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In the penultimate chapter of Sgt. Julie Verne's adventure, our canine hero is thrust onto a new element, the bridge of a starship, and begins the laborious process of finding herself in a vast and occasionally heartless universe. And things, bit by quiet bit, start to pay off.

Alright folks, only two more chapters to go! This chapter is a little more slow-paced and perhaps a little more cerebral; there's a fair amount of dialogue, most of which surrounds the dog, and others, confronting various demons. There is some sex in it, right at the end, but it doesn't form a major part of the plot so you may not be able to get off to it. But I hope you enjoy the chapter anyway! -- 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. 7, "Sunlight on a broken column"

---

_Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men.

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star._ - T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

"Signals, right three at two hundred. Six plus soldiers -- acoustic profile says at least one machine gun." It was hard to know exactly how many they were; they had taken shelter inside a warehouse, and the echoes were difficult to interpret.

"Hold up," Usher ordered, over the radio; the platoon came to an expectant halt. "Mayer, move to the building at three three zero and take cover along the south side." He pointed to the worn brick front of an abandoned florist, whose shuttered windows offered some concealment. As Mayer Bourne's section crept stealthily towards it, the lieutenant beckoned for McArdle and Verne to come closer. "Verne, can you tell where they are inside that building?"

She stared at the map intently, switching between sensors and viewpoints; after a few futile seconds she shook her head. "Not really, sir."

"Great. Jim, what do you think?"

They had been moving slowly towards the north -- trying to reinforce another company that had become pinned down. The city was deeply hostile; they had to move building by building, and while the operation had started well before dawn bright orange light was now spilling into the streets from the rising sun. "What do I think? I think we should hit the bastards with an airstrike, that's what I think."

"Unfortunately, the opinion columns don't like it when you bomb cities. Do we come in from the east or west?"

McArdle looked at the map, and then gave it an irritated spin. "East makes the most sense -- got a little more cover, at least. Get movement and acoustic masking from the river and the docks further on. It might buy us some time."

Usher switched the map into a three-dimensional view, adjusting the angle so that it showed the world from the perspective of the warehouse. "Maybe. Sergeant Verne, anything we should know?"

"He's right -- the east has better acoustic masking. On the other hand, sir, that building there?" Just behind the florist, a tall glass-fronted edifice stretched upwards in defiance of the city's dusty squalor. "In five or ten minutes, it'll be catching the sun -- reflections will make it hard to look out that way."

Sergeant McArdle looked from the building, which was already starting to glint and sparkle, back to the map. "We could get closer from the west, I guess... If we move up, uh, what is this? Fifth? We could get to Grant and keep solid buildings between us and their line of sight the whole damned way. The assault would put us up against their windows, though -- lots of opportunities to take fire."

"'May you live in interesting times,' right?" Usher muttered. "Okay. Let's do this. We'll use fourth squad to cover our approach and bring Mayer's section around for the assault. Sergeant Gebre, I've got new orders for you."

Awate Gebre and his squad had taken up shelter behind a corner fifty meters away; she saw him reach up to switch his microphone on. "Ready to copy, sir."

"You need to get to the northwest corner of Grant Boulevard and Fifth Street. So... I want you to move down Third to Tower, then cross up to Fifth and come east again. Make sense?"

"Why don't we just move up Soren Place to Fifth? Getting to Tower is a four-block detour."

"It'll keep you hidden from the warehouse."

Gebre leaned forward, holding a sensor ball around the corner of the building. "I can see the warehouse from here... I'm pretty sure if we crossed the street and moved up behind that brick fence, we could be in position in less than two minutes."

Usher looked to McArdle; Jim scanned the map, and then shrugged. "Maybe. I don't think it's safe, sir -- if they're expecting us. If they're expecting us, they'll have taken measures... if not, well..."

"We're getting too old for this, Jim. All this indecision..." Usher shook his head in resignation. "Alright, Gebre. I'll leave it at your discretion. If it's safe to move up that way, do it. Remember, the goal here is to keep them in the dark as long as we can. If it looks like you might have to expose yourself, pull back and go the long way 'round. We can wait a bit; it's okay."

"Roger that, sir." The four men of Gebre's squad disappeared from sight around the block.

"You know, Jim, I was thinking. My birthday's coming up soon..."

"Yeah?"

Usher nodded, and looked up from his map, peering at the just-visible roof of the warehouse, and the glass skyscraper, and a few other tall buildings that poked up like decrepit weeds in the urban landscape. "I was thinking what I'd really like for my birthday."

"What's that?"

"High explosives, Jim -- this goes for you too, Verne, in case you wanted to, you know, all chip in for one thing. Mind you, I don't need 'em to be guided or anything. If you want them to be guided, nothing fancy -- optically tracked is fine. Or --"

A ripple of gunfire cut him off. Verne had her C&S map in acoustic mode; as she watched, the warehouse brightened with the signatures. Another signal flared up, closer to them, and she perceived that bloom of light before she heard the cry of pain.

The lieutenant swore heavily. "Sergeant Gebre? Come in, Gebre." He tried a few more times, and then turned to the dog. "C&S?"

"Suit readings are... erratic. I could triangulate the fire, but all it tells us is they're watching from the west catwalks. We can't see it from here."

"So much for the element of surprise," McArdle grumbled. "What if you bounced up just above the roofline of this building here. Could you see it then?"

"Maybe. Or I could move up a half-block or so and toss a drone. Either way it'd just be a snapshot, though."

"Do it," Usher said. "Better than being completely blind."

"Yes, sir." She turned up the gain on her computer and started moving, trying to present as small a profile as possible -- though she had no reason to believe anyone could see her, anyway. It was a good habit to get into, and trying to blend in tuned her into the subtle tone of the city. The streets were cobbled, and in bad need of repair; trees, planted at intervals in the sidewalk, had long been neglected, and their thin trunks offered neither concealment nor protection.

She stopped at an alley, pulling out one of her drones and holding it carefully around the corner to see if she could catch a glimpse of her target. Nothing but worn grey stone, cracked by the plant life steadily overgrowing it, faced her. Julie clipped the drone back to her suit, and paused to review her map. The city was eerily quiet; after the brief outburst of fire earlier there was nothing to suggest that it was inhabited at all.

Frowning, she closed her map and kept going. The dog had not taken two steps before something struck her chest, knocking her back and to the ground. There was a blinding pain, and it took her a moment to realize it was coming from an earsplitting noise in her headset. A second later the sound stopped, replaced by a man's voice:

"You're dead, Sergeant Verne."

Damn it. The dog growled, kicking the wall of the building next to her. "How am I dead?"

"I cheated. Check the water tower."

Water tower? Verne's eyes swept what she could see of the horizon. Sure enough, an old tower -- sky-blue where the rust wasn't showing -- poked over the old buildings, more than a kilometer away. She turned up the magnification on her goggles until she could just perceive the man with the heavy sniper rifle. "Got it. Not bad."

The other soldier lifted one hand from it, giving a light wave. "I figured you'd have your sensors set up to filter a lot of the noise out of the city. So I switched out my own targeting scanner to use a different wavelength and a different pulse signature. That way, it just looked like --"

Verne was paging quickly through the signals her set had picked up; it was obvious enough to see what he'd done. "An aircraft anticollision beacon," she finished for him. Her equipment was sensitive enough that, without proper filtering, even the dog would've been completely overwhelmed. Collection and synthesis was a delicate balancing act, trying to filter out the noise without ignoring something critical -- which she'd done.

"I was a sparkhunter for eight years -- I know a lot of tricks. Hit me up this afternoon and I'll show you some scripts, sergeant."

She clicked her microphone twice to acknowledge him, and then settled in against the stone wall of the building. The shot had spattered her chest with bright orange paint as a badge of her failings; she tried to keep it from her peripheral vision, bringing up her computer and setting to work on her own new methods. She was keenly aware that signals was a constant game of cat and mouse -- and that trial and error was a fine theory, but that error in the field tended to mean untimely death for her comrades.

Third Platoon, Bravo Company had 'won' just over two-thirds of their encounters, which pitched the soldiers against some of CODA's most well-trained instructors. It wasn't a terrible record, Verne supposed -- but again she came back to the realization that, in the real world, their enemy only had to get lucky once to ruin everything.

The morning's exercise knocked them back below sixty percent; Usher called off their advance when the platoon had lost half its men, and in the debrief the head of the opposing team made a point of blaming them for the loss of the entire company they had been expected to rescue, as well.

A few inquiries brought her to the office of a slender, dark-skinned man whose chest was liberally adorned with ribbons. With his black, neatly combed hair and his thin glasses he looked like a studious academic -- until he spoke, with martial clarity. "Yes?"

"Major Banerjee? You run the marksmen in the training exercises?"

"Yes," he said again, crisply. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Sergeant Verne. Uh, C&S for Third Platoon, Bravo Company? You --"

"Ah! Yes, yes!" His features softened, and his voice became more animated. "You're, uh... not what I expected to see. Are you a real Moreau?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fascinating. When I saw you, I just assumed you were short -- one of the high-g worlds, or a starlighter or something. This is even better -- were you at IWPW '77?" She shook her head. "Have you at least seen a holo recording of Smokey Jensen's talk?"

"No, sir." She didn't even know the name.

