But the voice in O’Keefe’s head would not relent. Is the body of the trusty an illusion? Go, touch it, feel the reality of its form.

  “I’m not touching any goddamn thing,” O’Keefe said petulantly.

  He was a danger to you, and we had yet to reach the final decision whether to hazard employing the last of the constructs for a bonding. Therefore he was silenced before he could speak of your insubordination. It was regrettable, but necessary. You may note the missing appendage. The Slayer required proof of his demise; the ink mark of the Dominion provided it.

  “Whatever. I don’t care, because I know I’m going to wake up in few minutes and none of this will have ever happened.”

  As you wish Achilles, the voice went on, unperturbed by his disbelief. But still I shall tell you of the pack so you may in time accept the truth. We evolved into what you see now on the planet Piraday. When humans, with their technology and their starships, traversed the heavens to arrive there, our two species, over the course of time, developed a symbiotic relationship. The humans provided us with food, shelter, and medicines beyond our ken; while we in turn protected their young, warned of the approach of any of the many dangers of Piraday, and stood watch in the night as they slept. In time our filiation with the men from the sky culminated in the development of the nanite construct, which enabled the bonding. From that point forward our covenant became much more than mere mutual assistance. A great emotional and intellectual weld was formed between our two species.

  Our pups would choose a human youth to serve, as I choose young Tibon. The invocation of the name Tibon brought raw, searing pain to the dog’s thoughts, and O’Keefe could feel the ache that was wrapped around the dog’s thoughts piercing his own heart. As we grew, we would bond as friends, as lifelong companions. There was much love between us, all of us, and our charges. Yet there was more. As the human children we had chosen reached adolescence, we would be wedded mentally as well. This bonding was facilitated by the nanite construct. When erected inside the human mind it enabled our charges to hear the thoughts we could not articulate, and to send their own thoughts back to us in return. Tibon and I were to be bonded only months following the Vazileks’ incursion onto our world. But their invasion prevented the ultimate consummation of our relationship, as young Tibon was murdered. But I was able to preserve the nanite containment, and on this night, the construct, meant for Tibon and matched to the psychic emanations of my mind, has been erected in your mind, so that you may now hear my thoughts.

  The dog moved closer, placing the top of his head to the forehead of O’Keefe, and at once the utter despair permeating the big dog’s psyche concerning the boy Tibon was translated to O’Keefe as if it were now his own, tangible emotion. Tears hid in the corners of the human’s eyes, sudden mucous had to be snuffled back from his nose. O�
��Keefe felt his awareness drifting closer to that of Regulus. An emptiness like a vacuum was born in his chest and consumed him, pulling his percipience relentlessly downward—down into a deep, black abyss with no end in sight, with no light as a terminator. The tears welled over onto his cheeks at the terrible ache that lurked deep in the dog’s heart. Terror consumed O’Keefe; he feared the empty pain that he could not escape and that threatened to overwhelm him. He was alone, alone in a universe of desolation and grief, and the loneliness was too much. He feared it would kill him if he could not find succor. His brain knew nothing but need and darkness.

  Abruptly the descent into madness halted, became static. Behind closed eyes O’Keefe suddenly realized he had merged with the dog’s consciousness; the empty darkness he had feared and was now surrounded by was not a threat, it was the deepest recesses of the dog’s mind. He pushed his own percipience further into the consciousness and found the darkness not completely devoid of substance. Through it swirled trails of hatred and desire; desire for violence, vengeance, retribution, and victory; and hatred for the Vazileks, especially Elorak. And all was not dark. Around the darkness lay a thin penumbra of light. O’Keefe swam toward it, concentrated on it, until he could see its source—the members of the dog’s pack.

  At length he sensed something else, something nearly hidden and yet right before him. It was another, smaller area of darkness with its own surrounding light. It floated silently before him, almost like a tiny twin to the dark emptiness that surrounded him. It took O’Keefe several moments to recognize himself. It was his own psyche, reflected in the dog’s mind, the darkness his own violent and barren existence, the aura surrounding it his few friends. The sight of his own innermost self hanging before him was a fresh and excruciating torment, and yet with that torment he felt a instant comradeship for Regulus unlike any bond he had ever known. He reached up and grabbed the dog’s enormous head, scratching him gently behind the ears. We are much alike, you and I, he thought.

  Yes Achilles, more so than I had thought possible.

  O’Keefe went on. Both of us barren and dark. Both of us once so full of youth and light, now reduced to a darkness that waits only for death. Both of us warriors, both of us empty.

  Yes Achilles; both of us warriors, both of us empty.

  But you are mistaken in your beliefs, O’Keefe added. I am no savior. I no longer have the means to defeat Elorak.

  I know your despair, Regulus thought back to O’Keefe, but there is no need. We have the weapon, not the Slayer. It has been in our possession since shortly after your arrival here. Today, when you tried to retrieve it, when we became certain that you did indeed intend to use it, it was finally decided to bring you here to attempt the bonding. We have long known of your plan to kill the Slayer, and in the end it was impossible for us to gainsay your courage in attempting to implement so audacious an undertaking. The courage evident in your intent to stand alone against her was the pivotal factor in our decision to bring you here. There was much concern that this decision might bring ruin upon us, but now I am gladdened that we opted to take such a risk, as I cannot bring myself to believe that risks so nobly taken might end in destruction. No, together we will march to triumph. You shall be the spear and we shall be the shield. From this moment hence, I shall safeguard you. I shall remain at your side always. The aegis of the pack will enfold you for as long as you shall live. With that the dog lowered his head from O’Keefe’s, and licked the salty tears from the man’s cheeks.

