In this, the final chapter of "Cry Havoc!", Jules Verne drops again and has a difficult time of it. In the aftermath she confronts the ghosts of her past and tries to navigate a murky, unclear future, with the help of her friends and colleagues.

Well, it's been a hell of a ride, but it's time to bring this story in for a landing. This is the final chapter in Julie Verne's adventures; there are some ups and downs, but I feel that it is, for all that, still hopeful. Thank you for all your time and your comments through this novel; you guys have been amazing. And as always, please chime in with criticism and feedback. Per ardua ad astra, and all that!

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Cry Havoc!, by Rob Baird — Ch. 8, "Cry havoc!"

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A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar,
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds:
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Até by his side come hot from Hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice
Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war.

- Antony in William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar (Act III, scene i)

Color was gone from the world. The mayor of Lincoln City had not acceded to CODA's demands that the power grid be shut down; accordingly he was now in prison, and an orbital bombardment had accomplished the task without his blessing. They crept through a city that was dark, and dead — punctuated only by the sound of gunfire, twisted to ominous growls as it echoed through the streets of the old town.

Most of the platoon had switched to their night vision equipment; Julie herself had turned her C&S holograms into low-intensity mode and was relying on her natural eyesight. It rendered the city ever more colorless — but her vision was unencumbered, and that was what mattered. In the dark, she could see very nearly well as any of the others, and her sensitivity to motion was far greater.

Not that there was much motion. Cold wind blowing off the ocean to the west scattered bits of trash and sent them dancing — but, as though she had written a signals filter for it, her eyes had quickly begun to discard these irrelevancies.

Each time her C&S sensors completed their spherical survey of her environment, a soft chirp sounded in her ear — like an electronic heartbeat. She listened for it, waiting, breathless, for its return. This time the chirp was accompanied by a jarring minor chord. The dog glanced downward; a burst of electromagnetic radiation, three hundred meters away, had set her computer off. Frowning, she glanced around, found some cover, and ran her fingers over the controls, listening carefully to the sound in her headset. 

" — I think about twenty, moving up Merlin Street to the Promenade." A woman's voice suddenly filled her ear, and she jumped.

Then, quickly, she turned the street layer of her holographic map on. Her eyes narrowed, and she clicked her microphone, checking to make sure the little "SECURE" light was illuminated. Her voice was soft: "LT, we're being watched." Usher was half a block away; cautiously, he circled back to her, and she tilted her wrist so that he could see her map. "Somebody's transmitting our numbers and direction. It's in the clear, on a —"

"Take cover!" The shout, from Awate Gebre, preceded the convulsive rush of a mortar explosion; a second one followed a second later. Verne watched the impacts on her map; they missed the squad by fifty meters.

The radio she'd retuned came on again: "Yeah. Yeah, that was the right area." The voice was edgy, nervous — but then, the dog supposed, she probably sounded that way too at times. 

"It's in the clear, on a 27 megahertz civilian band," she continued. "Coming from an apartment block about a third of a kilometer away. They probably have an observer network of some kind."

The lieutenant nodded, and then called over Sergeant Caio Correia, a short, stocky man who had joined them from a special detachment on the Kirishima. "Sergeant Correia, we need to shut up a talkative building with minimal collateral damage. Can you do that?"

With his scruffy beard and his wild eyes, Correia looked more than a little like he'd stepped from a fantasy epic. He shrugged his broad shoulders: "Depends, sir. CEP on a standard kinetic round is three or four meters. If we can wait half an hour, Makhaira will be dawning — we could hit their transmitter with a collimated overload pulse; burn out their equipment."

"I'd rather not wait. You can take out that building, and nothing around it?"

"We can do our best."

Verne watched as Usher called up the mission briefing into the air above his wrist, looking for the rules of engagement. Then he snapped the display closed. "Alright. Sergeant Verne will tell you what to look for." He glanced around, and then, collecting his carbine, made his way back up the street.

"Artillery is not an exact science," Correia grumbled. "They don't give out Nobel Prizes in artillery. Where is this place?"

"Right here." She highlighted the building on her computer, and then tapped her wrist against his to transfer the data. "I think there are other apartments all around it, but I can't tell what's going on in the surrounding area."

"Lot of people 'bout to have a more interesting day, that's what." He gave the dog a dark grin, and then swung his long-range antenna up and into position with a practiced snap of the wrist. As he waited for the link, she looked up, trying to figure out which of the stars above them was the corvette, hanging in geostationary orbit, that was supposed to provide their fire support. "Whitby Four, this is Rebel Four-One. Fire mission, target number charlie zulu one eight zero six. Over." He leaned closer to Verne. "Two rounds?"

"One ought to do it. These buildings aren't constructed real solidly."

Correia grunted, shaking his head derisively. "Ah, those dumb bastards." Then he looked back at his map, speaking into his transmitter. "Direction five-five-three at three-four-two meters, down twelve. Target is a four-story building with a dilapidated playground behind it, no unique thermals or rad marks. Over." He looked up at Verne, nodding his head in the direction of their target. "You got a spare drone, White Fang?"

She unclipped one of the small drones from her vest, tossing it into the air as far as she could. It hovered, fixed in place, and the data started to flow into her sensors. A few seconds later, a bright dot appeared on the display — the position of an invisible laser mark, beamed from the corvette hundreds of kilometers above them. "Right building," she nodded.

"One round, KEP seven dot five, fire for effect. Over."

The laser switched off, and she collected her drone just as the radio came on again. "I just... I don't know. Something's not right, I just got some weird interference here. It's gone now, but I think they're trying to jam me."

Verne badly wanted to switch the radio off; something about listening to the doomed woman's musing twisted her stomach into apprehensive knots — but she couldn't, lest something of import be transmitted. 

"Ten seconds," Correia said quietly. 

She counted them down. On cue there was a bright flash, as two hundred megajoules of kinetic energy slammed into the building. The crash of close thunder rolled over them, nearly overwhelming the sound of shattering glass, and shrapnel, and human terror. "You got it," she told him with a nod; then she set her C&S computer to transmit a warning if it picked up any more signals on the band, swallowed heavily, and started on her way again.

A similar strike was the platoon's goal, anyway; CODA had identified a powerful transmitter that the separatists controlled. They were to demolish the antenna — and the expensive transmitting equipment as well, if possible. 

Verne knew that the city was hostile; the Jefferson National Guard had already withdrawn, and other platoons in the company had encountered local militias waiting for them. But she had only seen the intermittent mortars, and small arms fire; the silence was beginning to fray her nerves.

The building that was their goal was an old concrete structure with a tall metal cage stretching from it up to the stars. On Usher's request, she ran a thermal sweep of the door, and then shook her head. "I don't think anybody's been here today."

Rather than chancing the door handle, and any accompanying booby traps, Usher ordered small charges placed on the hinges. The metal door fell away obediently; the room within was dark and, when they swept it with their flashlights, also completely empty.  

"Where's the transmitter?" McArdle asked. "Anybody?"

Usher was not much more optimistic. "Is this just... what, abandoned?"

It was possible, of course — much of Lincoln City was overgrown and disused. Verne tried to think of it like a puzzle; as McArdle and Usher consulted with the squad leaders, she considered all the conceivable pieces. 

Nothing suggested that the transmitter was live. Its temperature was the same as the surrounding room. It looked a mess; unconnected cables hung limply from the ceiling. And when she scanned for signals... the dog blinked. What had Major Bannerjee told her? She isolated one of the bands, and instructed her computer to perform a transform on the results. 

"There's a cloaking device active."

"There is?"

Verne nodded. "I don't know where yet, exactly, but yes, according to these readings. I think it has to be relatively close by, sir."

"Alright, look around, everybody," Usher grunted. The next few minutes passed in silence, as they stared at the worn, featureless concrete and tile of the building's interior. "Don't even know what they'd be trying to hide..."

"Maybe this, sir?" Hiroshi Haruki suggested. He nodded to the floor, then prodded it with the edge of his boot. A section of tile popped up; he leaned down, and pulled it up to reveal a hatchway, leading into darkness. A glance with their flashlights revealed that the hole ended in a dirt floor two meters below them; a metal-walled tunnel branched from it, and a thick bundle of cable was threaded through eyes along one of the walls.

"Any idea where it leads? Sergeant Verne?"

"No clue, sir. And I don't have any good acoustic signals."

"We need a crawler bot, boss," McArdle suggested. "Unfortunately, we don't have the time. Hines says he's got incoming already. Once they figure out what we're looking for..."

Verne looked down into the hole, confirmed visually what she suspected, and then sighed. "I could check it out. If I took my suit off, I could fit in that access tunnel."

"You really want to do that?"

"No, sir," she told him. But a shepherd's life was not without sacrifice: "I only said I can."

"Jim?"

McArdle pursed his lips, letting his breath out in a rush. "I don't know, boss. I don't like the sound of it. But if there's something down there, and we can hold this building long enough to check it out, here's our chance to win the big one. Taking out a deep-space transmitter, that'd make these rebel types real unhappy, I have to figure."