"Ah, that's a shame. General Björn Jensen is the head of AAI's information warfare department. Last year he gave a whole hour-long talk about buying some Moreaus to use as intelligent data-gathering platforms. You're not part of some pilot program?"

"I wasn't really aware of anything like that, no sir."

"Well, you did pretty good. I'd say top quartile, definitely. How long've you been at this?"

"This is my first tour," she admitted. "Three combat drops, so far."

Major Bannerjee took a second look at her, more carefully. "Only three? Maybe I take back what I said. Do you have your gear on you?" She shook her head, and he shrugged. "No matter, I guess -- do you mind if I take a look at your setup?"

"Of course not, sir."

All the algorithms she had written to customize her C&S equipment were stored in the wider CODA network; it was a simple enough matter to download them to Bannerjee's computer. His dark eyes scanned the results with interest. "What's this here? Is this a notch filter?"

She nodded. "We were taking heavy EM interference from some power lines. Blinded me to pretty much everything east of... right about this shop here," she explained, tapping an overhead map on the computer.

"So that's why you didn't notice the IED that took out your entire second section?"

"I was dead by then. But, looking at the after-action, those bombs were cloaked anyway."

Bannerjee grunted. "Yeah, but that's getting awful cheap these days. What are you doing to scan for multispectral cloaking?"

His surprise at her species had faded entirely, along with her self-consciousness. "I've tried hitting an area with the Strix and then listening for a non-resonant echo. That worked planetside, but without air support here it was harder to pull off."

"That's one disadvantage of the Kuznetsova technique, yes. It also suffers diminishing returns as the cloaks get smarter -- and they are getting smarter, sergeant. From the reports I've been seeing, I'm pretty sure the separatists are getting direct support from the Triads -- somebody in the 26th picked up telltales of a Type 921 a couple ops back, and that's not more'n ten years old."

Verne's muzzle turned, such as she was able to make it, in a frown. "How do you deal with that, sir?"

"If you're paying attention, it shouldn't be too much of a problem. Nearly all of them generate characteristic interference. It's part of how they work. Look, see this band here?"

She stared at it for a long time. "That looks pretty much like noise, sir," she admitted.

"Sure. But..." His dark fingers swept over the computer terminal. "Run a fourier transform on it, and you see this here? These spikes are a pretty good indication. Keep that running passively with an alert for the variance, and that'll pretty much do you. You running a, uh, 20EX?"

"No, a Mark 17."

He scoffed and shook his head, closing the computer. "Change with the times, dog. Upgrade as soon as you leave this office, I'm serious -- you can do a lot of this in hardware these days. Siemens just came out with the 26K -- integrated Kerma module and everything. You can't just rely on your instincts -- they're pretty good, from what I can tell, but a 20-series would be a solid force multiplier for you."

Julie nodded again, and when Bannerjee told her to come back the following day for lessons she smiled softly and promised that she would. It was not until she'd left his office and was standing back outside that she let her feeling of satisfaction broaden the smile into a quirky grin.

As it happened, the promise would have to be broken. Back at the platoon's temporary barracks, Usher had left notice that they were being recalled to the ship for urgent operations. Packing up his belongings, McArdle looked grim -- and Verne knew why; they were still too green, too untested.

But, for the first time in the deployment, she felt certain she was ready.

*

"You can't go."

"Sir?"

"Put your ears down, sergeant," Usher told her. "It's a class five drop. High gees, high stress -- the doc says your respirator might not take it. You're not authorized for this one."

"Lieutenant," she protested hotly, reflexively -- as though she herself were being called into question. "You know the engineers overbuild by a factor of fifty percent, at least. If they say I'm qualified for class four, I could handle a six -- definitely a five."

He shook his head. "Probably. But I'm not willing to risk it. You'll support us from CIC -- I've got special authorization from Captain Eaves. And look on the bright side -- you'll be able to see everything on the net. The sensors from the Argus bird, too."

"Without ground-level perspective, my situational awareness is going to be extremely degraded, sir."

Usher sighed. "I can appreciate that, trust me. But we'll have to make do."

"What if I went back to the doctor and appealed for a medical exemption?"

"Then you'd be getting pretty close to a textbook case of insubordination, sergeant. I want you in CIC for this one -- no ifs, ands, or buts. Alright?"

The dog's ears lowered, and she stared, downcast, for a long moment. "Yes, sir."

"It's nothing to worry about, anyway. It looks like a pretty straightforward operation." He turned his computer around, so that she could read the mission summary. "Rumors of a weapons drop -- looks like CODA thinks we can hit 'em quick enough to maybe catch who they're getting their supplies from. In and out in one orbit -- that's the plan, anyway. You can keep watch."

To the extent that the dog had dreams, standing in the Combat Information Center of a starship factored heavily in them. On the Kirishima the CIC was located well forward of the spaces normally occupied by the marines, and she felt slightly self-conscious, making her way through alien corridors towards the bow.

The room itself was shaped like a sphere, two decks high -- held up magnetically, so that it was decoupled from the motion of the ship. There was a brief wave of nausea as the gravity plates shifted beneath her; then she was at the hatchway, spinning it open and stepping inside.

CIC and the bridge were combined into one large space -- from it, through a maze of computer screens, one could control the Kirishima's weapons, command its embarked spacecraft, and issue the orders that would move the ship's half-million ton bulk. The lights were dimmed, and as she threaded her way through the consoles she noticed that nobody seemed to pay attention to her, focused as they were on the computers before them.

She was not as familiar with CODA's Fleet rank insignia as she might've wished, so it took a moment to identify the person who challenged her for identification as Lieutenant Commander Davis, the officer of the deck. She handed one of her dogtags to him so that he could scan it.

"I'm reporting here on Lieutenant Usher's orders, sir -- supporting an operation on the surface."

Davis called up a holographic display from his wrist, flicking through the screens of information. "Ah. Yes, so I see. Alright. Take station A5-3 and log in with your normal credentials."

She nodded curtly and headed in the direction he had pointed. The consoles were labelled with laser-etched text; A5-3 was a computer display nearly a meter wide, and when she started it up it acquired an illimitable depth. One of the newer holographic displays -- able to track vast quantities of information. It was hard to entirely suppress a grin.

"You from the marine detachment?"

She turned; the man next to her didn't seem particularly mean-spirited, just inquisitive. "That's right. I'm in collection and synthesis for Third Platoon, Bravo Company. But I wanted to see how the pros do it."

"Oh. Cool," the petty officer shrugged. "Let me know if you need help. A5-3's always causing problems for IT."

But it seemed to work fine for her. Once she was logged in, Julie set about switching on the sensor feeds; most of them were dark, or cycling through diagnostics -- both companies were being committed to planetary operations, and there was a lot of information to process. She lost herself in it, so that it took a moment to respond when she heard a voice call "officer on deck" and the crew in CIC came to attention.

"As you were." Verne sat down again, although she watched the newcomer from the corner of her eye. Angela Eaves was tall, and her movements had the practiced grace of nobility. Everything in the combat centered seemed to operate smoothly, and the captain's regal bearing gave it a stately air far removed from the dog's experience.

"Captain, the air boss reports all ships are ready for launch. Five minutes to the drop point."

"Very well. Go to Flight Quarters."

Lights were starting to flicker and come to life on Verne's console; even though she was not aboard one of the dropships, she felt the prickle of adrenaline, listening to the XO not ten meters away. "Flight Quarters, Flight Quarters. All hands set Condition One-Alpha for drop operations. Secure all red and gold emitters and do not radiate or energize any electronic equipment while the drop is underway." A moment later, her C&S link went dark, as the high-power transceiver was shut down to avoid interference with the systems of the CLS-37s on the flight deck.

Instead, she watched the holographic situational awareness plot, as the icon for the LCS Kirishima crept closer and closer to the drop point marked in orbit of the planet below. If she closed her eyes she could imagine the ships being lowered on their launch arms, rotating into position...

"Condition One is set, sir. Air boss says we are go for launch."

The dog turned in her chair to see what a launch looked like from the CIC. Captain Eaves was bent forward, looking at a situational display much like Verne's own -- but larger, and set so that multiple people could observe it at once. She inclined her head to acknowledge the information. "Tell him he has control. Let me know when the ships are away."

Looking back at her console, she counted down the seconds as they approached the drop point. From the CIC, suspended in a protective cocoon of vacuum and electromagnetic suspension, there was no visceral indication at all -- just the appearance of a dozen new indicators on her display, falling down towards the planet. They started to separate quickly; Verne panned the view so that she could focus on Horvat's ship. Behind her, she heard the XO report the launch dispassionately.

"Good. Take us up another twenty k."

Verne's ears pricked, listening for what followed from the captain's order. "I have the conn. Helm," the XO called out. "Positive thirty degrees. Ventral thrusters open to eighty percent; ahead four zero."

"Thirty degrees, ahead four zero. Ventral thrusters set to eight zero percent, aye sir."

She tried to imagine what it would be like -- to have the raw power of the ship's reactors at her control; to sense the bow lifting as the ship changed course. On her display, the Kirishima nosed upwards, and the distance between it and the Strixes that had trailed like ducklings grew sharply. When the order came to level off the ship, and they secured from Flight Quarters, Verne's paws again worked nonexistent steering controls.

