by John Scalzi
“You’re saying Tuffy wearing the crown is jeopardizing our diplomatic mission,” Abumwe said.
“Not yet,” Gunztar said. “The fact that you found the disappeared king far outweighs the issue of the crown, for now. But the longer it takes for it to be returned to us, the more questions the negotiating council will begin to have about it. Make no mistake that eventually it will jeopardize your mission, and your standing. And the standing of the Colonial Union.”
“Philippa,” Abumwe said, to Waverly.
Waverly said nothing, looked at them all and then went over to Tuffy, who was by this time on his back, paws adorably in the air, snoring lightly. Waverly sat next to her dog, picked him up, waking him in the process, and began sobbing into his little back. The dog craned his head back and heroically tried to lick the head of his owner, hitting only air instead.
“Oh, come on,” Wilson said, after roughly thirty seconds of awkward silence from everyone in the room except Ambassador Waverly, who continued sobbing. “I feel like I’m twelve and being made to reread the last couple chapters of Old Yeller.”
“Lieutenant Wilson, it might be advisable to let Ambassador Waverly have her moment with Tuffy,” Praetor Gunztar said. “It is hard to say good-bye to a friend.”
“So we’re all agreed that we’re going to have to kill the dog,” Wilson said.
“Wilson,” Abumwe said, sharply.
Wilson held up his hand. “I’m not asking just to be an asshole,” he assured Abumwe. “I’m asking because if we’re all agreed that’s what has to happen, then no one will look at me like I’m nuts for offering a completely insane potential solution.”
“What solution?” Abumwe asked.
Wilson walked over and stood by Waverly and Tuffy. Tuffy lolled his tongue out at Wilson; Waverly looked up at him with deeply suspicious eyes.
“Badly-designed technology got us into this problem,” Wilson said, looking down at Tuffy and Waverly. “Maybe better-designed technology can get us out of it.”
* * *
“Here you go,” Schmidt said, handing Wilson the small wand with a plunger button on top and then motioning with his head to two nervous-looking Icheloe technicians. “Press the button, everything goes down. Press the button again, hopefully everything comes back up again.”
“Got it,” Wilson said. He watched as another Icheloe technician brought in Tuffy and placed him on a stainless steel table, a small work towel placed in the middle to keep the dog’s feet from getting too cold.
“The technicians also wanted me to tell you thank you for being willing to be the one to press the button,” Schmidt said.
“Of course,” Wilson said. “Ambassador Waverly already hates my guts. And if this doesn’t work, then better it’s someone on our side than one of the Icheloe.”
“Their thinking exactly,” Schmidt said.
“How is Ambassador Waverly, anyway?” Wilson asked. He hadn’t seen her for several hours.
“Abumwe is with her now,” Schmidt said. “I think the plan is to keep feeding her alcohol.”
“It’s not a bad plan,” Wilson said.
Schmidt looked at his friend. “How do you feel?”
“I feel fine, Hart,” Wilson said. “I’d like to get this over with, however.”
“Can I get you some juice or anything?” Schmidt asked.
“What you can do is help that technician with Tuffy,” Wilson said, nodding to the Icheloe tech holding the squirming dog. “He looks like he’s about to lose it.” Schmidt hurried over and took the dog from the tech, then settled it down on the table. The tech backed away quickly, obviously relieved to be rid of her burden. The other two techs also quietly excused themselves.
“You want me to go?” Schmidt asked, petting Tuffy to keep the dog still.
“No, I need you to help me,” Wilson said. “You might want to move your hands, though.”
“Oh, right,” Schmidt said, and moved a step away from the dog.
Tuffy moved to go after Schimdt, but Wilson said, “Tuffy!” and snapped his fingers at the same time, drawing the little dog’s attention to himself.
“Good dog,” Wilson said, to Tuffy, who gave him a happy doggie smile and wagged his fluffy little tail.