"Alright, Sergeant Verne. Do it." 

She nodded, and quickly undid the clasps that held the plates of her suit armor on. Then she peeled off the supporting undergarments, leaving her only in her tunic and shorts. Without the heavy ceramic armor, and the quiet chatter of the C&S computer, she felt curiously naked; her bare feet scuffed along the tile of the floor.

But she couldn't let them down. Carefully, the dog swung herself into the hole, falling lightly on her feet. Then she reached up, to take the explosive charges McArdle gave her, and a sidearm from Sergeant Correia. "It's silent," he said. "Just in case."

"Good luck," Usher said. He handed her a thin band that turned out to be a watch, with softly glowing numbers counting down. "You've got twenty minutes, Sergeant."

She nodded, slipped it over her wrist, then crouched down and shimmied her way into the tunnel. It was not tall enough to stand in, and not terribly comfortable — probably it had been designed for a maintenance robot. But it was easy enough to make progress, so long as she ignored the uncomfortable sensation that the metal walls were pressing in from all sides.

The tunnel seemed to be at a slight downward slope; it wasn't exactly easy to tell, but she felt as though she might be making her way further and further underground. She supposed that this was, after all, the logical domain of the miners that made up the bulk of the separatist movement — but she had no love for those dark tunnels, and she glanced at the watch, almost hoping for it to reach the halfway point before anything happened.

Instead, no more than six minutes after she had set off, she perceived a square of dim white light; when she drew closer, it proved to be a metal filter, separating the access tunnel from a small room beyond. Unlike the radio tower, this one was lit — and, she noticed with a start, there was someone inside. A careful survey revealed a second figure, its back to her, busy with a flashing computer console. 

She was staring down at them from near the ceiling of the room; on the other side, a heavy metal door, locked from the inside, presumably insulated the room from whatever building concealed it. That building, she realized, and probably the transmitter's generator — they had power when the rest of the city lay in darkness. Should've looked for the generator, she thought ruefully. Saved a whole lot of trouble... But there was no use thinking about that now.

The room's primary occupant was a slender, boyish looking young man bent over the switches and dials of the transmitter's console. He was not looking at her, but there was no way Verne could possibly plant her charges and leave unnoticed; the room was far too small for that. Nor could she reliably determine where she was located, and call in an airstrike. She would have to take care of things herself.

Taking a few deep breaths, she took hold of the gun Correia had given her. It was lightweight, a standard special operations close-range weapon. It fired razor-sharp disks that were designed to slice through armor, and then break into small, deadly fragments. She checked the magazine, and switched the weapon's safety off. 

Keeping her gun trained on the young man, she used her other paw to slowly work the grill of the filter open. She had hoped it would be silent, but when it was halfway up it creaked loudly, and his head snapped up towards her. His eyes went wide, mouth opening to say something.

She pulled the trigger twice, in quick succession. 

The man's hands went to his chest, clutching the torn fabric of his shirt as blood welled between his fingers. Then he pitched forward, landing heavily on the console and then falling to the floor. His companion was starting to turn around — she shouted, louder than she'd meant: "Freeze." They obediently halted, and, forcing the filter the rest of the way open, she jumped down and into the transmitter room. "Turn around, slowly."

She could tell immediately, even before he started turning, that the figure was not human. When he had twisted his short body around, and she could get a good look at his face, she decided that he was probably a badger — the sharp claws and striped face gave him away. "Why did you shoot Andrew?"

"I had to. What are you... what are you doing here?"

"I maintain the tunnels," he said, and shrugged. "Are you going to kill me?"

She had the gun pointed at him, still. "I don't want to. I'm just here for the transmitter. I'm going to blow it up. But if you..." She jerked the gun over towards the heavy metal hatch. "If you leave, I won't hurt you."

The badger looked at her blankly. "Why would you blow up the transmitter?"

"Because I — look. Leave. Go on," she urged him.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

He looked down towards her feet, where the fallen human lay in a spreading pool of blood. "They asked me to keep Andrew safe."

"It's too late for that," she pointed out.

"I know. But I... I don't think they'd want me letting you blow up the transmitter, either."

Verne squeezed the handle of the gun tighter. "Please leave," she begged. "The door's right there."

"I don't think I can," he said, his voice a servile whine. "They wouldn't want me to. I have to stay here. I have to —" he grunted, as the rounds punched into his chest. He staggered back into the wall before collapsing, fixing her in wide, uncomprehending eyes. "Wh-why? I don't... understand..." he wheezed; then his breath left him and, eyes still open, he lay motionless against the wall.

Trembling, Julie put the gun on the table, and tried to focus instead on the task of setting up the charges. She looked for whatever seemed most valuable, attaching the plastic explosive and programming the shared timers. 

She tried to ignore the scene behind her, as she pulled herself back into the crawlspace. She made her way through it as quickly as she could, putting all her energies into movement. Her hand had been forced, hadn't it? She hadn't wanted to kill the Moreau. He'd left her no choice... She crawled faster, as though it could all be left behind.

Zemzem Selam and Chris Neumann were waiting above her when she finally reached the antenna room again. When she jumped up, Chris seized her roughly by the wrists, hauling her up and onto the tile floor. "Get it done?" 

Verne looked at the timer on her wristband, nodding. "Thirty seconds until they blow."

"Good. We gotta get out of here, pup. We really stirred up a hornet's nest. Fire department's been responding to house fires touched off by the bombardment — then giving the Minutemen a ride. They're headed this way now — forty or fifty men, probably."

"Can I put my suit back on?" 

Zem shook her head, nodding over to where the dog's equipment had been set in a pile, with a plastique charge stuck to it. "No time," Chris confirmed; then they were out in the open again, and Chris was pointing his way up the street. "Usher's this way. Let's move." 

They started running; Verne heard the rumble of the explosive charges going off; glancing behind her, she watched the glass of a office building shatter, before smoke began to pour from it. The wail of emergency sirens was drawing closer.

Bullets snapped past her, sparking off the buildings to either side. Her ears went back; she tried to pick a path that would give her the most protection. It started on the other side of the street; she darted quickly — then the world went abruptly wrong and she was skidding over the cobblestones. Her head slammed into the sidewalk heavily, and her vision went dark.

* 

She recovered her wits a half-second later. The sky and the street seemed to have changed places; then, too late to make a difference, she heard the rattle of a machine gun. Chris grabbed her paw, pulling her to her feet. "You okay? Can you walk?"

Her legs were cold, numb; she was aware of them, as distant objects, but they didn't respond well when she tried to move them and she could feel a warm trickle spreading through her fur. She felt for the back of her thigh dumbly; in the darkness, her blood glistened black on the pads of her fingers. "Huh uh," she told him, tongue thick in her mouth. 

Zem Selam's Cerberus was sending tracers streaking back the way they'd came; she started to pick the machine gun up, but as soon as she saw Chris lift the dog into his arms she set it down again, taking careful aim and laying down a roar of suppressive fire — so rapid that the tracers bled together like a laser beam.

Verne couldn't quite make sense of it, nor of what was happening to her. Sensation was starting to filter back into her legs, slowly — a sharp, burning pain that smoldered at the edges of her consciousness. To either side, the buildings passed in a muddy smear; it was profoundly confusing, and it didn't become any clearer the longer she stared at it. 

Then it stopped; the world was no longer moving, and she was staring up at a field of stars broken by the grey clouds that drifted like ghosts between them. Chris was calling for a medic. Was that for her? Probably. The hot, burning sensation that had started in her legs was spreading into her hips and the lower part of her torso. That didn't seem right. She heard gunfire, and shouted orders, but with her ears pressed into the ground it was impossible to tell where they were coming from. Just so much confusion...

Her right arm was resting on her belly; she felt for the C&S equipment on her wrist, and discovered nothing — but her forearm seemed to be wet with something, and when she lifted it into her field of vision it was red, her fur matted with blood. The absence of the C&S computer bothered her more — what had happened to it? It was gone. Zemzem had blown it up. Why would you blow up the transmitter? she thought — had she asked that already? No, that had been someone else.

"Jesus Christ," Enzo Eklund snarled. "Somebody get me my kit."

He looked worried, and something in his expression sent sparks of concern into the dog's own mind. What was happening was not right — the pain was unlike anything she'd ever felt before, stabbing into her thoughts. It felt as though someone had set her legs on fire — then it grew worse, as an aching tightness closed around her right thigh. She cried out, helplessly, in a canine whimper of pain.

"Sorry," Eklund muttered. "I'm going to have to do that again, okay?" She tried to shake her head, but he ignored her; fresh agony lanced up her left leg this time. She held up her paw, pushing the doctor away weakly; he held her wrist down and the action took no effort on his part. "Calm down. The worst is over." When she stopped struggling, he reached for a knife, slicing her tunic wide open. 