In her company quarters in the Silicon Valley Free Zone, it was sometimes difficult to remember that the outside world existed -- the Zone was sterile and clinical, devoid of life or the sense of anything beyond the palisade. For Verne, with her poor sense of sight, the mountains to the east were not terribly compelling -- but at night, she could look up, and see the bright, artificial stars of orbiting spaceships.

They had seemed a means of escape, and even though she was not always certain why she felt such a sense of disquiet at her life, she had long nurtured the sense that if she could only manage to get away, everything would be better. And so to the recruiter's office, sitting for tests, waiting to hear whether she might be qualified for the Starship Command School. And then -- when the smirking face of the recruiter told her that she had no chance of beating out the human applicants, with their familiar appearance and their unaugmented eyesight -- signing her name defiantly on the contract to join the Colonial Defense Authority as an infantryman, instead.

Still she harbored a fond feeling for the big starships that might almost have been nostalgia, if she had been familiar with the emotion. She knew that she could do the work, at least -- that her innate sense of spatial awareness and analysis would serve her in good stead. But that was for the future -- or some alternate, happier universe -- and she pushed the feelings aside to focus on Fran Horvat's descending ship.

The transceiver was active again, and now she was getting signals from the men and women of the platoon. Each icon had a name attached to it; she frowned, and cleared that part of the display -- telling herself that it was useless information, and that it had nothing to do with the pangs of apprehensive guilt that still touched her when she was compelled to remember that they were people she knew well, and had been prevented from helping.

The high-level view was, however, quite empowering; she could see the operation starting to take shape. CODA had identified two separate targets; one of the companies had been assigned to each, and platoons had been positioned to encircle the separatist camps and prevent any escape.

"Good morning, sergeant. We're on the ground now. What's the threat picture?" Usher's voice sounded the same as it ever did, coming through the speaker clipped to her left ear.

"Nominal, sir. I've got a possible emitter at your left eleven, four hundred meters, but from the readouts I think it's just machinery that somebody's left to idle."

She could picture him clearly -- tense, thoughtful expression; grey eyes staring through his map. McArdle would be at his side, sharing the view. "Yeah," Usher finally told her. "We can see it; it's an old pumping station, I think. I'm not too worried."

His voice was clear and reassuring; she settled down in her chair, and focused on the work of sorting information without the ability to see anything directly. Her world became an abstract universe of colors and lines -- flashes of information and insight from Bravo Company's dropships, or the Argus C3 Strix, or the other soldiers on the ground.

She tried some of the techniques Major Bannerjee had suggested -- looking for patterns and clues to an undefined mystery. As comfortable as she might have been, and as safe, she was as always wary of what might be lurking on the planet below them -- below and well behind; they passed beyond the curve of the horizon, and it would be more than an hour before they would have direct line of sight. By then, if all went according to plan, the marines would be on their way back to the ships.

Everything did seem to be going according to plan, if the radio chatter was anything to trust. The soldiers were tightening a noose around a suspected separatist camp; Gus Quezada's men stumbled across a scouting party and captured them -- an unremarkable victory, except that it confirmed CODA's suspicions about the enemy's presence.

Then one of the radio channels briefly oversaturated, and an icon on her map flickered and went dark. A moment later she heard the frantic calls: "man down!" "Medic!" -- the anguish in them plain, and fading immediately into the background as she focused on trying to find out where the fire had come from. There was no warning, no indication of anything in the stream of data she was trying to digest. A perfect, random ambush.

She caught another panicked report coming in over the radio; then there was the sound of broken sobbing, a tortured wail of fear and agony -- and a curt voice snapping that someone on the net had locked their microphone open. The sudden silence was not much better than the cries of pain had been.

"Signals," she managed. "Right one, two hundred. One, maybe two men, no word on weapons." Usher's microphone clicked twice in her ear to acknowledge her. Verne switched hers off, and growled a curse at her console.

"Everything okay?" This came from the petty officer next to her.

"Platoon's taking fire. At least one wounded, or worse. I can't see a damned thing from up here -- ought to be on the ground..."

"Why aren't you?"

"Wasn't my idea," she snapped. The display was still chaotic, and none of the filters she tried brought much sense to it. She turned the microphone back on. "Mayer, check your left ten at about a hundred and fifty meters. I think there might be activity there." He ordered Chris Neumann's squad to check it out -- sure enough, Verne watched a thermal signature appear briefly on her map, then a flare of acoustic activity, and the signature stopped moving. She swallowed heavily.

Five minutes later everything had quieted again, and the platoon resumed its movement -- two of the icons stayed behind, motionless, and she had to make the effort not to call up the life support signs of the men they represented. There was, after all, nothing she could do.

"Badger Six, this is Badger Three-Six actual, message, over."

Captain Freeman, she saw, had landed with the rest of his men; they were half a kilometer to Usher's east. "Badger Six, send, over."

"Badger Three-Six, we have reached Objective Kilo. Handful of separatists were defending it, but they surrendered to us as soon as we showed up. There's a quantity of weapons here -- nothing too surprising, but I'd recommend a follow-up party to police this just in case we've missed something. Over."

"Badger Six. We'll get on that right away. What's your status otherwise? Are you ready for retrieval? Over."

Verne's ears pricked, although the speaker was half a world away. "Badger Three-Six. Negative, we're waiting for Gus and Don Hines to show up. They should be ready in, uh, ten minutes. I have two KIA and one wounded, Badger Six. Injuries aren't critical; we can wait. Over."

The dog's ears flattened again, until the radio earpiece was pinned awkwardly and the sounds were all muffled. Waiting, the CLS-37s of Bravo Company circled like buzzards, and until the men were back aboard she remained locked on the holographic signals display, as though preternatural focus on the colorful static there could make up for what had happened before.

She heard the radio calls: the operation was a success, and both companies reported as such well before the bright star that was the Kirishima dawned at the conclusion of its orbit. Once they were safely ascending, Verne buried herself in the C&S gear's memory, replaying the moment before the engagement over and over. Nothing emerged as a telltale signal; nothing suggested that anything had been overlooked. But two people were dead, and they had been ambushed; the dog was unwilling to accept this.

"Contact!" the sharp cry from someone a few consoles down snared her attention.

"Report!"

"Two bogeys, inbound at high speed. Bearing forty-two degrees at declination positive one six, range twenty-eight thousand kilometers. Time to intercept: sixteen minutes." Verne switched her console back to displaying a live update of their surroundings. The newly reported ships showed up as a flashing yellow, indicating that nothing was known about them save for their presence. The signals display was a waterfall of incomprehensible colors.

"What are they?" Captain Eaves demanded.

"Running spectral now. Looks like a pair of B&V 260s. Intrastellar mining packets -- no jump capabilities, limited armament. Anti-debris lasers, mostly. I can't sort radiological information from the engine signatures, ma'am."

Verne frowned, a gesture that bared her teeth, and tried a few filters on the data. Patterns flickered briefly, then guttered out. She brought up the page for "Blohm und Voss 260 Narwal," cocking her head at the rows of information. "No, don't just look at the signatures," she said, not realizing she was thinking aloud.

"Excuse me?"

She turned to the lieutenant manning the signals display, talking over the petty officer that sat between them. The lieutenant's experience, and his expertise, was far greater than hers; she worked through her rationalization even as her thoughts continued to race. "If the radiation's coming from the engines, it'll be behind the shielding. If it's coming from a cargo bay or a jerry-rigged weapons platform, it'll be ahead of it."

"Yes, but --"

"No, she's got a point," someone else said. "If your signals are being occluded by the engine firewall, it'll look different from a different angle. Get a downlink from Sheridan or TASN and run a parallax comparison."

"Yes, sir. Connecting to TacNet now. Twenty seconds." Verne's computer, which reflected the information available to the Kirishima, lit up with the data from the Tactical Awareness Satellite Network. "Positive radiological signatures, ma'am; they've got nukes."

"General Quarters!"

The alarm klaxon that sounded was perfunctory, only serving to remind them of what was going on -- the sirens going off in the ship beyond were muted by the vacuum that separated CIC from the rest of the hull. "General Quarters, General Quarters! All mans, man your battle stations! Go up and forward on your starboard side; down and aft on your port side. Nuclear-armed vessels are inbound and presumed hostile. Initiate NARA-3 procedures and be prepared for nuclear response. Defense grid, all zones secure gold emitters and go to Alert Level Caspian. Condition Zed will be set in three minutes."

"Petty Officer Alba, switch places," the lieutenant commanded, and took the seat next to Verne. He brought his information back up on the console before him, nodding to the dog. "Lieutenant Shadid. You're signals?" She nodded. "Me too. Alright, let's do this -- I'll get radiation if you can handle directional information."

"How tight?"

"Need to hit 'em, right?" Verne took a deep breath, and narrowed her eyes at the screen before her.

The defense grid of the Kirishima, if propaganda was to be believed, was staggeringly accurate. All the same, the distances and speeds involved were absurd: if the Kirishima had been a train, moving at a stately two hundred kilometers an hour, they were being asked to fire at a pair of bullets moving at four times that speed -- and to hit them, with perfect accuracy, more than a hundred kilometers away. She added in information from as many different platforms as she could, turning the Sheridan's task force into one massive sensor array.

Something caught her attention; with her head cocked, the dog reversed the calculations she was performing -- looking to see where the two ships had come from, rather than where they were going. "I have a firing solution," she told Shadid, "but something's wrong here."

