The Dogs of God

by Chris Kennedy

  * * * * *

  Quincy J. Allen Bio

  Nationally Bestselling Author Quincy J. Allen is a cross-genre author with numerous novels under his belt. His media tie-in novel Colt the Outlander: Shadow of Ruin was a Scribe Award finalist in 2019, and his noir novel Chemical Burn was a Colorado Gold Award finalist in 2010. Blood Oath, Book 3 of the Blood War Chronicles, was released in February of 2019, and he is working on the fourth book in that six-book fantasy steampunk series, due out early in 2020.

  He has co-authored Reclaiming Honor with Marc Alan Edelheit in their Way of Legend series, due out November 1st of 2019. He has also co-authored the novel “Enforcer” with Kevin Ikenberry in the Four Horsemen Universe Peacemaker series, due out late in 2019. He is currently working on a novel for Kevin Steverson in his Salvage universe based upon the short story Vorwhol Dishonor in this anthology.

  His short story publications are numerous, including a pro sale appearing in Larry Correia’s “Monster Hunter: Files” from Baen, published in October of 2017 entitled “Sons of the Father,” as well as several stories appearing in Chris Kennedy Publishing’s mil-sci-fi anthologies in and out of the Four Horsemen Universe.

  His short story collection series, including Out Through the Attic volumes one and two, have been well received, and he continues to add to his short-story credits with each passing year.

  He works out of his home in Charlotte, North Carolina, and hopes to one day be a New York Times bestselling author.

  You can follow his writing endeavors at:

  www.quincyallen.com and

  www.facebook.com/Quincy.Allen.Author

  # # # # #

  The Taulke Job by Chris Pourteau

  The Assignment

  Tony Taulke, CEO of the Syndicate Corporation, stared unblinking across his English oak desk. His eyes, steely and thoughtful, lingered on mine.

  The desk had belonged to his pop, the engineering genius Anthony Taulke, before Tony Two-point-oh had taken over the Company by bashing out Papa Bear’s brains. The Martian rock he’d used to do the deed? It sat on a corner of the desk next to a crystal carafe of top-shelf bourbon. A decade later, it was hard to differentiate the red regolith of Mars from the dried maroon of Papa Bear’s DNA.

  “If there’s been a specific threat, Boss,” I said, reminding myself why I was here, “I just need to know the details. Who made the threat, for starters.”

  “Now’s not the time for busting down the front door,” Tony said, reaching for the carafe. “I want to handle this differently. And anyway, I’d like a longer-term solution. The farther my brother and sister are from me, the better.”

  Since when does Tony Two-point-oh give a damn about the front door? Never call him that in earshot, by the way. He hates being reminded there was a previous model.

  I took a minute to get my mind right. I wasn’t in the best of moods. He’d called me away from my favorite pastime. She hadn’t been thrilled, either, when I’d left so abruptly. But she’d still gotten paid, so what did she care? And speaking of fee-for-service, this assignment had fee-for-service hanging over its beltline. Tony seemed truly concerned about the safety of his twin half-siblings from another mother.

  Also odd.

  He’d said something vague and loose about a threat against them. So naturally, it fell to the Company’s chief enforcer to solve the problem. That’s me, by the way—Stacks Fischer.

  I reminded myself who paid whom and sipped at the bourbon. I’m a scotch man, but if I have to, I can make the sacrifice of drinking higher-end hooch to be sociable.

  “It’s a long trip to Titan,” I said. “A long way from the luxuries of Pacific Heights.”

  Tony poured himself another drink. The liquid filling the glass made that sound that causes your mouth to crank up the spit factory. He held the bottle up and raised a tempting eyebrow: Satan, winking a scaly eyelid with a leer at the apple. I held up a hand. Lots of sips left in my glass.

  “The twins are liabilities, Stacks,” he said. His cheek twitched, like he’d used the wrong words. He seemed off his usually letter-perfect rhetorical game. “Or maybe I’m the liability to them. But after recent events…”

  All this empathy for others from Tony was making the bourbon bubble in my gut. It’s not like him—at all. Then again, losing his first born before it even left the oven…well, that’d get under the skin of most men.

  “How’s Marissa?” I asked.