Wilson accessed his BrainPal and got the feed on the two small monitors the dog had on his body, one at the top of his head and the other on his chest, close to his heart. The two monitors showed Tuffy’s brain and heart electrical activity. There was something else on his body as well, at the back of his neck, close to where his spinal cord met his brain. Wilson didn’t have a monitor for it.
“Tuffy! Sit!” Wilson said.
The dog sat, winningly obliging.
“Good boy!” Wilson said. “Play dead!” He pressed the plunger button in his hand.
Tuffy’s brain and heart monitors flatlined instantly. The Lhasa apso gave a tiny squeak and collapsed stiffly, like a stuffed animal blown over by a wind gust.
“‘Play dead’?” Schmidt said, ten seconds later, after examining the dog. “That’s just cruel.”
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll have bigger problems than a tasteless joke,” Wilson said. “Now, shut up for a couple of minutes, Hart. You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry,” Schmidt said. Wilson nodded and walked over to the dog on the table.
Tuffy was dead.
Wilson poked the body with a finger. No response at all.
“Any time,” Wilson said. The Icheloe had assured him that their biological systems were similar enough to those of Earth vertebrates that Wilson was willing to risk his little experiment. Nevertheless, he wanted the crown to realize its wearer was dead sooner than later.
A minute passed. Two.
“Harry?” Schmidt asked.
“Quiet,” Wilson said, staring at the crown, still nestled on the dog’s body.
Another two minutes passed. Three.
“What do we do if this doesn’t work?” Schmidt asked.
“Are you asking if there’s a plan B?” Wilson asked.
“Yeah,” Schmidt said.
“Sorry, no,” Wilson said.
“Why are you telling me this now?” Schmidt asked.
“Why didn’t you ask earlier?” Wilson asked.
Another minute.
“There,” Wilson said, pointing.
“What?” Schmidt said.
“The crown moved,” Wilson said.
“I didn’t see anything,” Schmidt said.
“You remember that part where my genetically-engineered eyes are about ten times better than yours, right, Hart?” Wilson said.
“Oh, that,” Schmidt said.
“Remove the crown, please,” Wilson said.
Schmidt reached over to the dog and gently removed the crown from the body. It came off easily.
“Got it,” Schmidt said.
“Thank you,” Wilson said. “Stand back now.” Schmidt backed away from the table.
“Okay, Tuffy,” Wilson said, looked at the dog and raised his wand. “Time to learn a new trick.”
He plunged the button down a second time.
The dog twitched, peed himself and scrambled up from the table, barking furiously.
“Wow, he’s pissed,” Schmidt said, smiling.
“True in more than one way, and a totally appropriate response,” Wilson said, smiling himself.
The Icheloe flooded back into the room, one of them carrying a bag full of red fluid: Tuffy’s actual blood.
“Wait,” Wilson said, and realized the Icheloe had no idea what he was saying. He made himself clear through gestures and then turned to Schmidt. “Tell one of them to go get Ambassador Waverly, please,” he said. “I want her to see that her dog is fine before we transfuse the poor thing again.”
Schmidt nodded and spoke to the Icheloe through his PDA. One of them departed in a hurry.
One of the other Icheloe pointed to the dog and looked at Wilson. “How is it that you could give this animal your blood
?” Wilson’s BrainPal translated the Icheloe’s chitter as saying. “You’re not even the same species.”
Wilson reached over and borrowed Schmidt’s PDA. “It’s called SmartBlood,” he said, setting the PDA in front of him. “It’s completely non-organic, so the dog’s body wouldn’t reject it. It also has several times the oxygen-carrying capacity, so we could stop the body’s processes for a longer period of time and still have the tissues survive.” Wilson reached over and picked up the still-damp dog, who had stopped barking by this time. “And that’s what we did. Replaced this little guy’s blood with my blood, then stopped this little guy’s heart and brain long enough for the crown to think he’s dead. Then started him up again.”
“It seems risky,” the Icheloe said.
“It was risky,” Wilson said. “But the alternative was worse.”
“You mean us breaking off our diplomatic relationship with you,” said the other Icheloe.