"What's up?"

"Look at this. They can't have boosted off of, uh, what's this planet here called? Atlantis? The range isn't right for that... so any delta-v is just them, and their trajectory places them at a launch from the outer ring. One of the mining stations, maybe, I guess."

"You're saying they're Starlight?"

"Probably," she waved the suggestion away with her paw. The allegiance of their attackers was irrelevant, so far as she was concerned. "But that isn't important. Look at their speed, and where they came from. If the efficiency figures in the database are right, they've been burning straight since they launched -- they have to be almost out of fuel."

"Fuck," Shadid muttered, and then raised his voice. "Captain Eaves, we have a situation here."

Eaves strode around the central display in CIC to join them, towering over the seated pair. "What's going on, lieutenant?"

"Okay. Here's our course, and here's theirs." He zoomed in on the intercept point; the paths were traced as dotted lines. "Constant bearing, decreasing range -- standard attack profile. They've calculated it down to the arc-microsecond. But the marine here did a regression... they've gotta be almost out of fuel. There's no way they have enough left to slow down."

The XO had joined them, leaning over Verne's chair to stare at the displays. "Collision course."

"Yes, sir."

"Do we have a firing solution?"

"Uh, yes, sir," Shadid repeated. "The tolerances are ridiculously low, but we could definitely manage it."

"You want to take them out, captain?"

Eaves was still looking at the display. "Yeah? And turn an object moving at thirty kilometers a second into a cloud of debris moving that fast? We'd ablate half the goddamn hull. It's not worth it -- we'll just move out of the way. Estimate their remaining budget -- how far do we have to move to evade them?"

"Not far," Verne told her. "Forty or fifty kilometers. But, uh, if you don't mind me saying, sir, there's a different problem -- we've got a dozen ships on the way up now."

Eaves shrugged. "They'll have to wait. It'll be awkward, but they've got life support for an orbit."

"We know the separatists have surface-to-space missiles. MIM-20s, at least -- that's just what we found, but who knows what else they've got?"

Eaves, lieutenant Shadid, and the XO looked at one another for a moment. "So we sacrifice the men down there, or we lose everything..."

"Not necessarily," the XO pointed out. He was a thin-boned man, who looked to be an immigrant from the Kingdom like Hiroshi Haruki, and his dark eyes were meditative. "If we move towards them, and let them hit us... EM interference from the ship going up will make it impossible to target anything in low orbit -- at least long enough to vector the Crazy Horse over. So there's a choice, actually: give up the ship, or we get half the battalion massacred. In chess, I think they'd call this a 'fork.'"

"Yeah, somebody's forked, aren't they?" Eaves growled. "How long do we have?"

"Ten minutes and counting," Shadid told her. "The CLS-37s are already out of radio contact -- not that they really have much of a chance to abort."

"How's our readiness, Kazu?"

"Condition One-AS is set throughout the ship. The board is straight green."

"Options? What if we energized the jumpdrive, then kicked it in as soon we trapped the Strixes? Is that possible?"

Shadid ran a few calculations. "We'd have a margin of error on the order of a second and a half. It's a big gamble."

"Could we shove them out of the way, maybe? Differential hit with the lasers?"

"At this angle, laser impulse is going to be tough," a voice from further down in CIC told him. "I can hit them, but we won't have more than a minute, tops, of positive contact. And remember, there's two of them, right, sir?"

Staring at the plots before her, simple patterns were starting to emerge before the dog's eyes. "I have an idea," she said quietly, waiting to be ignored.

Eaves's voice was a curt bark: "Out with it."

"What's your excess delta-v budget? Fifteen percent over mission? Twenty?"

"Fifteen," Lieutenant Commander Davis confirmed.

"What if you waited until they couldn't compensate, then shifted into a lower orbit and picked up enough speed to make the drop twenty or thirty kilometers early? By two minutes out, there's no way they could reposition in time if they didn't know what you were planning."

Eaves chewed on her lip. "Two minutes to drop thirty k and accelerate?"

"Lot of stress on the hull," the XO warned. "I'm not sure we could accelerate that fast, anyway."

Verne gestured to her screen. "Burn the stardrive thrusters. I know we're close to a gravity field and an occupied planet, but if you run at a hundred and twenty percent you can pick up the speed in... fifteen seconds, maybe?"

"What are you, a pilot?"

"I wanted to be," she told him. "I never qualled, though."

"Helm, run the numbers. Can we drop thirty k in two minutes and pick up enough speed to meet the dropships?"

The next seconds passed in tense silence. "Yes, sir. A hundred and twenty percent for ten seconds or full military power for sixteen at forty degrees down with the dorsal thrusters full open. Air boss is gonna be unhappy, though -- we'll be damned close to exceeding tolerances on the trap."

"He'll get over it," Eaves decided. "Ready the ship for maneuvers. Davis, you have the conn -- Kazu, let's plot firing solutions. Good work, you two," the captain motioned to Shadid and Verne. "That was quick thinking."

The two attacking ships drew closer, and Verne tried to follow the heated conversations taking place through the CIC. The Kirishima stayed fixed on its course; following the XO's orders, the defense grids painted the oncoming vessels with the targeting sensors, to avoid showing their hand -- but as the seconds ticked by, Julie found that her faith in the solution she had proposed was waning quickly.

But they were committed. "Maneuvering alarm," Davis called out; a warning rang out on the 1MC, instructing everyone to brace themselves. "Helm, unlock all thrusters on my authority."

"Thruster interlocks are disengaged, aye sir."

"Disconnect the gyros and give us forty degrees down at maximum rotational speed. Dorsal thrusters open one hundred and stand by full power from the main engines."

"Gyros are uncaged. Dorsal thrusters open one hundred percent, aye sir. Hold on, everybody." She watched the helm officer tighten the straps of his harness before he pushed the controls forward and, forewarned, the dog seized the handholds at her station firmly. There was no sense of movement, at first -- and then a solid, jarring impact that sent pain shooting up her arms, as the ship's maneuvering overpowered the electromagnets that held the CIC in place and it slammed heavily against the inside of the Kirishima's hull. She tried to relax her body, just like landing the suit on a drop; the second, smaller impact a few seconds later took her by surprise anyway. "Now forty degrees down bubble."

"Main thrusters one hundred and twenty percent. Reengage the gyros and align us to intersect OAR path Tillikum."

"Ahead one-twenty, steady on OAR Tillikum, aye sir." Verne watched over her shoulder as the helmsman gripped the big throttle lever, pressing it forward until it hit its normal limit. Then he twisted it to the side, to release the safety interlock, and pushed it all the way to the final stop.

The absence of any sign of movement was eerie. Verne leaned in closer to her holographic display; the velocity indicator next to the Kirishima's icon was steadily increasing, but in the insulated CIC there was no sound or sense of inertia. Even the crew was quiet, locked intently on their stations. Commander Akiyama, the XO, had a stopwatch in his hand and was staring fixedly.

The captain had other priorities. "Do we still have a solution on those two contacts?"

"Yes, ma'am." The answer was quick; eager.

Davis cut in with a new order: "All stop main engines; maneuvering thrusters for intersection in niner-eight seconds."

Verne heard the helmsman answer in the affirmative, before Captain Eaves' voice caught her attention. "Firing point procedures, alpha battery."

"Alpha battery is powered. Gyros spun up and aligned."

"Crosscheck, MFC solution to the battery."

"MFC link established. The solution is clean."

Even in the heat of the moment, Eaves' voice was clear and cold: "Match bearings and shoot."

"Impulse return normal." Again there was no direct feedback -- only the brief appearance of the cannon rounds on Verne's display.

The first shots missed, traveling out and into eternity -- to be snared in the gravity well of some hapless bystander, a hundred million years hence. Eaves ordered another salvo; the linear cannons corrected their firing trajectories, opening up again, and this time the indicators that marked the other two ships shuddered and vanished.

"Good hit, two point eight on both targets." Twenty percent fragmentation; eighty percent vaporization -- even as dense as they were, what was left of the ships would likely burn up harmlessly in Jefferson's atmosphere.

"Davis, what's our status?"

"Minute and a half to meet the dropships, ma'am. We should clear the debris cloud with a few kilometers to spare. Damage reports are coming in now."

"Captain, Primary Flight says we are well in excess of safe closure speed." The dropships recovered on autopilot, gliding onto the flight deck that spread across the lower decks of the Kirishima until they could be secured by electromagnetic grapples, but the computers could only handle so much speed -- to say nothing of their human occupants, who were generally less tolerant of inertia.

"Davis!"

"Helm, ventral thrusters emergency!"

"Ventral thrusters open emergency, aye sir!" The maneuvering alarm sounded again, and again the CIC punched solidly into the hull below it as the ship's powerful engines fired.

The lieutenant commander was working frantically on the main holographic display, spilling orbital dynamics calculations through three-dimensional space. "Ahead fifteen, steady on course."

The answer came back as part of a sea of conversations Verne had to fight to stay on top of, as the maneuvering took its toll on the ship's systems and the delicate procedure to recover the dropships devolved into chaos. "Helm, up eleven degrees!" "Temperatures positive two sigma in the forward engine space. Crew does not answer." "Bow thrusters non-responsive, switching to gyros." "Pressure dropping forward of frame two-one -- we have an inner hull breach in progress." "Conn, forty seconds to trap." "Fire, fire, fire! There is a class C fire in the forward engine room, away the nucleus fire party!" "Helm, main engines back three-zero; roll one-zero port!" "Air boss reports all Strixes back aboard, sir!" "Damage control says power is out on the port side aft of frame one-eighty." "We have a fire on the flight deck!"