  Tony motioned with his drink and watched the amber liquid swirl. Then he shot his second bourbon, giving me my answer.

  “We’ll try again,” he said through a gasp. “When she’s ready.”

  “Sure.”

  I downed my drink. The time for sipping was over.

  “She’s all the more reason I need the twins taken care of,” he said, sighing. “Marissa’s been part-older sister, part-momma to them for ten years. But their living in San Francisco is untenable, now.”

  While Tony refilled my glass, I lined up the likely suspects posing a threat in my head. The Taulke Faction led the other four factions in the Syndicate Corporation, and as faction leader and CEO, Tony had enemies. His plan to extend SynCorp’s footprint beyond Earth and Mars was still new. Still fragile. The shared power among the Five Factions was a delicate thing, a balancing act born of necessity. Keeping it stable was Tony’s first, best strategic goal to keep the corporate clockwork ticking. The Kisaans farmed Earth for food. The Qinlaos managed the Martian manufactories. Adriana Rabh handled SynCorp’s money from a penthouse atop Wall Street. There was a rumor she wanted to move out beyond the Asteroid Belt, following Viktor Erkennen and his faction, which was responsible for innovating Company tech. He’d only recently moved to Titan, Tony’s choice for a new home for the twins.

  All those people had an axe to grind with the man at the top of the power pyramid. But they’d all seen him murder Papa Bear in cold blood, too. The Martian paperweight on the desk reminded everyone who sat where I was sitting now: Tony Two-point-oh wasn’t someone you fucked with.

  He’s not a subtle man, Tony.

  So, while his team of rivals was cautious, it was entirely possible one of them might make a run at Tony through a side window. By, say, kidnapping—or even killing—the twins.

  As usual, though, Tony was thinking three moves ahead. His wanting the kids out of danger was sweet, in a way. Uncharacteristic as hell for Tony, like so much of this whole damned conversation. But then again, maybe not. Maybe some part of him regretted bashing in his pop’s skull after all.

  “You’re sure Viktor Erkennen’s an ally?” I probed. The plan was for me to escort Lucius and Ligeia to Titan to live as wards of Viktor Erkennen. Far out on the fringes, it was safer. Fewer people likely aiming to commit twinicide. In theory.

  “I’m sure,” Tony said, swirling his bourbon. “And if there’s nothing else, Eugene…”

  While I’d been thinking, he’d been drinking. I could hear the word slurry starting. And he’d called me by my given name—never a sign of good things to come. A drunk Tony is never a fun Tony.

  “Sure, Boss,” I said, rising and snagging my fedora from the arm of the chair. “I’ll get this done.”

  “Be careful out there, Eugene.” Tony’s gaze lifted up from considering tomorrow’s hangover. “It’s a long way to Titan.”

  * * * * *

  The Package

  The descent from SynCorp HQ hanging in low Earth orbit was slow. I was the sole passenger on an otherwise empty transport built for a dozen. The solitude encouraged my thinking through the assignment. Tony’s concern for his twin half-siblings was less about them, I knew—because I knew Tony—and more about his wife Marissa. If Tony’s general lack of regard for humanity was a desert, she was his oasis. The white spot of hope on an otherwise black soul. Taking care of the kids was his way of taking care of her.

  The transport broke through the clouds, and the West Coast filled in below. Mostly recognizable from what I’d learned as a kid, even if Mother Nature ha
d shaved a little off the sides with seawater and earthquakes. Plats of land became sprawling streets connecting caterpillar-like neighborhoods. Aircars of the elite streaked by below. The ground-bound riffraff were still too small to see. The sun sparkled off the Pacific like diamonds.

  I hadn’t been to the Taulke Compound in Pacific Heights in a long time. Tony owned half the northern isthmus of San Francisco. It was impressive to see how much land that actually was. He’d made the Heights into a modern castle, with the compound as the apex—always take the high ground, eh?—surrounded seaside by Presidio Bay and Cow Hollow Beach, and landside by what was left of the old inland city.