“Well, I was actually thinking of a dead dog,” Wilson said. “But yes, that, too.”
Ambassador Waverly appeared in the doorway, Abumwe and Praetor Gunztar behind her. Tuffy saw his mistress and barked happily. Wilson set the dog on the floor; Tuffy’s nails skittered adorably across the floor surface as he raced over to Waverly.
Everyone dissolved into a puddle of awwwww.
“This is just about the perfect ending, isn’t it?” Schmidt said to Wilson, quietly.
“Just about,” Wilson agreed.
“And I suppose we are to make a pact never to speak of this again,” Schmidt said.
“I think that’s the wisest course, yes,” Wilson said.
“I concur,” Schmidt said. “Furthermore, I suggest that we now commence to get drunk.”
“Agreed,” Wilson said. “I seem to recall you promising me a drink at the end of all this.”
“Do you want us to pour back in that pint of SmartBlood you gave to Tuffy before we do?” Schmidt said.
“You know, I think I’ll be fine without it,” Wilson said.
They watched as Waverly and Tuffy wandered off together, followed by some very concerned Icheloe, carrying Tuffy’s bag of blood.
EPISODE EIGHT
The Sound of Rebellion
Heather Lee heard the whisper of the slap’s approach before she felt it, a strike designed to bring her back into consciousness. With the hit, she took a sharp intake of breath and tried to get her bearings.
She quickly became aware of three things. One, she was nude underneath a rough blanket that draped her body as she sat in a chair of some sort.
Two, she was restrained, with her wrists, ankles, neck and waist strapped down to the chair.
Three, she was blind, with something tightly binding and covering her head and face.
None of these were positive developments, in Lee’s opinion.
“You’re awake,” said a voice, weirdly modulated. It jumped around in pitch and timbre.
This interested Lee. “What’s going on with your voice?” she asked.
There was a brief pause before the response. “That’s not the first question we got from your two compatriots,” the voice said. “They were more concerned with where they were and why they were being held.”
“I’m sorry,” Lee said. “I wasn’t aware there was a protocol.”
This got a chuckle. “My voice is being modulated because we know you have one of those computers in your head,” the voice said. “And we know that if you’re not recording me already, you will be at some point in time, and that you could use that to record and identify me. I would prefer that not to happen. For the same reason we’ve blindfolded you, so you cannot record any visual things that would give us away. And of course we’ve also restrained you so that you stay put for now. We’ve taken your combat uniform because we know it provides you with strength and defense advantages, and we don’t want you to have that. I do apologize for that.”
“Do you,” Lee said, as dryly as she could in the circumstance.
“Yes,” the voice said. “Although you have no reason to believe me at the moment, you should understand that we have no interest in abusing you, either physically or sexually. Removing your combat uniform was a defensive procedure, nothing more.”
“I’d believe you more if you hadn’t slapped me awake,” Lee said.
“You were surprisingly resistant to waking up,” the voice said. “How do you feel?”
“I have a headache,” Lee said. “My muscles are sore. I am dying of thirst. I have to pee. I am restrained. I’m blind. How are you?”
“Better than you, I will admit,” the voice said. “Six, water.”
What? Lee thought, and then there was something at her lips, a hard plastic nipple. Liquid came out of it; Lee drank it. It was water, so far as she could tell.
“Thank you,” she said, after a minute. “Why did you say ‘six’?”
“The person in the room with you is called Six,” the voice said. “The number has no significance; it’s randomly selected. We change them for every mission.”
“What number are you?” Lee asked.
“This time I am Two,” the voice said.
“And you’re not in the room with me,” Lee said.
“I am close by,” Two said. “But I have no interest in having my own voice leak in so you can isolate it. So I listen and watch, and Six takes care of everything else.”
“I still need to pee,” Lee said.
“Six,” Two said. Lee could hear Six move, and then suddenly a portion of the hard bottom of her chair disappeared. “Go ahead,” Two said.
“You’re kidding,” Lee said.