Julie's faith in the Landing Carrier Ship as an impregnable fortress was being called into question. It had responded crisply to the demands of the evasive maneuvers, but the stress on its six hundred meter length was unmistakable -- and the CLS-37 that had slid heavily into an electrical main had done nothing to improve the situation. By the time the ship was headed back for its normal orbit, the dog had the sense that the ship was still spaceworthy -- but she didn't envy the crew in the front of the ship, who had come face to face with decompression.

More terrifying still was the thought of what experiencing the battle from the platoon's general quarters stations might've been -- huddled in the dark and cut off from any sense of the world save for the blaring of the 1MC intercom and the jolts of the overwhelmed artificial gravity systems. At least in the CIC she had some sense of what was happening.

But, worryingly, not with her platoon. She knew that they had suffered casualties, and she knew that at least one dropship had failed to catch the magnetic embrace of the automated landing systems. The excitement aside -- and the sense of vague pride, at having accomplished her goal of obtaining the bridge of a capital ship -- she waited at the CIC's hatch apprehensively. When the captain finally secured from general quarters, and the locks released, she sprung for the far door that led back into the ship without even waiting for gravity to reassert itself.

*

Usher had already left by the time she made it back to the platoon's quarters; the rest of the soldiers looked more tired than harried. It had been a quick mission, and stressful. She counted faces nervously. Chris Neumann was the first to notice her arrival; he nodded to her lightly. "Hey, pup."

"How bad was it?"

"We've had worse," he said softly. "We've had better, too."

"I heard Usher say there'd been... ah..."

"Victor's dead." Chris's voice was flat and emotionless. "The new girl in Oscar's squad, too."

Her ears pinned back. "What... what happened?"

"Some guy with a machine gun. I'd asked Victor a question, and he turned around and then just... he just went down. Wasn't any way of mistaking it. Got Oscar's girl with the second shot... hit McArdle twice before we locked it in and dropped the bastard."

"The sergeant?" Her ears went back further; McArdle, especially, had always seemed invulnerable to her.

Chris nodded glumly. "Yeah. He'll be okay, though. Cracked ribs, mostly, but it bled well. I'm just glad to be back on the ship, pup. One of the other Strixes plowed into the back of the flight deck -- no injuries, thank god, but man that landing was rough. I don't know what the fuck even happened."

"It's a long story," she told him quietly. "I'm glad you're back, too."

With a weak laugh, he hugged the dog, and then let her go, shaking his head. "Look... Jules. For what it's worth, I know what you're thinking. I don't think it would've made any difference if you were there with us."

Julie lied noncommittally, and said that she supposed she agreed. In reality, she was unconcerned with the practicalities of signal processing and electromagnetic radiation -- as far as the dog was concerned, the deaths could be laid squarely at the feet of her physical failings.

In the days that followed -- McArdle returned to the platoon's space swathed in bandages and muttering gruffly at anyone who expressed sympathy -- she spent her off hours reflecting. Corporal Selam permitted her the use of her shrine, and she burned several sticks of incense at it -- eyes closed, the smoke prickling her nose uncomfortably. For hours afterword, everything she smelled was thick with the cloying scent -- but Victor was still dead, as was Greta, and nothing about contrition brought them back.

On Earth, centuries before, the dogs at the root of her lineage had been herders. The encyclopedias described her Border collie ancestors as intense, and obsessive, and she comforted herself with the notion that, had they lost a sheep to their negligence, they would no doubt be equally troubled. There was, at least, nothing she could do about that -- it was in her genes.

Forster suggested that their corporate creators had deliberately instilled a healthy sense of guilt in them, and when Julie reflected on her life it seemed a possibility -- the milestones of her existence frequently involved a nagging sense that she done something wrong. It was Victor himself who had told her to let that go, in Philip Spitzer's case; she sort of longed for his counsel again. In the dark, her eyes closed, she tried to imagine his voice.

She could not, she knew, have been the only one who felt the way she did -- or at least, if it was an emotion alien to humans, she could try to figure out why it plagued her so. Dennis Scott was sitting in the mess hall, working at his dinner, when she settled across from him. His eyebrows arched curiously. "Hey?"

"You got a minute?"

"All the time in the world," he sighed. "What's up?"

She drew circles on the tabletop with one of her claws, considering her approach. "You weren't on the mission before last -- the one with... you know, where Lieutenant Hui was killed... You weren't on that drop."

"No."

"Because you were in sickbay, still, I know -- I'm not... I wasn't... I know you weren't really trying to shirk it, or anything."

"No."

"But your section took heavy casualties."

"That's right."

Julie swallowed, a little nervous. "Did you ever feel like you should've been a part of that?"

The bowl of soup before him was only half-finished, but the spoon in his hand wavered and he set it down lightly. "I guess."

It hadn't been a very thorough answer, and she responded obliquely, continuing her earlier question. "Well... Like you... like it's not right that you weren't there? Like maybe you should be... punished for it, sort of? Or that... that being alive is sort of its own... its own punishment?"

He was no longer looking at her, his eyes downcast. "Punishment?"

"Because it's like a... it's like you're rolling a die. Sometimes your number comes up, right, and that's it? But... if you get lucky, that's just chance, right? Everyone's lucky sometimes. But what if you get out of rolling? It's almost..."

"Cheating?"

"A little."

Dennis took a deep breath, sighing heavily. "I don't know. The answer's yes, sure, dog. It's bullshit I'm still alive. Twice over on the last two ops, you know? I shoulda been on that drop where we got nuked, and I wasn't ten meters from Victor when he bought it. Then the one before that I just got winged when Gus and his whole platoon got fucked. The one before that was a cakewalk. The one before that, when Kai Etxandi died, I was inside the blast radius but behind a tree... my ears just rang for a bit." He tapped his spoon against the bowl repeatedly, and then sighed again. "The way I used to figure it was somebody had bigger plans for me -- like they really wanted to make it count. Like I'd be the guy in the book who tells the hero that he's going to marry his high school sweetheart and buys it the next day, you know? Maybe I'd even get some nice last words my dad could put on my headstone. But that's bullshit, too, dog."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. That's not how it works. Victor, fuck, it was like somebody just turned him into a doll and dropped him, just like that. Greta... she shouldn't even have been here. Shoulda been in college somewhere... I told her about the city op, showed her my stitches... like I was some, you know, some real warrior. I guess that was impressive to her or something. Well, impressive enough..."

"Enough for what?"

Dennis shot her a strange look. "What do you think, 'enough for what'? Damn it, she even fucked like somebody too innocent to know what she was doing. Guy who ambushed us got her with a snap shot, I think -- it was not, uh..." He trailed off, and then shivered. "Not a clean kill. Enzo couldn't get to her at first, 'cause we didn't know where the shots were coming from exactly, but it wouldn't have really mattered. You know what her last words were? Fuckin' nothing. Just... begging for somebody to help her. Crying."

Verne hadn't really had the chance to make Greta Baldursdottir's acquaintance -- remembering her only as the enthusiastic young woman who had cheerily revealed the depths of her naivety. We trained on the convoy over, too. "I don't even know what to say..."

"Yeah, nobody does. It was Zem who finally shot the bastard. I think she got lucky. I don't think it was really aimed at all, but... she said it was on purpose, and she said she made sure it wasn't quick. You know, like, as payback? I still don't know if I blame her for that or not."

"It shouldn't have needed to happen. Finding those things beforehand... before anybody has a chance to hurt us... that's supposed to be my job, Dennis. If I'd been there, I... well. You know..."

"Hey. Dog." She tilted her head at him. "No."

"No?"

He shook his head firmly. "No. Look... You want to be guilty because of fate, or because you don't know why bombs and bullets spare your fuzzy ass? I'm all for that. Shit, I'll even say you've got a karmic debt. You and me both. But I was there, and that shit was fucked, dog. He was behind a boulder, right between that and a rock wall. Armor, thermal suit... noise of some old damned pumping station fucking everything up... I know you think you're hot shit, dog, but you couldn't have seen anything any more than we did."

"But you don't know that. Neither of us do."

"So why guess? I wouldn't spent so much time blaming yourself for the past. It's probably more productive to think about what you'll do in the future."

"The future?"

Dennis shrugged. "Next drop. Even if you think you need to compensate for something, well, you'll have to do that in the future anyway, right?"

She was not, honestly, especially convinced, but she nodded softly. "Right."

For his part, Dennis seemed to understand some of the hollowness of what he'd said; at least, he made no attempt to expand on the thesis. When she moved to get up, though, he took a hesitant breath, and their eyes met. "Hey. Can I ask you a question this time?"

Julie sat down again, cocking her head to the side. "Of course."

"Where are you from? Originally?"

"Earth. The Free Zone."

Dennis nodded. "Did you ever meet a dog named, ah... 396E-AND?" She shook her head, and he tried again. "Anderson, maybe?"

"No. Not offhand."

"He was a black... I don't know. Wolf-looking dog. Sort of like a German shepherd."