Her thoughts were starting to become more organized, although as they became clearer a nagging sense of panic grew along with them. She had been shot, she supposed — maybe multiple times — and Enzo Eklund was doing his best to keep her alive. That was always something she had managed on her own before, without a doctor's help.

The pain was not ebbing; she could feel her pulse in her entire lower body as a throbbing beat that took most of her willpower to avoid crying out at. Eklund tore open a package of bandages, pressing the gauze firmly to her belly; then she did yelp again, and he swore under his breath: "Hold this. I need to make sure we've got Dustoff inbound."

Enzo left her field of vision, and Zem Selam's face entered it. "How're you doing, dog?" she asked warily. 

Julie had to struggle to find her voice. "I think I've been better..."

"Can't blame you." Selam glanced towards the bandage, and grimaced. "Just don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Like what?"

Her green eyes narrowed in irritation. "You're past the return period on your music player, right? If you don't make it, I'd have to sell it for cash — probably get... what, thirty percent of the value back?"

It was getting harder to keep her breathing steady; feeling like she wasn't getting enough air, she started to pant shallowly. "Sorry," she managed.

"And it might fuck Chris up, and he's a pretty good squad leader." Chris... Julie nodded weakly. Then Selam frowned again, and glanced around before leaning closer. "I'd kind of miss you, too, dog. But — you didn't hear that from me."

"O-of course."

"Just the shock talking."

The dog tried to close her eyes to collect her thoughts. She could hear the sound of her panting, and the chill sinking into her body through the fur; she shivered, and decided she didn't have many thoughts to collect anyway. 

How had she never noticed the stars before? There were so many of them... she tried to count the ones in the center of her vision. One... two... She got to eight or nine before she stumbled and had to start over. 

Enzo knelt next to her, taking over for Selam again. "They're gonna want you back on the line, Zem. Hines is in heavy contact half a klick to the west — word on the street is we're about to get slammed."

"Dustoff?"

"Can't make it."

"The fuck does that mean?"

It was taking all of her effort — months and years of training — to separate the voices into an intelligible conversation. Even so the meaning was muddy, and took conscious thought to decipher. "What do you think?" Enzo snapped. "They heard it was gonna rain and nobody brought an umbrella? They don't feel like getting shot at, corporal."

"They can tell it to their fucking therapy group." So angry... what are you even angry about? Someone shouted to Zem; she called back to them, over her shoulder, and then thumped the dog's chest before picking up her heavy machine gun and giving it a pat that was roughly as affectionate. "I'll be right back. I need to teach some punks a few hundred lessons."

There was a lot of shouting, and the brutal roar of the heavy machine gun, blurring into white noise somewhere below the dog's fading consciousness. The panic that had threatened to overtake her was ebbing into a growing sense of exhaustion. 

A bright light grew in her peripheral vision — then crossed over, until it was a brilliant glow, directly above her — descending, slowly. She blinked, trying to force her eyes to focus. There seemed to be writing, next to the light:

I know it sounds absurd...

Sparks glinted off the metal skin of the olive Strix as it dropped lower. Dancing tongues of flame reached from the gunpods secured to its stubby wings and fat body. She could see Ghazwan Naser, the crew chief, leaning out the open door, urging them to board quickly...

Then she was being moved... rolled onto a makeshift stretcher. The world spun again, moving in a blur of light and sound; the roar of the dropship's guns became louder and louder. As she passed beneath them, she thought, for a moment, she could see the individual tracers, burning like falling stars...

The door slammed shut; the sound of the cannons and the incoming fire became muted. Someone was holding her; her head lolled, and she caught Chris Neumann's face. His hand was on her paw, squeezing; she squeezed back. There was something she needed to tell him... it was important... 

But her muzzle wasn't forming words properly; it came out as a wordless mumble. Oh, hell. Well, he would understand; he'd always understood. She would just take a moment, to catch her breath. That was all she would need...

She closed her eyes, and they did not reopen.

*

When she knew where she was again, she was back on her feet, in an empty room with pale blue walls. There was a single wooden door; an immaculate window looked out on worn marble. Otherwise, it seemed to be empty.

"Welcome."

She turned. "Philip?"

Philip Spitzer didn't seem to be the worse for wear; he smiled to her, and the expression was thin, and ugly. "Been awhile, huh? How are you?"

"I... I don't know. What are you doing here?"

"Where else would I be? I've just been cooling my heels — you know, since I was killed."

The dog's ears lowered. "Is that what this place is? Is this..."

"The afterlife? Well. It's not my job to give names to things."

"But I'm dead."

"You're whatever I am," he agreed. Philip pushed the window open smoothly; a gust of cold air filled the room. "And do you know something? It could've been worse. You spent your final moments surrounded by people who cared about you. I didn't. For example."

She swallowed heavily, and tried to ignore the chill. "I know."

"I've been giving that a lot of thought. There's not much here to do besides thinking, anyway. I really wish you hadn't been the last thing I saw. The last thing I felt; the last thing I talked to. I have to deal with that. If somebody had to build the story of my life, you'd be in it. Well, fuck you," he spat. "I didn't ask for that."

"I didn't either."

"No," he said. He leaned out the window, gazing below with a thoughtful, distant expression. "So I want to offer you a trade."

"What's the trade?"

"When I leave here, I don't want to see you, ever again. I don't want to hear your voice, I don't want to think about you — none of it. I want to stop carrying my past — but that means you have to let me go, too. Can you do that?"

Julie swallowed again. Even now, when she closed her eyes she pictured him as he lay, broken and dying, after the accident. Even now when she thought about the last few years he existed as a dark stain, towering like a thunderhead. "I can try," she told him, in a whisper.

"It's a start." He still wasn't looking at her; his voice was quiet, too, carried away by the wind. "Alright, here's what I have in trade." Philip took a deep breath, and stepped back, closing the window so that the room lapsed into oppressive silence. "My death," he began; he stopped, and she could tell from his expression how difficult it was for him to talk about. "It wasn't your fault. You had nothing to do with it. I know I blamed you; I was... not thinking straight. You didn't have anything to do with it. It was an accident — a random, stupid accident."

"I know that."

"Yeah, but you make up your own excuses, don't you? You want to blame yourself, so you pretend like it was your fault anyway because you wanted it to happen — like if you'd been better about it, you would've fixed everything somehow. Like if you'd cared. Fuck that, and fuck you. You're not God. You're just some dumb fucking dog who happened to be there when I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing more. You're not special."

Her ears flicked backwards again. "I guess that's true."

Philip Spitzer's hand was on the doorknob; he turned it, and the door opened to blackness. He stepped through, halfway. "This is it between us. I still hate you, and if you know what's good for you you'll still hate me too. Don't try to build any fucking bridges, you got it? I never want to see you again."

"Deal," Julie said softly. Then she said what she'd wanted to say for a long, long time to the specter that had lurked in her thoughts: "Get the hell out." The door closed solidly behind him, and she took a deep breath.

"Hey, Runshana. Was that a friend of yours?" When she turned around the room flickered and changed — it was the arms-locker, again, and Victor Ramirez was seated up against the wall. 

"Just another ghost." The dog took a seat, and shook her head. "Are you here to settle old accounts, too?"

"Nah. Just thinking that I didn't think it would be so soon, meeting you again. What — it's only been a couple of days, hasn't it? Fate has a sense of drama, I guess."

"I guess," she echoed. "I'd just decided yesterday that I was going to try to make a career out of it. It was kind of Dennis's suggestion; kind of not. He said I needed to figure out who I was, really. I thought this might be it..."

Victor chuckled. "It's ironic. I'd just decided the exact opposite."

"The opposite?"

"I was going to get out. Maybe borrow some money from you or the LT — try to, anyway. My brother sent me a letter saying he needed help with the farm he was starting up... figured I'd buy out my contract and head back home. Kind of looked forward to the sun, you know? Well, it was sunny enough, that last op... I guess that's something."

She blinked; her face fell, and her tail tucked between her legs. "You were getting out..."

The lack of concern in his shrug looked forced. His expression was sad; wistful. "You didn't know. I hadn't really told anybody, not even the LT. Just Dennis, when we were getting ready to drop. Maybe he thought I meant it as a joke. But you — you wanted to stick around?"

"I wanted to take control of my life. I thought that... if I was going to stay in the service, it should be because it was where I was meant to be, not because I thought I could prove something there. I was getting tired of proving things. I guess it turns out most people don't need things proved to them anyway. After what happened... to you and Greta... I decided I needed to consider my responsibility, you know? I..."

She had trailed off, and he read her mind, or her intent. "I don't want to talk about what happened to me. If you were responsible, it was only by a weird kind of omission. I think... I think if you'd been there, you would've seen the guy, sure. You think that, too. But you weren't there. The past is just memories and half-remembered words, that's all it is. I guess I'm glad that you sorta found yourself, but I don't want to be a life lesson for you, Verne. Just let me be... me, you know?"