  I had to give Tony credit. After he’d ventilated Papa Bear’s cabeza, he’d taken care of the twins. Their mother had died in the earthquake of ’03, and aching for her own kiddos, Marissa Taulke had stepped into the role. She visited them whenever she could. Tony hadn’t given her a chance to say goodbye, and I figured that was an ask-forgiveness-over-permission situation. Maybe he thought it’d be easier on her that way.

  The transport made its approach, and I scanned the party gathering to meet me. Some overdressed old guy who’d be expert at ordering around the aforementioned riffraff. A middle-aged woman who looked like her jaws cracked walnuts for fun. I’d lay odds she hadn’t laughed since childhood. And a handful of uniformed soldier types, most of whom hadn’t broken thirty yet.

  I walked off the transport feeling every ounce of Mother Earth’s natural one-g.

  “Mr. Fischer?” one of the soldier types said, slinging his automatic weapon.

  “That’s right.” Using my own name for this job made me uncomfortable, but Tony had insisted. The name was known, even if my face wasn’t. It’d keep the kids safer, Tony said, if someone thinking of harming them knew I was their guard dog. I took the compliment but still felt naked in public.

  “Lieutenant Merida, head of security,” Soldier Boy said. “This is Sergeant Trask, my second-in-command. Assigned from Mr. Taulke’s HQ staff for this trip.” This was said with cordial yet barely restrained annoyance. Merida didn’t like substitutions right before the big game. He motioned to the last two soldiers. “And Troopers McGuire and Quinn.”

  I looked over the four-man team. Well, three-man-and-one-woman team. First impressions? Merida struck me as a man who knew his business. Trask nodded stiffly. From the lines on his face, he’d run some hard races in his life. The other two—Quinn, the guy, and McGuire, the gal—looked like typical grunts who believe they have a higher purpose. Excitable and earnest and ready to charge the guns.

  “And this is Dean Barstow and Elena Longbaum,” Merida continued, introducing the overdressed guy and his nutcracking companion. “The children’s butler and nanny.”

  Of course they were.

  “Where’s the package?” I asked the lieutenant. The transport powered down behind me but kept the motor running. We wouldn’t be here long.

  “I’m not fucking going!”

  The pitchy male voice pulled my attention to the main house. Descending the lush, green hill toward the landing pad were various court attendees floating mini-barges of what I took to be the kids’ essentials. And two younger, lighter-skinned teenagers. Lucius and Ligeia Taulke.

  I’d last seen them when they were toddlers full of wish-you-could-bottle-it energy. Cute, despite their off-putting paleness. Now they were on the down slope of fifteen. I’d forgotten all about the twins’ most obvious feature—they were both albinos. It was like their skin refused to absorb the California sunshine.

  “Keep your fucking hands off me, slag!” Lucius yelled at the housemaid urging him along.

  The boy had had better manners then, too. What ten years and hormones won’t change. Looked like he was made mostly of attitude now. His shock of white hair up top was natural for his condition. Framed in his moon-white face, his sneer was gargoylish.

  Though identical in pallor, personality wise, Ligeia appeared the inverse of her twin brother. Where Lucius was animated and loud, she was reserved and quiet. She strolled along behind the mini-barges, her attention focused like she was moving them with her mind toward the transport. She’d accentuated her light skin with black makeup. Dark shadows surrounded her eyes. Blush streaked her cheeks like warpaint.

  Well. This would be a fun flight.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Lucius demanded, brushing past the soldiers.

  I ignored him like I had his servants.

  “That everything, then?” I asked Merida.

  Before he could answer—

  “I said, who the fuck are you?”

  Lucius was used to bullying his way to self-satisfaction with the hired help. Technically, I was that. But for the duration of the trip, I was also in charge. We should get that straight, right off the bat.

  I turned to face him. “You’ve got a big mouth for your age.” The boy’s eyes stabbed gunmetal gray daggers from a moondust face. “Restraint is a virtue you should learn, kid. Where you’re going, you’ll need it.”

  Lucius’s mouth popped open, but nothing came out but air. As the little brother of the most powerful man in the solar system, he wasn’t used to being lectured.

  From behind him, a gasp. Madame Defarge, of the walnut-cracking Defarges. No, not a gasp. A snicker, quickly quelled. Lookee there—she had a sense of humor after all.