She nodded. "Belgian, of some kind. I'm not really a biologist, but the first third of the alphabet in that series was based on Belgian shepherd stock. I didn't really see many of them around in the Free Zone -- too new; they were all out in more glamorous places. Is he a friend of yours?"

The man frowned, setting his jaw, and finally shook his head. "No. Not really. He was around the house, when I was, uh..." Dennis lowered his gaze, staring into the table. Then he took a deep breath, and started again. "So, when I was growing up, we always had a lot of dogs around the house. I mean a lot -- protos, mostly, but some production models. My dad's company gave them out as bonuses, sometimes."

"Anderson was one of them?"

"I don't know where he came from. He showed up when I was in my last year at secondary school. Private academy -- really fucking useless. I got out and just... you know, bummed around for awhile? I was kind of expecting either to be offered a position in dad's company, or, you know, to go to the university like my sisters. Just... killed time until that happened. Worked at a little Greek place doin' hoverdyne deliveries to make enough money to keep me in beer and dope. I think my dad really saw that as, like, me fucking up. That's why he said he'd only pay for uni if I joined up and put in a term here, you know? If I'd had a spine I would've told him to piss off and found my own way, but... I didn't."

"I see," she said.

"I know I sound like a, uh, a ridiculous child of privilege. It's 'cause I am," he admitted, and shook his head again. "I can't do anything about that."

"No. But so what? Privilege isn't something you escape, it's just something you learn to keep in mind, isn't it? I was always taught that an uneven playing field isn't really a bad thing -- people in positions of privilege, like the corporations or whoever, they've done something to earn that, right?"

He gave her a curious look, as though he wasn't entirely convinced of her sincerity. "Really? That's fucked up. The universe has finite resources, dog; the only way you get more than your share is if someone else gets less of theirs. Privilege is just a fancy way of saying you fucked somebody over, or somebody else fucked 'em over for you. Jesus Christ, they really do a number on you guys."

It wasn't a mystery to her, really; in some corners of the dog's mind she knew that her indoctrination was not nearly so objective as the corporation had claimed. At the same time: "They had their reasons. I may not agree with them, and I may not like the results, but I don't presume they set out to accomplish that."

"Of course they did. The only reason the Confederation hasn't legalized slavery is they're worried about the unrest -- the Kingdom gets on fine with it, and the UN. So they made another outlet -- people have beat the shit out of animals since they first domesticated them. What the fuck makes you think they had some pure motives? Fuck, dog, they custom-made you to get the shaft." Still looking at her skeptically, he took a moment to collect his thoughts. "Anyway, that was Anderson's deal. He was a bookkeeper for my dad -- my dad's favorite dog. Actually I always kind of thought my dad liked his dogs better than he liked his kids."

"That seems unlikely."

"You never met my dad." Dennis laughed, a bitter sound in which Julie's sensitive ears caught the echoes of birthday parties missed on business trips, and dinners delayed into meaninglessness by late nights in busy offices. "They did exactly what they were told, and they didn't try to buck the system, or... whatever, I don't know. I really don't think he'd be happy about you. My dad, he wants everything just one way, you know? Like, you dogs are trustworthy because you're never going to do something stupid like... join the goddamned armed service, where you don't fucking belong."

"It's a debatable point, isn't it?" she said, softly. She and Dennis were not, entirely, on the best of terms -- so far as she knew -- and now it was her turn to wonder whether or not he was being serious.

"Of course. You're doing a better job here than I am. My dad doesn't see it that way, though. When the dogs did something wrong, it was always just 'cause they were dogs. When we did something wrong, it was like... we were insulting his ability to raise kids. Me especially -- every little thing I did, like, if I didn't park exactly in the right space when I got back from work, he'd just let me have it. Or if he caught me putting my delivery uniform in with the rest of the regular wash, rather than doing it myself, or anything like that? I guess he figured he was a self-made man and I was damned well going to follow in his footsteps if I didn't want to be disowned."

"I see," she said again. It was not the first time that the dog had heard mention of the complexities of human familial relationships. She was never really certain how to parse this knowledge; probably, she had no biological parents, but even if she had they had long since been separated from her. Her family had been the corporate barracks, and her instructors, and the other dogs that taught her Nakath and provided a sort of support network.

"Well, anyway. Anderson was my dad's favorite. He even used to talk about him that way -- like he'd ask me why I couldn't be as good at anything as the fucking dog was. Well, I wasn't fucking bred for it, now was I? Not my fault. One day, I just... I guess I decided to get my revenge, after a fashion. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Revenge?"

Dennis shrugged noncommittally. "You know. Teach my dad a lesson. I don't even remember -- I was hungover, and pissed off... think my dad said he was going to have my hoverdyne impounded if I didn't stop parking it at the house instead of down the street where the neighbors couldn't see. Anderson was working on something, and I started bothering him. Making fun of the way he smelled, or him being a dog, or... whatever. He told me to leave him alone, and I didn't, of course, and eventually he snapped and came after me. I put up my hand to protect myself, and..." Dennis held up his right hand; a deep scar crossed most of the palm. "Then he decked me, and I woke up in the hospital."

"Was your hand okay?"

"I mean, it hurt, but it wasn't all that deep. I told my dad the truth, that it was my fault. He said at least I'd been willing to own up to it, but... you know, he couldn't have a twitchy dog around the house. So he... you know, he said he was going to have him transferred to the Valley. That's why I asked if you knew him."

The directive against harming human beings was coded deep in a dog's brain. It was not a criminal act, per se, to strike a person -- but most dogs were owned property, and destructive property was a liability. "I didn't know any dog by that name, specifically. As I said, though, the 396 series was too new for the Valley when I was there. New lines tend to get more prestigious work, where office guys can show them off."

"Yeah. I mean, the Free Zone is big, though; he could've been posted somewhere else."

Verne wasn't entirely certain how to respond. Dennis could, presumably, have found out what had happened to the dog if he'd wanted. 396E-AND had almost certainly been euthanized. "Perhaps. I don't know. Violence is a pretty big black mark for a corporate dog to have on his record. It really limits their opportunities."

"I know." Dennis's voice was quiet, and haunted enough that Julie suspected he had a good inclination as to what had probably happened. "If I could take back what I did, I would in a heartbeat. I just... can't. It's what I said about living in the past, right?" He sounded hopeful, looking for absolution she couldn't really give. "I joined up the day after I got out of the hospital. Partly I needed to change up something in my life; partly I couldn't stand having my dad not be willing to look at me."

"Has it helped?"

"Well, he answers my letters, at least. I don't know that we're on great terms, yet. I don't like dogs as much as he does, still. I actually..." Dennis looked directly at Verne for a second or two, and then sighed. "I mean. Don't take it personally, I just... I don't really like dogs much at all. The two-legged kind, at least."

"I don't take it personally," she said. "Just something to remember, I guess."

"Well, that's what you are, for me. Selfishly," he admitted. "Reminder of what I'm not, for my dad. Reminder of everything I've done to fuck up. Yeah. I thought I could get away from genetically engineered creatures by joining up. When you showed up, it was like getting kicked in the ribs. I know you aren't playing the martyr or anything, but just... it's a little grating, I guess, how selfless you dogs always are. Just looking to please. You didn't learn that from us, that's for sure. I guess that's what I meant when I yelled at you in sickbay. You're a dog; I don't like dogs. But you're also... just some dumb fuck like me, here 'cause you thought it would impress somebody, and you won't ever really matter to them. Or... why did you sign up?"

The dog's ears twitched, but she found that it wasn't as hard to answer as she might've feared: "No. You're right. I didn't have to. I can't become a citizen even if I complete my service, because of the limits in the Incorporation Treaty. I wanted to fly ships. When they told me I wouldn't be able to, I could've walked, yeah. I probably could've made decent money as a freelancer. I joined anyway, because I thought that if I did, people would respect me." She smiled, very slightly; it was not the first time she had had such thoughts, but admitting them to someone else gave them an inescapable form.

"They do, don't they?"

"Yes."

"So you got what you wanted?"

Julie paused a beat, glancing to the insignia on her uniform. "I'm not sure."

"You're not sure because you wanted more out of it. I know that. I did too. You get to thinking that the respect is what matters -- for you, I guess it's in general. For me it's my dad, and people like him. But I don't think that's what counts, anymore."

"Then what does?"

Dennis stuck out his lower jaw, chewing on his lip while he tried to consider his words. "Well, you treat respect like validation -- like it's people telling you that you made the right choice. But if it's the choice they wanted in the first place, what good is that? So I'm coming to think the important thing is figuring out how to define yourself. People will respect that, or they won't, but at least it's genuine, right? So I guess that's the question: who are you, dog?"

Now, finally, her ears drew back by a few degrees. "Well..."

"Maybe you don't have an answer. I don't have an answer for myself. It's not something you're going to think up talking with some asshole like me, that's for sure. But I just... I don't know. You gotta figure it out. I think that's when you know you've come to happiness. You look at where you're at, and you know it's because you want to be there. Not anybody else."

"Yeah."

"For me, it's not this damned outfit. It might not be for you, either. But maybe it is. Maybe this is where you really want to be -- not 'cause people will like you for it, but because you're good at it, and because it... I don't know. It's where you belong."

"I sometimes think I made the wrong choice."