"Water under the bridge," she murmured.

"Water under the bridge, yep." He sighed, and she thought that she could see in his face the turmoil of a life cut off far too soon — the weight of years and decades of unrealized possibilities and futures that would never come to pass. Of achievements that would never be celebrated, and children that would never be indulged; of ten thousand meals that would never be shared, and his smile, dwelling only in old pictures. Victor was quiet, for a long time. "Ah, look. I'll be seein' you, okay? I'm gonna get going — give you some time, and all." She nodded, and then closed her eyes, listening to his departing footsteps.

Some time later — minutes, she assumed; it might've been longer — she felt a heavy presence settle next to her. She opened her eyes, and her ears quirked up. "Hakhana?"

"Who else would it be?" The shepherd arched the brows over his dark eyes, and put one of his arms around her.

It felt warm; comforting. She leaned against the other dog. "What happened to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you dead?"

"No. I mean, I don't think so." Forster leaned down, sniffing the fur of her neck contemplatively. "And you don't smell dead."

"But I thought this place..."

"This place is a fiction," the big shepherd said, and his arm drew tighter around the collie's side. "Hallucinations. Fever dreams — no more or less real than an afterlife, I suppose. But I don't think you're there yet — at least, I'm not."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because you wanted to see me, I presume," he shrugged, and nosed roughly at the base of her left ear. "I'm always happy to talk to you, anyway."

"I decided I was going to stay with the Defense Authority," she said. "You knew that, though. Things went bad, this last drop. I volunteered to do something. It..." The memories came back to her all at once; she shuddered. "It was a bit... much."

"What happened?"

"I was trying to destroy a transmitter. When we found where it was hidden, it happened that I was the only one who could get to it. Problem with being short, you know?" Hakhana smiled; standing straight, the collie only came up to his chest. She took a deep breath, and continued. "There was a man there, standing guard. He saw me, and I... I had to shoot him. It happened so fast, I don't even know that I thought about it before I pulled the trigger. But he had a companion, and... and when I told his companion to turn around it... it turned out to be another Moreau."

"Nakath?"

She shook her head. "No, I think one of the M&L lines — they made badgers, right? He looked a lot like a badger. I... I tried to get him to leave. There was a hatchway, a sealed hatchway, and I told him that if he left, I would spare him. But he was so focused on the transmitter, and... and the man I'd killed... he wouldn't do it. He just stood there..."

"But you gave him a chance."

"But it's something you told me. You said, they spared us the worst of their vices. You asked: how often do we kill one another? and... and now..." She leaned closer to the shepherd, and he hugged her tightly.

"Sometimes you don't have a choice, Runshana."

"For the first time I'm starting to worry that I'm becoming something... different. One of them, I guess — or that... that becoming one of them is no longer what I really want."

He licked her ear tenderly. "I'm sure it's not. And you think that you're starting to know who you really are. Is it human?"

This continued to be a confusing and somewhat raw topic for the dog; she shrugged, nosing into his chest. "It's complicated. I live with them, I work in their army, I..." She lowered her voice, and rested her muzzle in the shepherd's fur for a moment. "I think I am falling in love with one of them."

"Oh? Congratulations, Runshana."

She tilted her head to the side. "You don't find that objectionable?"

"Only a fool, or a very broken man, finds love objectionable," he said. "I hope you're happy together... that they feel about you the same way you feel about them..."

"He does," she declared, firmly. "And I guess that's part of it. He loves me, but he finds my form physically attractive. I work for the humans, but the skills they rely on are Nakath in nature. Maybe I was ignoring that, all this time..."

"And your name?"

"My name?"

"You've never been comfortable with your real name. But it's part of who you are — or it could be. That's part of the question, isn't it? What name are you prepared to die with? Or for?"

Julie leaned back, looking up at him with her head cocked. "Has it come to that?"

"Maybe not yet," he smiled, and embraced her again. "What happened to you, anyway?"

"I was shot in the back. I think. It was all quite confusing, at the time... very chaotic. The last thing I remember is the dropship, coming to pick us up. I... I was pretty sure that I was dying, at the time. Maybe I still am, if... if you're right; if this is just the... the random neurons of my brain, firing..."

"Are you ready for death, Runshana? It seems to me that you've got something to live for. This human you're keeping, for starters. But perhaps you're accomplished everything you set out to accomplish. Perhaps —"

"No." With a wan smile, she leaned up to lick under the shepherd's muzzle. "No, I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not —"

*

"Ready for what?"

She was staring up at the flat, formless white of a painted ceiling. She heard the mechanical conversations of electronic equipment around her, sounding every bit like her lost C&S gear. Julie turned her head to discover Lieutenant Usher, leaning forward and closer to her. "Hello, sir," she said — or tried to say; her voice was quiet, and slightly slurred.

"Welcome back, sergeant."

"How long have I been out?" 

"You've been in and out of consciousness the last two weeks or so. Partly they were keeping you under on purpose. They told me they thought you'd be coming around in a few hours, though, so I thought I'd stop by, now that you're back aboard ship. They transferred you to the Kirishima the day before yesterday — you know how CODA can be with things like that. Planetside medical isn't any better, and it's a hell of a lot more expensive."

She nodded weakly. "How did things go?"

"That op? Pulled it off okay; took out the transmitter and nailed the antenna with an orbital strike. Three wounded — you, Cora and Mayer. You were the most serious, but Cora's still in sickbay, too. She'll probably get out tomorrow or the day after. You've missed some exciting times."

"Oh?"

"Whole western part of the continent declared their independence. I guess it's the anniversary of some similar thing back on Earth, fourth or fifth of July or something; I don't know. With their transmitter gone and most of their senior hierarchy in jail, it didn't quite have the punch they were looking for — which was the point of our little party in Lincoln City. But two or three zaibatsus have recognized them, so CODA's decided it's serious enough. We're in for the duration, now. Another task force is on the way."

"That is exciting. Have we dropped again?"

Usher nodded lightly. "Twice. Low-intensity stuff, so far," he clarified quickly. "We're four men short right now, and anyway Freeman understands why I don't want to go in without my C&S. Best in the damned fleet — that's what I've been telling everyone. Captain Eaves said she wanted to bid for you, and I told her she'd have a fight on her hands if she tried."

Julie's quiet laugh came out as a muffled cough, and she shook her head. "Wouldn't be anywhere without a good lieutenant."

"Frocked captain, actually."

"Oh!" Now that she looked at him closely, it was clear how much this had buoyed him. He seemed younger; rejuvenated. She managed a smile: "Congratulations, sir."

"Thanks. As soon as they can get Freeman authorized, they'll start the gears turning — I do have to admit, it's exciting. But what about you, sergeant? How are you feeling?"

She had to think about it for a moment; she was starting to feel stronger, but her thoughts were still muddled. "Drugged. It's like everything's wrapped in cotton. My head, my tongue... the world... everything..."

"It'll pass. They probably do have you on anesthetics, to be honest."

The dog took a deep breath, and decided to ask the question that had been plucking at her. "How bad is it, sir?"

"You just woke up, sergeant," Usher said gently. "Maybe you want to wait a couple days."

This statement did precious little to allay her fears; she blinked, and tilted her head at him. "Sir? Is it... am I..."

"You'll live, sergeant, don't worry. You're on the mend — that, I definitely would've told you."

"Then... I'd prefer to know now, sir. If it's... if it's alright."

With a sigh, he shifted over to retrieve a thin computer, paging through the contents of the display. "Well. You weren't wearing your suit; that... didn't help. Which... I never got to tell you, because I suspect you wouldn't really have cared, but that was a remarkably brave thing you chose to do, sergeant. You didn't have to."

"If we wanted the transmitter I did." Usher didn't reply. "And it seems like it was worth it."

"After you escaped the building — when you, Sergeant Neumann, and Corporal Selam were egressing back to the defensive position I was preparing — the separatists began their attack in force. Mixed technicals and 'commandeered' — officially — fire engines. So, you were at the front of that wave. As part of that, you seem to have taken a burst of machine gun fire. This is all extrapolation, mind you."

"I was running," she recalled. "And then suddenly I was on the ground, and Chris — uh. Sergeant Neumann — he had to carry me. I remember that much..."

"Standard ten-millimeter rounds, I think. You were shot three times — the back of your right knee, your right thigh, and just above your hip — that one went clean through, I guess. Judging from the report. You also took a fourteen-millimeter round — sniper, maybe, maybe a heavy machine gun... I don't know. That one, according to this, you took to the lower part of your left thigh. Lot of kinetic energy in a round like that..."

Her ears drooped; she stared at him, trying to consider the damage it must've inflicted. "I... I see, sir."

"The report says the bone was completely shattered. Eklund told me he thinks it's a miracle you didn't bleed out on the Strix between Lincoln City and the hospital. I guess... according to this here, your heart did stop once, in the dropship. I don't remember that, so I can't vouch for it. We were trying to triage Cora Sabbatini and Sergeant Bourne at the time. I just remember a lot of shouting."