“I’m afraid not,” Two said. “Again, apologies. But you can’t honestly expect me to unbind you. Even naked and blind, a Colonial Defense Forces soldier is a formidable opponent. There is a pan underneath your chair that will catch your waste. Six will then deal with it.”
“I feel as if I should apologize to Six,” Lee said. “Especially because eventually I will have to do something else than pee.”
“This is not Six’s first time doing this,” Two said. “We’re all professionals here.”
“How reassuring,” Lee said. Then she made an inward shrug and relieved herself. After she was finished, there was a scrape as a pan was removed and another scraping sound as the bottom of her chair was replaced. There were steps, followed by a door opening and then closing.
“Your compatriots told me that you are Lieutenant Heather Lee, of the Colonial Defense Forces ship Tubingen,” Two said.
“That’s right,” Lee said.
“Well, then, Lieutenant Lee, let me tell you how this is going to work,” Two said. “You have been captured and you are my prisoner. I am going to ask you questions and you are going to answer them truthfully, as fully and completely as you can. If you do so, then when we are done I will have you released, obviously very far away from where we are now, but released all the same. If you do not do so, or if I catch you in a lie even once, I will kill you. I will not torture you, or abuse you, or have you raped or violated or any such nonsense. I will simply have a shotgun put to your head, in order to kill you, and to destroy that computer in your skull. It’s old-fashioned but very effective. I regret to say that one of your compatriots, a Private Jefferson, already tested me on this score and learned to his misfortune that I am not joking. The lesson does him no good at this point, I’m afraid. But I hope his example might be useful to you.”
Lee said nothing to this, thinking about Jefferson, who was always too enthusiastic for his own good.
The door opened; presumably Six was coming back into the room. “Six will now feed you and bathe you if you wish and will then leave. I have other matters to attend to for the next few hours. In that time, if you wish, you may consider what I’ve just told you. Do what we ask, and no harm will come to you. Do anything other than what we ask, and you will be dead. It’s a binary choice. I hope you will choose wisely.”
* * *
Lef
t to herself, Lee reviewed her situation.
First: She knew who she was. Heather Lee, originally of Robeson County, North Carolina. Mother Sarah Oxendine, father Joseph Lee, sister Allie, brothers Joseph Jr. and Richard. In her past life a musician: a guitarist or cellist, depending on the gig. Joined up with the CDF six years previous, stationed with the Tubingen for the last two years six months. All this was important. If you were fuzzy on who you were, there were going to be other critical gaps in your knowledge base and you wouldn’t know what they were.
Second: She knew where she was, in a general sense, and why she was there. She was on the planet of Zhong Guo. She and her company on the Tubingen were dispatched to quell a separatist rebellion in the provincial capital city of Zhoushan. The rebels had taken the local administration headquarters and broadcast media, securing hostages as they did so, and started airing screeds declaring Zhong Guo independent of the Colonial Union and seeking a new union with Earth, the “native and true home of humanity,” as they put it. The local police had moved in to clear them out and were surprised when the rebels had more and better firepower than they did; the rebels killed two dozen police and took several more hostage, adding to their store of human shields.
The success of the rebels sparked a series of “Earth Rule” protests in other cities and towns including Liuzhau, Karhgar and Chifeng, the latter of which experienced severe property damage as rioters marched through the central business district, burning shops and buildings in an apparently indiscriminate fashion. By this time, the administration in the planetary capital of New Harbin had had enough and requested CDF intervention.
Lee and her platoon did a standard drop from high altitude at night with cloaking on; they were inside the administration and broadcast buildings before the rebels knew they had even landed on the roof. The fight was brief and lopsided; the rebels had only a few good fighters with them, the ones they had put out in front when the local police had gone at them. The rest of the rebels were recruited from the ranks of the young and excitable and had rather more enthusiasm than skill. The genuinely skilled rebel fighters engaged the CDF and were quickly subdued or killed, being no match for trained Colonial soldiers with superior physical and tactical skills; the rest surrendered without too much resistance.