"Well, you made it for the wrong reasons, at least. But that doesn't mean it wasn't the right thing to do. And I don't believe in god, or gods, or faith, or anything of that bullshit -- I don't think anybody was guiding your hand from above. I'm just saying, I know your life isn't perfect. But that doesn't mean you need to start from scratch, you know?"

*

She spent most of the following day, which the platoon had been granted as leave, up on the observation deck. At its furthest point to port the view was dominated by the planet below them; to starboard, the universe stretched off forever.

Seeing this, Chris Neumann had once quoted to her Fontanelle's Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds, that tome from Earth's 17th century that proclaimed to its readers the notion that Earth was not the totality of existence, nor even the center. Your universe, protested the book's young marquise, the voice of innocence, is so large that I lose myself. I don't know where I am; I am nothing.

"But for me," Neumann had echoed the words of the philosophical narrator, "I am at ease. When the sky was nothing but a blue ceiling, with the stars nailed in place on it, the universe was so small, and oppressive. Now that ceiling is so much more immense, and I feel at last that I can breathe freely, beneath far grander skies..."

Now, looking into the blackness by herself, Verne was not certain what point of view she held. If Dennis was right, and the task at hand was to define herself, then the possibilities were immense, and indeed she did feel lost, so overwhelmed that she had to grasp the edge of a chair on the observation deck to steady herself, even though the ship's deck was motionless.

What did it even mean?

Julie was not given to introspection by nature, if for no other reason than it had not, in the past, ever amounted to much of anything -- a consequence of her limited self-determination.

"That's part of the answer," Forster said. "We're not supposed to think about our place in the universe too long, Runshana -- or we might get antsy. Start wanting things. Like the vote."

"Would you vote?"

The shepherd shrugged, his big ears wavering. "I don't know. It's the principle of the thing, though. Humans have the expectation that we'll be docile -- it's our responsibility to challenge that."

She leaned back, and looked at the dog thoughtfully. "You have a lot of problems with people, Hakhana. But you're here, aren't you? There are a few Moreau colonies, aren't there? Even in some of the major systems. But you're content to stay within the... what did you call it, a few days ago? The anthropic sphere?"

"Because it's our galaxy just as much as it's theirs. Nakath like you or I, Runshana -- the awakened ones? The rebels? I'm sure that they'd love us to leave. Wouldn't it be nice for them, if we went into exile? If we weren't here to act as examples of what you can achieve when you're no longer a slave?"

"So even if you're still working for them..."

Forster nodded, his long muzzle dipping sharply. "That I'm still working for them doesn't mean I'm not choosing to forge my own destiny. That's what matters, at the end of the day -- our destiny is ours. I choose to be here."

"It's a very human way of thinking," she pointed out. Indeed, that sentiment had been written on a poem in the mess hall at Io Station, where she'd undergone her C&S training. Many Moreaus, by contrast, saw nothing terribly objectionable in predestination -- content to experience the life they had been given, rather than believing they were forging their own way.

"It shouldn't be a surprise. Our paths are intertwined, Runshana -- the human race and ours. But that doesn't make us their inferiors, and it doesn't mean that we're to be shackled to them. Perhaps it should even be the other way around: perhaps they have, without knowing or meaning it, created us to lead them."

Julie was unconvinced; she cocked her head, fixing the shepherd in skeptical eyes. "They have a strange way of showing that."

"Like I said: maybe they don't know it yet. But think about it, Runshana: where do they say you came from? Your genetic ancestry?"

"Dogs. Quadrupeds, chasing squirrels and rummaging through trash bins." She was familiar with the tenets of Moreau supremacy, and the anthropomorphism had always seemed to her something of a whitewash. "Our genetic ancestry begged for scraps around a human fire pit."

"Originally," Forster admitted. "But think a few millennia later. You and I come from lines of shepherding dogs, Runshana. We were bred to protect the flock -- not to dominate our charges, but to keep them safe from harm."

"Sheepdogs still answer to a shepherd," she pointed out to him. "They just beg for scraps from him instead."

"Maybe. There's always a pack leader, of course -- there has to be. Answer me honestly, though: where would your platoon be without you? Better, or worse?"

The dog, like most of her kind, was not afflicted by modesty; it was not a sense of humility that stayed her hand and bid her pause, reflecting, deep in thought. "On our last drop, they couldn't take me with them," she said finally, her voice soft. "Two of them died. They said it was unavoidable, but... but I'm pretty sure I could've prevented it."

"Of course you could've," Forster declared, and leaned back in his chair as though he had decisively proven a point. "You're responsible for them, aren't you? Not in the way that you're responsible for some task, reporting to a foreman somewhere -- in the way of any other shepherd. Someone has to keep the wolves at bay, Runshana."

"You think that's me?"

"Doesn't it seem to be?"

After he had left, she stayed in the observation lounge, watching the planet below them brighten, and glow, and then fade into darkness again. She felt as though the blackness all around marked the edge of a precipice -- that one misstep might send her off the edge. But perhaps that was what she needed. She leaned forward, until her wet nose was almost pressed against the glass, and strained her eyes to look for patterns in the cold gaze of the stars.

"Somebody told me I'd find you here."

She spun around, and straightened up quickly. "Hello, sir."

"At ease," Usher smiled, and stood next to her, looking for a moment into the same abyss. Then he turned. "How are you doing?"

"I'm alright, sir, thank you."

"I just came out of another briefing," he said. "Secret -- I would've taken you with, but it was just the platoon leaders. I think this is it, sergeant. They think that things are coming to a head -- the separatists are planning on declaring independence from the government in the east. So they're putting the division on this one -- raids on suspected depots, arrests... there's a transmitter on the surface they want us to shut down. It normally uplinks to the local satellites, but if they boosted the power enough they could get a signal to one of the relays in the asteroid belt -- limited window of opportunity, but they'd be able to broadcast a declaration of independence to the entire galaxy. It'd look bad for us if we let 'em indulge in so much free speech all at once."

"Naturally, sir."

He chuckled, and held up a thin computer so that she could see it. "Here's the map. Would be good to get a read on what to expect. It's another class five operation. You'll be posted to CIC again -- Eaves had good things to say about you, anyhow."

Julie froze, and her ears went back. "Sir, I can't support a complex operation from the ship. There's too much information lost."

"We don't have a whole lot of choice. It was a hell of an unpleasant drop, sergeant -- hell of an unpleasant recovery, too. You don't have the equipment for it."

She swallowed heavily, shaking her head for emphasis. "It doesn't matter, sir. Discomfort is just something you have to deal with -- where is this operation?"

"Lincoln City again. Downtown area."

"All those buildings, sir? All those windows with all those reflections? All those places for a sniper to hide? Or an IED? I've trained for this, sir -- but I need to be on the ground. I need to be able to see what you guys are seeing or I'm next to bloody useless."

Usher met her eyes cleanly -- he was one of the few who had never seemed particularly bothered by her clear, icy gaze. "I know that it introduces some complexities, Sergeant Verne. But risking your life over it? I'm not willing to do that..."

"But I am. Sir," she said, pleadingly. "I have to be there."

He looked at her for a long time, grey eyes searching her face. "I don't know, sergeant. What did the doctor say?"

"The doctor, sir?"

"When you filed for an exemption to the drop rules. I won't have a chance to look over the paperwork before we leave -- real busy, you know. But I'll take your word for it."

Usher had specifically instructed her not to seek such an exemption; it took a moment for her to apprehend his meaning. "Oh," she said, finally. "I thought I'd handed it to you directly. I'm cleared for this op, if I indemnify CODA for any damages."

"And do you?"

"Of course."

The lieutenant laughed, and shook his head slowly. "You're a strange one, sergeant. You know, when most people get a reprieve they don't march down to the executioner to file a protest."

"I'm not most people."

"Fair enough," he said. "I'm not convinced, I have to tell you -- but I'll think about it."

"Alright," she sighed, and then tried again: "yes, sir."

"I think this will be good for us, anyway, Sergeant Verne. From what I'm hearing. Our platoon was picked for the transmitter because we've done well -- got a good record. Some of the right people are finally starting to take notice of what we've been up to."

"That's good, isn't it?"

He nodded, and by the look of his smile seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to hold something back. "Captain Freeman says that, ah, if the operation is a success, he has an open invitation to take over as battalion XO for Major Margary. They'd be looking for somebody to take over command of the company."

Her ears pricked up curiously, and she canted her head lightly. "Oh? Will you put in for it, sir?"

"I wouldn't have to, if I wanted it. Even though I've got my own issues," he laughed ruefully, and glanced downward at the tattoo on his hand. "The platoon's performed well, and I don't think anybody would really protest -- Freeman will want some consistency in the men he works with, and he doesn't have anybody else to recommend."

"Well, congratulations," the dog offered. "It seems like a really nice step up for you."

"I'd like to think it would be," Usher said. "It'd be strange, leaving the platoon behind -- been a long time, working with some of those guys. And a bit tough, trying to find my replacement."

Julie nodded; she was slightly apprehensive, for Usher had treated her quite well. "I trust your ability, sir; I'm sure we'll work just as well with whoever replaces you."

"I'd like to promote from within the platoon, honestly, but... it's always a question of finding the right people. Jim's happy where he's at -- he's got more than enough money to buy another rank, or a commission, but he never has. You know he owns almost ten percent of, uh, what is it, the Corona Courier Service? It's an FTL packet service out of McKinley. Hell, he could probably retire on that, if he wanted to."