"I see," she said again. Her voice was a soft, haunted whisper.

Usher set the computer aside. "Doc Eklund said he gave you thirty percent odds. They didn't decide that you were going to pull through until more than forty-eight hours later. Sergeant Neumann was a nervous wreck; I almost had to pull him off a drop."

"I don't... I don't remember any of it," she managed. "I just... I just woke up here. Now that I can start to think about it, though, my legs do hurt pretty bad... my knees especially."

He gave her a strange look. "Sergeant?"

"When I try to move them, it aches," she explained. Her lower half, indeed, was starting to throb painfully even beneath the haze of anesthetic that dulled her senses.

Captain Usher threaded his fingers together, pressing his hands so close that they turned white. "Sergeant," he said, with a soft urgency in his words. She could hear the tension in his voice; whatever he was trying to say, it was hard for him. "They had to amputate your legs, sergeant. Both of them, just above the knee."

Her breath caught, and her stomach tightened with sudden anxiety. "Sir? That's not... that's not possible, I can — I can feel them..."

"I'm sorry," Usher told her gently. "They said there was just too much damage done..."

Julie started panting her agitation. Terrified, she propped herself up on an elbow; it took almost all of her strength. Then she could look down, over her body beneath the thin hospital blanket — to where her cloaked frame... stopped, far too soon. "Oh, god..."

"I'm sorry," he said again, even though she could see that he knew how hollow the phrase was.

"Can you... can you do me a favor, sir?" she asked. It was hard to form words; even after he nodded, it took her a few seconds of panting to speak again. "Can you please... give me a couple of minutes of... privacy, sir?"

She was gripping the sheets tightly, squeezing them like a stress reliever. Usher patted her arm and stood up, making his way to the door. At the threshold he stopped, looking back to her; then, face ashen, he stepped through it and let it close behind him.

The dog badly wanted to cry, but when she heard the door click shut she screamed instead, a mournful wail at the top of her lungs that broke only for deep gasps of breath. Then the door flew open; a nurse was pinning her down, as she howled her desperation to the echoes of the room. They were feeling for the intravenous line; she struggled until she had no strength left, until she was merely a tiny form, sobbing brokenly — then they injected her anyway, and she lapsed back into darkness. 

*

Her throat was raw; when she tried to speak, it came out as a rasping croak, and Usher had to lean in to hear her. "What did you say, sergeant?"

"I said 'I'm sorry,' sir," she whispered. "I just... I couldn't... help myself."

"It's alright," he said. Then he sat down, but not before drawing the chair closer to the edge of her bed. "I tried to hint that it was probably better if you... had some time to rest..."

Verne shook her head. "No. It's better this way. I think that the earlier you know, the earlier you can start to come to terms with it. So I guess it's probably good that I got my screaming done early. At least that way my voice has a chance to heal, right?" Seeing her glancing around, Usher pressed a glass of water into her paw. She drank it slowly, savoring the cool touch at the back of her throat. "Was I out for very long?"

"A few hours, sergeant, that's it. They let me know when the sedatives would be wearing off, and I came back to sickbay. How bad does your throat hurt?"

"It doesn't hurt, I just can't use it real well. Just... breaking all parts of me, sir, I guess."

"Do you want me to get the paperwork for the insurance company? I know that the doctors are supposed to do that, but it might be faster going through CODA's bureaucracy instead. You'll probably want to get started early."

"I'd appreciate that, sir."

She was still a little woozy, and when Usher said that he had some work to take care of she nodded, and watched him depart before closing her eyes to doze again. She awoke in darkness; a quick check revealed that the sickbay was in its night cycle, and the only illumination came from the control panels of the machines that flanked her bed.

The stoicism that the dog had shown Usher was not entirely genuine; alone, the enormity of her loss gripped at her thoughts and it was impossible to shake them completely. She was shivering; her chest heaved with shallow pants as she fought off the panic that threatened to completely overwhelm her.

Steadying her breath, the dog slowly ran her paw down her right side. Her fur disappeared into smooth bandages, just above her hip; she flinched, and kept going. The smooth pads of her fingers made their way through the fur of her thigh, to where the bandages began again — and then stopped, a few centimeters above where her knee had once been. She gasped at her paw met the air — and then her breath left her in a whimper. 

In the darkness she lay motionless, animated only by the hitching of her chest as she whined piteously into the empty room. She was still crying softly to herself when she fell asleep. 

When she awoke once more, a tray of food had been set next to her, which, when swung into position, at least hid her absent legs from sight. She didn't have much of an appetite — but it was better than the ration mulligatawny, and she tried to take advantage of it while it existed. An orderly appeared, checked her vital signs, and left without conversation; she almost raised her voice, but decided against it at the last moment. What did she have to say?

To whatever extent her kind had autonomy or power, it essentially ended at the boundary of their own body. This had been how she had made it through the hell that was working in analysis for her corporate masters, before she'd bought her freedom. They could beat or berate her, send her away without food or take her blankets, but they could not keep her from flexing her fingers to watch the sinews twist and work, or from wagging her tail, or from standing up, and stretching her legs.

In theory, the Moreaus also had some power of independent thought — but this was always a hit or miss proposition, because the indoctrination took hold in some of them far more strongly than it did others. She thought back to the badger, and how surprised he'd looked when she shot him, and then she shivered a little.

It was not, she guessed, that she would lose all freedom of movement; doubtless her insurance company would be able to find a wheelchair, or something similar. But she could not shake the sense that something had been taken from her — ripped bodily from her frame without her consent. 

And she could still feel them. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the breeze from an opening door filtering through the fur of her calf — or the pain of her injuries, working their way down and into the muscles of her knee. Her feet itched; she tried to scratch one with the other, by reflex, for nearly thirty seconds before the futility of the act crashed down on her and she went limp, trying not to sob again.

This she reserved for her private time. She had every intent of maintaining her stoic outward demeanor — after her first outburst, she was determined not to let anyone see her so vulnerable again. During the daytime she worked on filters she knew she would never use again, and did some light paperwork for Captain Usher, and talked with the people who came to visit. At night, when the last nurses had made their rounds, she cried herself to sleep.

"They feed you pretty well, at least, right?" Chris asked. "We don't get any of this in the platoon canteen." He was unwrapping the chocolate bar they had given her for dessert; this was the fourth time they had done so, and the fourth time she had tried to remind them of its toxicity.

"They do. Even if I can't eat it. I think... maybe they're trying to send me a message. I could stockpile them, and then eat them all at once, and then —"

"Don't talk like that," Chris said hurriedly. "I'll make sure I take them from you, pup."

She smiled softly; as dejected as she ordinarily felt, her tail still wagged when he entered the room, and she felt better any time he was sitting next to her. "Alright. You can keep eating my dessert, for now."

"When are you getting out, anyway?"

"Soon. I have my last check two days from now. If they sign off, I can leave. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

Julie reached over to break the tiniest piece of chocolate from the bar, stretching out her tongue and letting the candy melt against it. Then she licked her muzzle, contentedly, and shrugged; it was easier to seem nonchalant than anything else. "They'll lend me a wheelchair while I'm... exploring my future options." 

"More C&S from the CIC?"

"I have to," she said. "I can't leave the platoon blind any more — I either have to figure out a way to process the data from here, or start training a replacement. But there weren't any replacements in the last convoy, so... for now..."

"No word from the insurance company on any... you know, any prosthetics or anything?"

"Not yet," she said quietly. "Their claims department is looking into it. Studiously, I'm sure."

"How are you getting on with your therapy, pup? You said you'd been... retraining yourself?"

She was trying her best to teach her brain to ignore the signals from her legs; it was a lengthy effort, and she was not always certain that she was making particularly significant progress. The more she was able to ignore their absence, the more it seemed that those errant signals that did exist leapt into the forefront of her mind, as if taunting her. 

Her physical therapist had advised the dog that this would pass, in time, but Julie was impatient; every time she felt a twinge from nonexistent flesh she was reminded forcefully of what had happened to her, and at times the effort was so frustrating that she had to stop, her paws bunching into fists until the claws pressed painfully into the flat pads of her palm.

"It's getting easier," she said, not quite lying. "I haven't quite... you know, gotten used to it? But at least I'm not surprised every time I look down."

"Are you still thinking that you even want to stay onboard? Even if you don't have enough mission credits to buy out your contract, I'm sure you could get posted planetside... easier to get around, at least. Less dangerous, for that matter — I found out about the attack on the convoy, a few weeks back. Serious stuff, pup."

"Serious stuff," she muttered. "That's what I signed up for, though, isn't it? Why the hell should I get out of it when you don't? Or Sergeant McArdle, or the LT? Here I thought it was something I was supposed to do because I was good at it. No? Only until I started being a cripple?"

Chris's face fell; he found her paw, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I didn't mean it like that. I just thought that maybe you were going to look for light duty, and... I don't know."