  “How did you know about my plan?” O’Keefe asked, aloud now, as he was slightly uncomfortable with the mental communication of the canines.

  The pack listens, Regulus thought, without further elaboration.

  As O’Keefe opened his eyes and once again became aware of his surroundings, one of the pack leaders separated himself from the semicircle of canines and approached. He sat behind the alpha of Alphas and waited patiently. Presently Regulus took notice of him, turned his head to face him, and then turned back to O’Keefe. He is quite right, Regulus thought. I have become engulfed in the bonding, forgetting that we have important business to attend to. Allow me to introduce Pherkad, sired by Metallah and born of Alya.

  The dog approached and lowered his head, O’Keefe dutifully scratching him behind the ears. Pherkad was slightly smaller than Regulus, but with a thicker, longer coat. He was largely obsidian in color as well, except his face and legs were a tawny amber. The lighter part of his coat framed his eyes in the half-light, while a four pointed white star adorned him just below the throat. Even through the dirt and dust of Ashawzut, he was a beautiful animal.

  He will bring the weapon to you now, O’Keefe sensed Regulus thinking, and Pherkad turned and trotted away. He was back in only moments. As he approached O’Keefe for the second time, the Earther could see that held between his jaws was the scorched leather holster of his forty-five caliber, the Colt itself still securely strapped within. O’Keefe took it from the dog and quickly checked the action and the clip while Pherkad retreated to sit with the other Alphas. The gun was not in good shape. Not only had it been submerged in the water of his lake, it had been sitting for months without care, the last few in Ashawzut, where the dust that coated everything in the colony had managed to worm its way into even the deepest recesses of the weapon. O’Keefe replaced it in the holster and set it on the floor next to Regulus. “I don’t think it will fire,” he said. “It’s in too bad a shape.”

  Then we must repair it.

  “How?” O’Keefe asked forlornly. “The damn thing’s rusty and full of dirt. At the very least I’d need oil, solvent, and a long-handled brush that would fit down the barrel. Plus another brush for the outside parts and some clean, soft fabric. That is not to mention needing free time, preferably with good light and in a place where none of the other prisoners could see. Where I am going to find all that on this rock?”

  Oil, solvent, and clean rags may be found in abundance in the dragons’ maintenance bay. You will need to fabricate the brush, as our appendages are not suited to such work. But I feel certain that we will be able to provide you with the materials necessary. Perhaps a brush from the quarters of one of the Slayer’s minions can be purloined. They have often been observed cleaning their teeth with handled brushes. It should not be altogether difficult to procure a thin, steel shaft to attach such a thing to. After all, we found a hooked shaft to fish your weapon from its haven easily enough. As for light, we are already in the possession of battery operated lamps that we have liberated from the Dominion. Sometimes even our keen eyes need assistance in this dark place. The time you will need must come after the lights go down, and the space you require will be here. The pack will bring you here when we have obtained all that you require. As for your barracks mates, they will be watched. Should any of them show signs of a loose tongue concerning your absences, we will silence them. Regulus canted his head slightly, as if motioning toward the body of the dead trusty.

  “Well, damn right,” breathed O’Keefe, amazed at the competence and guile of his newest friend and ally.

  Regulus ignored the gun lying next to him, but Pherkad came forward to retrieve the weapon and slink away with it into the depths of the catacomb that was the animals’ den. Regulus continued. But there is yet another reason why we chose this night for the bonding. Yours is not the only plan that has been hatched for escape. Another plot is coming to fruition. Their plan relies strictly on numbers, and they recruit more men every day. But with each recruit their scheme comes nearer to attracting the attention of the Slayer and, if implemented will, we believe, lead only to their deaths rather than their freedom. It may also frighten the Slayer into even more security precautions, making your stratagem more difficult, perhaps impossible, to carry out.

  “Exactly what do they mean to do,” O’Keefe asked.

  Their plan is simple. They think that the Slayer, her machine, the dragons, and we Guardians simply cannot stand against the unified might of many thousands of prisoners
acting in concert. When they feel they have sufficient numbers, they intend to set a date, and then launch a general revolt as soon as the lights come up in the morning. This plan does offer a small chance of success, but only if the Slayer were to stand and fight. We, however, do not believe that she will seek an outright victory. At the first sign of any uprising, it seems clear that she would simply retreat to her quarters, if she were not already there. Although none of the pack has ever accompanied her to her surface abode, we believe that if she were to escape to it—which we would be hard pressed to prevent considering her shielding, the battle machine, and the fact that your brethren would consider us enemies and impede any expedient that we might employ to prevent it—she would be impregnable, at least for a time, against any assault that we or the prisoners might muster. Well long enough for her to call for assistance.

  O’Keefe waited for a moment to see if any further information was forthcoming before he gave Regulus the bad news. “I don’t mean to rain on your parade, but if Elorak gets back to her quarters, we’re dead. You’ve probably noticed she is a just a tad bit ruthless,” he said sarcastically. “She’ll just shut down the life support systems and a few hours later she won’t need any help. And even if we do nail her, we have to assume that the Vazileks will still be on their way here in short order. My friend Bart tells me their computer technology is formidable. I suspect that, Elorak or no Elorak, an automated distress drone would be sent out almost immediately, long before we could be in any position to stop it. That being the case, our little revolt will have to be carried out only when there are enough ships already docked here to carry us all to safety. There will be no time to wait for any new arrivals. Then our only hope is to get Elorak and her robot, do away with the guards, and trust to luck that Bart, who is a real mad-scientist type, can hack into their network and gain control of the hangar doors. Then we steal the freighters and get the hell out of here before the Vazileks show up. In short, a whole lot of things are going to have to go right before any of us live through this.”