"I didn't know that, no. He's very reserved about his private life, at least to me."

"He's that way with everyone, don't worry. Either way, it doesn't matter -- be such a step down for him, you know? I don't think I could talk Mayer or Haruki into it, either. They've not no reason to move." He trailed off, clicking his tongue a few times. "Have you ever considered applying for a commission?"

"No, sir."

"It's a four-month course, I think, for people being moved from the enlisted ranks. Not terribly easy, but I'm sure you'd be able to handle it -- I mean, you're new, yes, but you have a degree, don't you? Don't all you Moreaus have nominal degrees in something?"

"I have a BS in integrated systems design, yes, sir. But the diploma is still owned by IBM -- I never bought it back. I didn't have a reason to -- anyway, don't all commissions have to be signed by the board? Or at least the Chief Defense Officer?"

"Yeah, CODA has the board sign off on the commissions. But so what? You'd make the cut. If you didn't, just grease some palms."

The dog looked away from him, out at the stars once more. "I'm not entirely certain about that. I'm still coming to grips with everything else about this. I'm not sure how ready I am for... authority."

Usher chuckled, and turned as well, so that they were both facing the window. She saw his smile in the reflection of the immaculate glass. "Captain Eaves said you were pretty authoritative."

"I was in my element, sir."

"Well. Elements are made, sergeant -- you're not born to one. You'd be in a hell of a lot better shape than a lot of the applicants they get -- kids right out of college, washouts like me. We'd miss you on the line, sure, 'til you got back -- but you're not just a tool, you know?"

"I don't know. I had a talk with Dennis, actually, of all people. About... you know, my future. Or anybody's future, really. I guess I'm never sure what's supposed to come next for me."

"Nobody is. Why should you get special privilege, sergeant?" When she didn't answer, he turned, his gaze making a long sweep of the observation lounge and its windows. His voice darkened, and he seemed to be speaking as much to her as he was to the cold depths of space. "Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced, nor cried aloud; under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloodied -- but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade; and yet, the menace of the years finds -- and shall find -- me unafraid."

He paused, and before he could resume she spoke. Her voice was surer than she had expected. "It matters not how strait the gate; how charged with punishment the scroll: I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul."

Usher turned to her. "I didn't know you were a fan."

"The Gurkhas were. It's one of only two poems I know -- the other is in dog, and it's about springtime. I preferred the English one."

"Because you agree with it?"

"Perhaps."

He nodded, then took a deep breath and stepped back from the window. "Well, I tell you what. I don't know whether this is what you want to do, or where you want to end up. But I'm sure we can find a sponsor -- hell, maybe even Captain Eaves. And the CODA Board won't care if they get their money. Just think about it, alright?"

"Yes, sir."

"And don't let it keep you up, either. You need your rest."

"Sir?"

"You've got a drop to get ready for," he told her, with a gruff, fatherly solemnity. "1300 ship's time, tomorrow."

*

She completed her preparations in studious silence, checking every bit of her gear with the eye of a master craftsman furnishing attention on their tools. She felt some ownership of them -- realigning the sensors in minute tweaks that amount to no practical significance, and did little but reinforce her attachment to the equipment.

Then, to clear her head, she made her way down to the maintenance room on the outer hull. It was empty, and she could lean back, closing her eyes so that there was very nearly no sensation at all. From a distance she heard the hatch spin open, and drew herself into a seated position, expectantly.

"This is where we first met, isn't it?" Christopher Neumann asked.

She nodded. "It was."

He took a seat next to her, and when she leaned against his side he put an arm around the dog, holding her gently. "Seems like a long time ago."

She nodded again, so that her muzzle rubbed against his side. "Just a couple months."

"I hear you're coming with us on the drop."

"Yeah. Usher wasn't real thrilled, but I told him that I had to go."

"High drop class, though. Are you nervous?"

When she took a moment to think about it, the dog had to conclude that she was not -- not really. "A little," she demurred. "Don't know what it'll be like, yet."

Chris's arm drew her closer, and she snuggled up comfortably next to his side. "I keep hoping that it'll get easier," he said, his voice low. "It never seems to."

Julie turned, looking up at him. His face looked worn, and tired, and suddenly things began to fall into place. Being a shepherd, if that was what she was to be, was not merely about the work -- not about the technical details of signal processing or computer programming. It was about being resolute when challenged by predators -- about being steadfast in the face of adversity. She would have to be strong for him...

"I get to thinking I picked the wrong career path," Chris continued. "It's good for the scholarships, and the work experience on your résumé, but I think I could've done without that. Maybe I would've had to work a couple jobs through college, but at least..."

He trailed off, and Julie turned to the man, wrapping her fuzzy arms around him and pulling herself up so that she could lick his chin. "'At least' nothing," she said. "You don't get much out of thinking like that."

"Maybe," he said. His hands rested comfortably on the dog's sides, and she wriggled closer to flatten herself against his body. "It just starts wearing on me, thinking that any day might... you know, be the one."

Julie nodded, so close to his face that her whiskers ticked him and he was forced to smile at her. "Doesn't that mean you have to make the most out of every moment, then?"

She had settled down his lap, to get comfortable, and she felt the grip of his arms around her tightening. "I guess," he admitted; his smile hadn't entirely faded, and he leaned down a few centimeters to give the dog a kiss.

It was easier for him than for her to initiate such things, because of the somewhat awkward shape of her muzzle -- so she waited, until he did it again, and she tilted her head to deepen the heated contact.

His hands slid lower, as he stroked her from the small of her back down to the hem of her slacks, and she heard herself making little encouraging sounds that melted into the kiss like raindrops fading into a pond, the ripples forcing her closer, into him.

They didn't have much time; the room was not an unpopular place and the longer they stayed the greater the chances of discovery. She thought she might have to tell him this, but after a moment he rolled her to the side, and in the newly found free space between their bodies his fingers grasped for the magnetic clasp of her pants, and the zipper below them.

Then he was kissing her again, with a growing hunger, and she felt him tug her pants down. Her knickers followed, but the clothing seemed to trap her movements and, with an irritated growl, she gave a quick kick that sent them into an ungainly heap.

Julie's ears caught the sound of Chris's own zipper unfastening, and fabric sliding over bare skin. Then he took her in his arms, guiding her to rest on her back. He pressed up against her, between her legs, and she parted them for him with a breathy sigh that deepened into a shuddering moan as the tip of his rigid erection nudged and bumped against her thigh.

He pushed into her smoothly, and the dog's eyes closed as she felt the thick, pulsing warmth of the man's length sliding deeply into her body. When hips were touching hers, and he had stopped moving, she looked at him again; the worry that had lined his face had been replaced by something deeper, and far more wonderful.

"Ah, Jules," he groaned to her, and she licked his chin again -- until she had to stop, with the little jolts of pleasure that spilled through her as he drew his hips back slowly, his shaft tugging at her walls. He rocked himself back inside her with a greater sureness, and each of his following thrusts started to build in speed and power.

She arched her back to help him, trying to draw him deeper, and her arms intertwined behind his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex and tighten in his strong body. She hooked one of her legs about him, pulling him into her, trying to keep him buried deep inside -- to stave off the aching emptiness she felt each time he pulled away from her.

Chris was moving quickly now, his hips rolling against hers in powerful thrusts; each time he slipped inside her it was though she was being pushed towards the edge, towards some place of crashing surf and overwhelming bliss. "Yes, Chris!" she cried out in a cooing moan. "Yes, my darling, take me..."

His heated gasping was wordless and giddy; the fevered, driving thrusts of his hips were starting to become shaky. Then she murmured to him again, in the depths of her passion -- urging him on, aching for his release. He grunted deeply, bucking in the enfolding grip of her limbs a few more times until he shivered, his muscles locking up. He was buried inside her to the hilt, and she felt the warmth of his essence spilling into her in quick, hot pulses.

When his peak had run its course, and he was slumped heavily against her, his hand sought out her paw, and with fingers intertwined he squeezed it tightly. "Jules?"

"Mm?" she asked, weakly.

"I love you." His voice was still broken by his gentle panting, but the fervent sincerity was unmistakable. She canted her head, her floppy ears pricking up -- and he laughed, propping himself up on an elbow to give her a bit more room. "I do. I love you, pup."

She nosed up at him, lightly. Nobody had ever said such a thing to her, and the dog was not quite sure how to respond, at first -- not when she, like Chris, was still consumed by the ebbing warmth of shared emotion. "I... I don't know what..."

Chris leaned down quickly, kissing the wet tip of her nose. He seemed to have apprehended her bewilderment; the touch of his lips was warm, and comforting. "It's okay. I just wanted you to know that, that's all."

It seemed to her, though, that it was not such a terrible thing. Chris had been there for her since the beginning -- long past the point at which she could doubt the truth of his feelings. And what was it that he himself had said? You take advantage of every damn opportunity you have, 'cause you don't know when it's coming back.

What room did a shepherd have for self-doubt? She smiled up at the man, her tail thumping lightly against the cool metal floor. Then she hugged him tightly, pulling him down to her, so that her nose was pressed up against the curve of his ear. Her voice was soft, but unmistakably clear:

"I love you, too."