"And hang everybody I care about out to dry," she finished for him. It was hard to look at his face; shaking her head, she stared towards the wall instead. She'd committed the worn patterns of the bulkhead to memory long before. "I guess I'd better get used to this."

"Get used to what?"

The dog gritted her teeth, her ears swiveling to pin back into her dark hair. "Being useless. Letting people down. Shirking my responsibilities because I'm a fu..." she very nearly swore, and had to catch herself. "Because," she corrected, her voice icy, "I can't do what I'm supposed to."

"It's not your fault," he said gently, his voice tender.

But she was not in the mood for platitudes, or fatalistic acceptance. She flicked her ears back. "It's not about whose fault it is. It's about what the universe is going to do with... what's left of me."

Chris pushed the tray away, so that he could take her other paw, too, holding them both and running his fingers soothingly through the fur. "That's the wrong way to think about it. And very unlike you, pup. You're not the kind to ask what the universe is going to do with you — it's the other way around. And if it's smart, the universe knows it."

She knew that this was supposed to be the point; that was what the Gurkha's poem had meant. Would she have echoed it to Usher so readily, if she'd known what was going to happen the following day? It was hard to put too much faith in her own agency, when she couldn't even leave the bed without assistance. 

When she tried to form some reply to him, though, it was impossible to make the words come. Her breath started to catch, and she knew that she was losing control of her emotions. "Chris," she finally managed to get the word out. "Can you leave?"

"No," he said, holding her paws in a firm grip. "Not right now."

Julie trembled, shutting her eyes tightly. "Please?" He didn't answer. She asked him again, with the last of her strength — like a man holding to the edge of a cliff, with faltering grip. Now, letting her paws go, he leaned close, slipping an arm beneath her back and gingerly pulling her against him in a gentle hug. 

As soon as she felt her muzzle pressed against the warmth of the human's body she gave up, muffling an anguished cry into his chest. He squeezed her more tightly, dipping his head so that his soft, reassuring voice came right against her pinned ear. "It's okay, pup," he murmured. "It's gonna be okay."

That was the front that she had been maintaining, anyway. "I don't see how..." she admitted, the words quiet, as though the dog was ashamed of the truth. She was crying freely now, and the tears that didn't stain his shirt darkened and matted the grey fur of her face. "I just don't see... how it's going to work out."

"Because you're smart, and adaptable, and you've always figured out how to solve your problems," he said firmly, and kissed her right between her ears. "You'll find a way. But you need to know something..."

"What?" she sniffled, and glanced up at him.

He smiled warmly. "You might not be able to do it alone, pup. There are other people; you know that. Other people who care about you, who are worried about you — people who are here for you. I will always be here for you, pup, always."

"Well..." The dog blinked, and brushed somewhat futilely at her wet eyes.

Chris lowered his head, kissing her again, right on the nose. "I'm not going to take 'no' for an answer now, either."

Instead she said nothing, and when he held her close once more she recovered her thoughts in the snug cradle of his embrace. She closed her eyes, sniffing quietly so that her muzzle filled with his scent; her breathing still hitched, and she let his soothing hands lull her to quiet rest. 

* 

There were technical hurdles to everything. Even from day to day, it was awkward to relearn how to move through the corridors, or to take the quick navy shower they were accustomed to, or to use the toilet. 

The problems would be tenfold worse on a drop. Even with Chris's reassurances she was not about to delude herself: she stayed on as the platoon's C&S specialist only until they could find a replacement who would be able to drop with them. In the meantime, she considered her goal to be ensuring that they didn't lose anyone else.

Being on the ship would have at least two advantages. The first was a wider range of sensors; the Kirishima itself was in a constant orbit, and therefore could not see the area of operations regularly, but it was plugged into the wide CODA network that included the CLS-37s that generally stayed on station and had a direct line of sight to the platoons. 

The second advantage was the ship's computer, which was substantially more powerful than her own. She could feed more data into it and get a cleaner result back; she was determined to make the best use of this. From her hospital bed, she tried endless combinations in simulated environments, and so lost herself in this practice that it took a moment for her to notice that someone had entered her room. 

Then she raised her head, and waved to them. "Hello, Dennis."

"Uh. Hey," Dennis Scott said; he moved closer, cautiously, and took the chair next to her bed. His eyes kept flicking to where her legs should've been.

It was an ordinary response, which she tried to ignore. "How are you?"

"Ah, I'm okay, you know? Not much happening. The last couple drops have been... I don't know. You bought us a lot of goodwill or something, dog. They've had us, like, escorting people back and forth. Riding shotgun on these VIP convoys? Good work if you can get it, I suppose."

"Does sound nice, I guess."

"What are you working on?"

She turned the computer to him. "Kind of a... remote presence sort of program. I want to see if I can take the real-time sensors from the platoon, and our preprogrammed knowledge of the environment, and create a holographic representation of what I'd see on the ground. I'm still platoon C&S, for the moment, but obviously I can't drop, so..."

"Yeah." Probably Dennis hadn't really cared; the details of the algorithms were in any case well outside the realm of his concern. "How are you, uh... how are you, you know, doing?"

Julie shot him a look, her ears flicking. But he was just trying to make conversation; she sighed, and shrugged her shoulders lightly. "About how you'd expect."

Dennis rubbed at his neck, still looking a bit chagrinned. "Yeah. I... I'm sorry it took me so long to get down here; just been... uh, busy, or something. But I figured that you came to visit me when I was in sickbay, and you meant well enough, and... you know. I just wanted to see how you were."

"I appreciate it," she said, and was surprised to discover that she meant this more or less genuinely. 

He turned; his eyes fell to the hospital bed again, and then he glanced towards the door. "I can, ah, I can leave, though, and let you get back to work."

She found, increasingly, that she did enjoy companionship — but it was sometimes difficult to balance this with the work she wanted to get done. So she nodded, and it wasn't until after he'd stood up that she thought of something else. "Actually... can I ask you a question, Dennis?"

"Sure?"

She fidgeted, and the aimless walk of her fingers started to draw angry chirps from the computer. She turned it face down and set it down. "Did Victor tell you anything, before his last drop?"

The man's expression froze, and then changed. "Anything?" he echoed, carefully. 

There was no point in drawing it out: "Was he planning on leaving?"

Dennis looked away, and then slowly took his seat again. "He said he hadn't told anybody else, just me."

"He didn't," the dog said, her ears flattening out. In the days since she'd awoken again, she had more or less decided that the apparitions she'd seen had been just that — fevered hallucinations, created by a tortured mind. "At least, he didn't tell me. It was just... something in his body language. I guess."

Dennis nodded sadly, and gave a lengthy sigh. "He told me his brother had gotten a loan to start a kiwi plantation or something, and wanted help. He said he was 'thinking it over,' but then he also said he was gonna ask the LT or maybe you for some money to buy out the rest of his contract. I believe he only had four missions left, but... I haven't looked too closely. Don't... I don't want to dwell, you know?"

"Yeah." Her ears stayed back. "Is that... is that why you were so angry when I talked to you? About... fate, and stuff like that?"

"Maybe. I don't know; I'm just an angry person, dog. I'm sure it was part of it, all the damned bullshit. It gets to me sometimes."

She nodded. Whatever good mood had built up over the course of the morning had been completely erased; now she thought again, about the way Victor had looked, in her dream. What did that mean, about the rest of them? Maybe she was reading too much into it.

Dennis laughed softly; a quiet laugh, and tense. When she looked at him, he shrugged and shook his head. "It was just something I thought about. Uh. I don't know if you've talked to the doctors yet about what you're going to do with... you know, with your legs. If you were going to get robotics or bio prosthetics. I was just thinking that they try to do hue matching, with human legs... I don't know how dog fur works..."

Verne swallowed, and closed her eyes; it was more than she was prepared to handle. "Please stop."

"So you'd wind up with, you know. Like, permanent boots. I guess I don't know what they looked like before, though, so maybe I'm just imagining things."

"Dennis," she said, as curtly as she could manage while still maintaining a modicum of respect. "Either stop, or leave."

He blinked curiously, his eyes narrowing to focus on hers. "I... I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was... I mean, I wasn't trying to be insensitive, I was just... thinking about how they'd handle that, with new legs and all."

Her icy eyes flashed; she could feel her paw bunching up at the sheets again. "Dennis," she repeated. "I'm not going to get new legs. You know that as well as I do, so please —"

"Wait. What do you mean? What's that supposed to mean?"

The insurance company had gotten back to her earlier in the day; she'd taken the news with surprising ease — there was nothing surprising about it. "You would, because you're human — because they have plans for you, and molds, and whatever else they need. How many Moreaus do you think have ever gotten a replacement limb, Dennis? One? Two? How many of those weren't being tortured in a medical lab testing some drug designed to fix rejection problems? If I was a human being I would've woken up with replacements — here? They already denied the claim. I appealed, but... they're going to tell me it would be too expensive, or they don't have the technical aptitude, or some excuse, any excuse; I don't know. But I'm not going to get new legs, so what they would fucking look like doesn't matter. Okay?"