  “You motherfucker,” Lucius finally managed. “Do you know who I am? I’ll goddamn have you spaced, I’ll—”

  I slapped Lucius across the face. The sharp, wet smack forced his head a quarter turn around.

  The manicured lawn grew silent save for the throaty hum of the transport’s idling engine and, yep, a definite gasp this time from Madame Defarge. Did Merida’s trigger finger twitch?

  “Lucius!” The boy’s sister leapt to his side. He was paralyzed with shock. She laid her hand on his forearm. Lucius’s eyes lasered looks-could-kill wishes my way. He brought his fingertips to the pinkish patch coloring in his melanin-starved cheek.

  “Get aboard,” I said. “Both of you.”

  Lucius wanted to do something. I could smell it. Something physical. Behind his Arctic eyes, the wishing became flesh-and-blood fantasies. At least one of those had me hanging on meat hooks. Still alive.

  Bring it on, kid, my gaze answered him. Let’s see who’s got what.

  “Lucius,” his sister said again. The soft pleading in her voice made the boy blink. He rolled back up the array of hooky torturer’s implements he’d been spreading out on a tabletop in his mind. Ligeia led him past me toward the transport. I made a point of not looking after them. One or both were probably stealing glances backward. I wanted them to see I could show them my back without worry.

  “I wish I’d thought of that,” Merida sighed, “about five years ago.”

  I gave him a non-committal grunt. Slapping kids, even asshole kids, isn’t my go-to. But I’ll do what I need to do to get the job done. And Lucius the Bully had needed a lesson before we spent nine days cruising the spaceways together.

  Barstow and Longbaum walked past. They were definitely stealing glances.

  “Where are they going?” I asked.

  “They’re part of the package,” Merida said. “Like me and my team. We’re all going.”

  That the old folks were joining us for the trip to Titan was news to me, but it wasn’t unwelcome news. They could help corral the kids on the voyage—not, technically, part of my job. I’d skipped babysitter training at enforcer school.

  I walked with Merida, his team falling in behind. The staff lucky enough to remain in the lush refinement of Taulke Castle had finished stowing the contents of the mini-barges aboard the transport. It would ferry us to the Stargazer’s Dream, an oversized space yacht Tony had chartered special for the trip, docked in orbit at SCHQ.

  “You drink?” I asked Merida.

  “Do fish?” he shot back.

  Maybe this trip wouldn’t be all bad, then.

  * * * * *

  The Conversation<
br />
  The first seven days aboard the Stargazer’s Dream were blissfully uneventful.

  The bliss had come mainly from the twins hardly ever leaving their suite, other than for meals. And not even then, sometimes. They preferred room service. Of course they did. They watched vids or whatever it is teenagers fat on wealth do these days, content to sulk about being shipped off to the ass-end of Sol.

  I kept tabs on them, of course, but mostly dealt with long-nosed looks from Barstow or Longbaum, both reading from the same script. “The children are fine, Mr. Fischer. We’re attending to their every need. Thank you for your concern.”

  Hey, more free time for me, then.

  We were about two-thirds of the way to Titan, a day or so past the far side of the Asteroid Belt, and I’d just begun to relax—finally. I stood at the Dream’s vast lounge window, long past midnight, being fascinated all over again by the majesty of Mother Universe. It took big balls to try to lasso that for profit, but Tony was giving it his best shot.

  His strategy was simple and brilliant. After the Syndicate Corporation had taken over Earth and its fledgling Martian colony, Tony Taulke had done what most conquerors do—rebranded everything in his own image. Or at least in the image of SynCorp’s five-pointed star logo. Development on Mars kicked into high gear. There were Viktor Erkennen’s move to Titan and Adriana Rabh’s plans to transfer her faction’s flag from Wall Street to the Jovian moon, Callisto.

  SynCorp is like an octopus unwinding its tentacles across Sol. Tony calls it the Great Expansion on CorpNet. Every ship that moved in the solar system, including the Dream, was helping J.A. Frater map reliable travel lanes through the Belt from the inner to the outer planets. Soon, voyages across the airless wilderness would be managed automatically by a string of subspace satellites—safer and more predictable in their routes than commuter trains on Earth.