Dennis sat back heavily. "Aw, man," he mumbled. "That's fucking bullshit."

"Like it really matters."

He shook his head emphatically. "Nah, it is. If my dad knew what they were trying to pull, he'd —"

"Leave your dad out of it," she growled; she was aware that her façade was starting to slip again, that she was becoming angrier than she wanted, but the reflexive way he grabbed for it like a security blanket was grating. His father, for all intents and purposes, was mythical; her suffering was not. "All you ever talk about is your dad, Dennis. What the hell has he ever done? Who the hell is your dad to say anything?"

The man was too startled by her outburst, or too upset by what she'd revealed, to be hurt by the implied familial insult. Instead his voice was nonchalant, unstressed: "My dad's on the board at GeneMark."

Now it was the dog's turn to be surprised; her ears flicked. "What?"

"He's their chief marketing officer. I... I'm sure he could help, if he knew what was going on. If we were... on speaking terms..." He scowled — then his expression changed, and he shook his head. "Screw it, dog. Time I grew a pair, anyway. I'm going to give him a call."

"You don't have to —"

"I didn't say anything about 'have to'; I said 'going to.' Don't go anywhere, dog." She started to protest again, but she could hear in his voice and see on his face the look of someone on a mission — someone who had decided that they finally had a sense of purpose, a mission in the universe. 

She had looked that way herself, on occasion; she lay back against the bed, and watched him depart.

*

In the quiet that followed, she reflected on the implications of what he'd said. She didn't know his father, of course — nor anyone at the company who had made her. They faded into the background, and in general neither she nor any other Moreau was particularly well aware of their origins. 

Nor did she know, exactly, what Dennis believed he was going to accomplish — particularly as he had not spoken fondly of his father, a man whom he had also suggested thought dogs had a specific place in the world that they were not supposed to leave.

In any event thinking of him as a solution was a pipe dream. She picked up her computer again, staring at it — but it was hard to concentrate; hard to make the code do what she needed it to. Julie set it aside again, and stared blankly off into space.

The alien chime of one of the machines next to her took her by surprise; she turned, peering at the flashing light, and then pressed it cautiously. "There's a call for you on line one, from New Sparta. Do you accept a video link?"

"Yeah," she said. "Sure."

The bed was wired with holographic projectors; they beamed her diagnostics and medical records into the air above her when the nurses came to visit. Now, with whine of charging capacitors, they lit up again. This time she found herself looking into someone's office — an ancient wooden desk could be seen at the edges of the frame, and an old chair. 

"Hold on a second," a gruff, hidden voice told her. "Didn't think you'd be so damned fast." Presently another shape moved into the picture, and settled into the chair. He was an older man, with warm eyes and a worn face. His hair was starting to grey, and rather than dye it he had chosen to adopt the grandfatherly look it lent him. "You're the dog, huh?"

"Uh. Yes, sir."

He leaned forward — the illusion of diminishing space was so strong that she almost leaned away in answer. He must've been examining a similar hologram on his side of the connection. "You look like a... late 394, or an early-alphabet 395, I'd guess? I'd say a 395A or maybe a 395B."

Julie nodded. "Yes, sir. 395B-VER, specifically."

His bushy eyebrows arched, and the man laughed. "Ah, I remember you guys. What was the line? Something about... good things come in small packages, maybe? It was all about the same functionality in a smaller body. You know, you were twenty percent smaller than the 394s? Forty percent or more, for the 393s and the 392s."

"I know a late-model 392. He's definitely... bigger."

"Yeah. I think they made you 395s too small, actually. When you get too short, it starts to be... awkward. Can't reach things, or see eye to eye with anyone. Well, you sold well enough, anyway. What do you go by, 395B? What are you, Vernor? Verne?"

"Verne, generally."

"My son says you're a sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

He wagged a finger at her. "Then you can stop calling me 'sir.' I'm not a 'sir' — I know who both my parents were. I'm ex-Master Sergeant Dennis Scott the Third. You can call me Dennis, or Trip, I guess. How'd you get into the service? They buy you?"

She shook her head lightly and then, mindful that the holographic transmitters might not have picked up the gesture, repeated it with a little more force. "No, I was in the Silicon Valley. I filed for my 719 and bought the rest of my contract out."

The elder Dennis Scott lifted one of those greying eyebrows. "Really? Where'd you get the money for that?" Emancipated Moreaus met with some skepticism, and she supposed she could understand that he was inclined to believe that she had acquired her freedom under less than clean circumstances — generally it was the Triads or organized crime that bought them.

The expectation, of course, was that the subservient dogs were not clever enough to earn their freedom, which in any case they did not deserve. "Took my salary and started learning the markets — got lucky a couple times. Then I enlisted, and went to the C&S school at Io Station."

"Signals and comms? With the Gurkhas?"

"Yes, si — I mean, yes. If you know them, then you probably know that collection and synthesis is  pretty much the same as what they had us doing in the Valley, just with more bullets."

He didn't seem entirely convinced. "And you're pretty good at it?"

"It comes pretty naturally — and, you know. We were designed well for stuff like that." 

Now Scott smiled again. "So I'd heard. But it seems you've gotten into some trouble, if what my son says is accurate..."

"Victim of a long-range kneecapping, yes. Random shot, I'm sure. But they couldn't save my legs — we have... unique physiology. Not everyone is equipped to handle it, nor to find a way to replace them."

"What about the Galen Institute?"

"Too expensive, I expect. Insurance won't cover it for a one-off run like this."

Trip Scott shrugged. "Galen handles all our experimental surgeries. You know, I have to expect one more wouldn't really put 'em out. I'm sure we have your DNA on file, anyway, all your profiles and everything..."

Her heart skipped a beat; she tried not to let herself seem too enthusiastic. "P-probably, yes. I didn't buy them back from IBM — I didn't think they have cloning rights."

"They don't," Scott mused aloud. "But you know, there's some quid pro quo here. This could be a nice feel-good story for us... Our products are so flexible they can even work under stressful conditions they weren't even built for — and excel. Right? From an award-winning line of industrial-grade bio-engineered signals processors to an award-winning... are you? Could we call you a decorated soldier?"

"Maybe a purple heart, from this last drop. I have my Io Station badge, too, and a Silver Star for action a few months back..."

"Really," he said; he was making a few notes on a computer she could barely see. "Yeah, we can definitely do something with this. Trimurti has been eating our lunch with their new adaptive line. What do you think, 395? You think you would've been better off if you'd been a Trimurti? Or an M&L, or a KMT, or a Merck?"

The dog did not have any particular loyalty to the company that had created her, but she was willing to play along — and in any case what she said was the truth: "No. I'll be honest, the best Moreaus I've met have been GeneMark lines."

Scott smiled broadly. "Ah. Good girl. And would you say that on video, if I leaked your story to the press?"

"I'd have to speak to the public affairs officer, of course."

"Ah, of course. But they'll agree. We've been talking about a pilot program with CODA or AAI... this'd be a good argument for picking one over the other. Yeah, I think we can make this happen — I'll send over the paperwork as soon as we're done with this call."

He had said it so lightly, so easily, that it was almost hard to accept it. She stammered: "I... I don't know what to say. That would be.... it would be wonderful."

"I have to admit, I'm a little skeptical about dogs in the service. But the new 402s are pretty handy — almost a universal feature bump. Faster, more articulate, more stable... really good results in the benchmarks so far. It'll be nice to make the case that we're the ones designing the most competent, most versatile Moreaus for once."

Julie tried to decide whether or not the way he talked about her kind was bothersome; she supposed that it was, philosophically, but his candor was refreshing. "Of course."

He made another note on the computer, and then set it aside, looking up and into the hologram so that the illusion of their eyes met. "You serve with my son, don't you? How is that? How is he doing?"

"I suppose that he's doing alright," she said, a little carefully. "Although I admit I don't really know that this is the right place for him. I get the feeling that he would be happier somewhere else."

With a snort, Scott shook his head. "Which figures. He only signed up to piss me off, the punk."

She could see a little bit of the familial resemblance in the man's gesture, but what he said was at odds with what she'd heard, and she blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"He's always been stubborn. Back when he was home, we used to fight, often — I guess we can both be a little pigheaded. I told him once that he needed to shape up — that I'd pay for his college costs if he was willing to put in a term of service. That's a family virtue, I like to think, service... anyway, he knows I wasn't being serious, but he got it into his thick head that he could prove some moral lesson by enlisting. And there he is..." He shrugged, fingers rapping distractedly over the edge of the desk.

Their relationship was becoming clearer to her — she could envision the fights, and voices raised to shouts that obscured all meaning. "Due respect, Trip, but that's not it at all."

His recognition was delayed by the holographic link, but a second later his fingers stopped, and his brow lifted again. "What do you mean?"

"I'll agree that he can be... difficult. Sometimes. But he wasn't trying to teach you a lesson — he joined up because he thought it would earn your respect. Because of your history — your family's legacy, all of that. Dennis may be stubborn, but he's not stupid... he feels that he's let you down, on occasion, that —"

"He has," Scott interrupted, after a few seconds' lag.

"— He hasn't lived up to your expectations. But this was his attempt to make things right between the two of you. You know, he mentions you constantly — it's in a... a reflexive way, like it's a habit, yes, but... you're clearly very important to him. Sir."

Dennis Scott, the Third, paused, and looked to his side — to a picture frame on the desk; she could only see the back of it. "Am I?"

"Of course. You're his father. I don't... maybe that's not something I understand perfectly. I didn't really have a family until I... well, until I got here." When he didn't say anything, she kept going: "Actually, I mean... our relationships aren't perfect either, god knows. We're all under a lot of stress, and we're a long way away from home — from our families; our other relationships. All we really have is each other; I'm here in sickbay, and there's not a day goes by that I don't think the people I serve with. And I'm sure there's not a day goes by that Dennis doesn't think about you."

He was still staring at the picture; finally, long after she'd stopped speaking — well past the point at which the lag explained his silence — he turned away from it, and to her. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For reminding me of that. It's good to know it... goes both ways. And thank you for your service, too, sergeant — I don't think I did that."

She inclined her head softly. "You're welcome, on both counts."

Scott reached for the controls of the video chat, hanging in space between them. "Take care of yourself. Someone will be in touch."

The link vanished, and, drained, she flopped back onto the bed.

* 

"The Orion wants to talk to you?" Chris was seated on the edge of her bed, looking towards her incredulously.

"I guess."

"To film a short video?"

Julie nodded. "They sent over a brief sketch of how they wanted to portray it. It's very much what you would expect from them — a feel-good story about... exceeding the expectations that are set for you. I suppose."

He grinned. "Do you feel you've exceeded expectations?"

"I feel that I'm getting closer to it than I have been in the past. But if it makes people happy, I don't really mind. I've been sort of thinking actually that it might serve as encouragement to other Moreaus that have gotten to think that they don't have any control over their lives. That's the point of the William Henley poem, isn't it? I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul."

Chris chuckled, and kissed the dog warmly. "And you think that Dennis's father will really come through for you, huh? Things are starting to look up..."

"I think so." She had been turning the matter over in her head since their conversation the day before. The senior Dennis had been prompt in sending over a contract that outlined what he was offering, and what he was expecting — an interview with the news magazine Orionin Sanomat, to whom he had surreptitiously sent word of her existence.

She had done a brief scan of the news, too — that had been her job, back on Earth, and she was a little surprised how quickly she could fall back into that routine. It was possible to see what Scott expected from the story; reviews of the latest models coming from his company were lackluster, and tended to portray them as offering something out of date, and uninteresting. 

GeneMark would only be mentioned in passing; the focus was supposed to be on her — but her model line was recognizable enough, and there weren't many companies selling canine Moreaus. The battalion's public affairs officer suggested that she should demand final approval of the script. It was a fluff piece anyway; Orion agreed without demur.

This had all taken place quite quickly. She had only had time to have the man from public affairs sign off on the proposal, and to send the contract back to Dennis Scott the Third, and then the magazine was already asking to set up a time for a first interview.

Late in the evening, she had gathered together another series of forms, this time for the personnel department of the Colonial Defense Authority, and gone over them with Forster. The shepherd had raised his dark eyebrows quizzically — then nodded, and given his blessing. Captain Usher didn't bat an eye.

Things were starting to look up, yes, she admitted. "It won't be easy," she clarified, to Chris. "I'll have to go to the Galen Institute, on Argyre." 

"I'll wait."

The dog snickered — it had been a long time, she thought with the sound, since she'd done that. She stretched herself out, and licked his face a few times. "And there's no guarantee, exactly, you know. It's just a chance, that's all. And a lot of physical therapy — surgery on us is pretty out there, right now."

"But they think you could walk again?"

She shrugged. "If you believe them, they think I could make a full recovery. Maybe better — could wind up a centimeter or two taller, who knows? Don't worry, I'll slouch for you so I don't seem too tall. And Dennis was right, it'll definitely look funny, as far as my fur is concerned... but I think I'll manage to get past that."

With a warm laugh, Chris leaned back, supporting himself on his hands. "I think you will, too. It's good to see you smiling again, pup. I was worried about you — I mean, I still am, but... I feel like you're doing a bit better."

"I feel that way too. It's a vague optimism — a little tempered. Maybe it won't work out, anyway. They give the odds on just the nice side of fifty percent. But it's better than nothing, right? And if it doesn't work, I'll... I'll find something else. Some other way. Anyway, I need to get better as soon as I can — you think I'm going to leave you guys alone any longer than I have to? God knows what trouble you'll get into."

"God knows. So will there be followup stories tracking your progress? Will you be a regular feature in the Orion?"

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "No. I don't think so, anyway."

He grinned. "Just the one film, huh? They didn't want the novel rights? No plans to have somebody ghostwrite your exploits?"

The dog sat up, and took advantage of Chris's closeness to lick his nose again, leaning into his frame so that she could nuzzle him affectionately. "I'm pretty sure nobody would want to read a book about me."

"I would." He hugged her, and gave her a proper kiss, his lips remaining pressed to hers for a pleasant few seconds. "But that's just me. When do they want to film you?"

"Crew's already embedded — they were over on the Kaskara earlier, watching an orbital laser strike. They wanted to know if tomorrow morning would work."

"You feeling up for it, pup?"

"The only thing I really care about is the paperwork for the amendment I submitted; that's due back from personnel this evening. As for the rest of it, it's all simple. All just my life... I guess I'm qualified to speak to that."

"Of course." Chris nodded, and ran his fingers lovingly down the fur of the dog's arm. "Well, I'm sure you'll do fine. Good luck with them tomorrow."

"I think the vernacular is, ah, break a leg. So I should be set." She felt him tense, and lean back to look at her, ready to protest — until he saw that she was smiling. Then she nibbled his nose. "But thanks. I'll tell them you're my co-star."

*

Getting dressed had been a bit of a challenge and, wanting to make a good impression, the dog spent more than an hour going over her uniform, cleaning off the bits of fur and polishing the metal parts until they glittered with her every movement. 

Orion had elected to film the interview in sickbay, which at least removed one bit of awkwardness; she simply folded the blanket neatly down over her waist, so that it hid her legs from view. Seen from the top up, she looked more or less as she always had — but with a wry smile, waiting until her company arrived.

Tuuli Peltosaari, the reporter from the magazine, was a short woman — maybe ten centimeters taller than Julie had been. She had a warm grin and her blue eyes never broke contact with the dog's own. A consummate professional — when she shook hands, the grip was firm, and pleasant, and she said nothing about the dog's peculiar countenance.

"This is Johan Roivas, my cameraman." She turned to indicate the man who was placing a handful of holographic recording machines. Johan didn't shake her paw. "How are you feeling? Has it been a good day so far?"

"Uneventful," Julie answered. Before, she would've made the effort to still her tics — the way she licked her nose, or the inquisitive flicking of her ears. Today, she had decided, would be different. That was important.

"The calm before the storm," Tuuli was saying. "No, no, I'm kidding. We'll go easy on you — pretty easy. It's a really different, ah — human interest piece, if you'll pardon my saying so. I think people will respond well. Johan, how's the light?"

"Good," the man said curtly. The holographic cameras hung suspended in the air; he twisted them, so that they all faced her bed. "Levels are good. Colors are good. All good."

"Excellent." Tuuli pulled up a chair, boosting the hydraulics until she sat at the dog's level. "Perhaps we can begin, then. Did you have the chance to read the question list?"

She nodded. "I did."

"Good, good. Now, you just speak your mind — don't worry about rambling; we'll clean it up later. If I need you to repeat something, for clarity or whatever else, I'll tell you. But I think the questions are pretty straightforward. Very well — let's get started. Johan?"

They were not so simple as Tuuli had probably intended — but then, when had anything ever been simple? That was the point; that was why the dog was here. It had taken long enough, for the world to gain its present clarity — for the sum of all the moments in the dog's life to come to one clear, crystal point. 

"Rolling," Johan said.

"Let's start at the beginning," Tuuli leaned forward, folding her hands and turning her palms up questioningly. "Who are you?"

That had been Dennis's question, as well — eminently simple; small talk, really. Who had ever needed to pause and consider the answer? Who had spent long nights awake, staring into silent darkness, trying to put those pieces together? Who had fought for the right to answer it truthfully?

But now the dog was ready. With a hard-earned smile, and her thoughtful gaze locked on her questioner, she answered without pause:

"I'm Sergeant Runshana Nikkakharat — Third Platoon, Bravo Company, of the 366th Spaceborne Assault Battalion. And I'm a rifleman in the Colonial Defense Authority."