Mark gently tapped at the window glass. "If they could break the windshield, they can certainly break this." He looked down at the phone. "No service? That's odd." He flipped the phone closed. "Probably interference from the dogs' transceivers. Damn it!" He ran to a computer. "I only hope we still have Internet service." He brought up a browser. "Should have. We've got a direct line of sight antenna." He clicked on a bookmark and sighed with relief. "We've got it. I'll Google for the sheriff's department and send them an e-mail. I really hope they're compulsive about reading their e-mail."
"I'm not sure we can hold out that long," said Claire softly, with a tremor in her voice.
Mark looked up from the monitor. Outside, he saw dogs pushing the rock toward the window. "Don't worry," he said, hoping his voice wouldn't betray him. "The wall is sheer. They won't be able to get the rock high enough to do any damage."
Mark, hoping the dogs would give up, scarcely dared to breathe as he watched the dogs push the rock up close to the window, then move back and stand as if thinking. All at once, they started digging again—gathering soil and piling it under the window, making a ledge.
"It's amazing how fast twenty-five dogs can pull up dirt," said Claire calmly. But the quaver in her voice revealed her anxiety.
"Yeah," said Mark under his breath. "It won't take them long." Knowing it was futile, he pulled up the keyboard and began a search for the sheriff's department. He'd barely tapped a few keys when he stopped with an idea. "The dogs. Their transceivers are jamming my cell phone," he said.
Claire looked at him as if he'd suddenly lost his mind.
"Well," he said, "maybe we can jam the dogs." He ran around to the back of the computer. "Ha. We're in luck. It's a quick release case—no screws." He flipped some latches and removed the computer's case.
"What are you doing?" said Claire. "And do you think it's a good idea doing it with the power on?"
"See if you can find some wire—coat hangers or something. Long and conductive. Anything."
"What!"
"For an antenna." Mark rushed to the other computer and switched it on as well. "Without their cases, computers produce a ton of RF radiation."
"Are you—" Claire began.
"Please," Mark insisted. He threw a glance at the dogs. "We don't have much time."
"Will an extension cord do?"
"What?" Mark followed her gaze toward the ten-foot cord between the hotplate and the wall. "Perfect! And do you by chance have a scissors in your bag?" Again, he glanced at the dogs. Their earthwork looked close to complete. "I'll use my teeth, if necessary."
Claire fetched the cord and withdrew a nail-clipper from her bag. "Best I can offer," she said, handing it over.
"Excellent!" Mark grabbed the clippers and used it to nibble the plug and sockets free of the extension cord. Then he separated the 16-parallel wire into two lengths and stripped an end on each to expose two or three inches of bare copper. "You don't have any Band-aids, do you?" he said as he worked.
"No. Did you hurt yourself?"
"I would have used them to tape down the wire. But..." Mark threaded the bare wire around the cooling fins of the heat sink. "Damn, this thing is hot." Gingerly, he stretched out the wire horizontally, weighing down the end with a book. "Turn on the radio," he said as he rushed to repeat the process on the other computer.
"The radio?"
"Turn it on!" Mark concentrated on his work. "If we hear static, it'll show this is working."
"It's not plugged in."
"Then plug it in!" Mark regretted the harsh tone of his voice. "Please."
Claire moved the radio close to the wall socket, plugged it in, and flipped it on. She scanned for a station—and found one. But over the country and western music, there was static.
"I hope that static's because of the computers," said Mark, "and not just because we're out of range of the transmitter."
Claire pointed out the window. "Take a look."
Still, the dogs dug, but their actions were less coordinated than previously. They seemed more at play than in concentration.
"It's working!" Mark hollered, his arm raised in victory. "The dogs are defocusing."
But, as the dogs ran haphazardly, they apparently reached a point beyond the range of the jamming signal. Slowly, over the course of the next five minutes, the dogs, one by one, reassembled into a compact group near the outer gate some twenty yards from the window. The dog-entity gradually formed anew.
"Stalemate," said Mark, staring at the pack.
"What'll we do now?" said Claire.
"Well, despite the RF noise, the computers still work. Now, I'll try to raise the State Police by e-mail. We've got some time." He switched off the radio.
"Do you think we could get to the car?"
"The car?" Mark glanced at the car, then at the pack, and then at the outer gate. "Yeah. I think so." He paused. "But it might be a little tricky getting the gate open; I wouldn't want to get out of the car."
"We could drive along the fence, open the latch, then circle around and push open the gate with the car." Claire scrunched her shoulders. "That would be better than just staying here, waiting."
"Okay." Mark took a deep breath. "But if the car stalls, we're toast."
Claire looked down at her feet and slowly shook her head. "We'd better wait for the police."
Just as she'd finished speaking, silence and a dullness came over the observation shack. "Damn!" said Mark, casting a frantic glance at the dark computer monitors. "The generator. Out of gas."
"Look," cried Claire, pointing out the window. The pack was inching back toward the cabin.
Mark looked desperately around for something to use as a weapon. His gaze fell on his laptop. He rushed to it and switched it on. "God, I hate to do this." He turned to Claire. "I need your nail clippers again."
"On the table. Why?"
"I'm going to try to cut away the case." Mark flipped over the laptop and ran a fingernail along its seam, "And pull off the RF shield and connect an antenna."
She handed over the clippers. "Can that little laptop do it?"
"It should be good for a couple of feet—I hope." He started nibbling away at the case. "Then we'll make a run for the car. Hopefully, this gadget will act as a dog repellant."
"The car?" Claire's voice sounded fearful. "Do you think we'll..."
"We'll be fine," said Mark, hoping his voice wouldn't expose his uncertainty. With his head, he gestured toward one of the desktop machines. "Could you get me one of the antennas?"
Five minutes later, Mark had converted his laptop computer into what he prayed was a radio jamming device.
"This should work," said Mark, throwing a longing glance to the dead radio.
Claire started to say something, but didn't.
Mark sighed. "Sorry, but there's no way to test it." He carried the laptop, antenna trailing on the floor, toward the door. "Car keys ready?"
Claire nodded.
"Okay." Mark positioned the laptop so he could carry it under one arm. "When you open the door, I'll lead the way. Run like crazy—and scream and shout. It might confuse the dogs." Looking into Claire's frightened eyes, he paused. "Look. We're going to make it," he said softly. Claire smiled, but it looked labored.
"Okay," said Mark. "At the car, we'll split—you to the driver's side and I'll go to the other side. Ready?"
"Ready."
"Go!"
Claire flung open the door and, screaming like banshees, they ran for the car. The dogs in front scattered out of their way and then chased after, but kept a foot or two behind. As Mark, with averted eyes, leapt over the bloody gristle that had once been Professor Weiler, the antenna fell off. A Jack Russell Terrier snapped it from the ground and shook it in his jaws as if trying to kill a snake.
With a thunderous bark, the dogs drew in close, snapping at their heels. Mark yanked open the car door. He jumped into the passenger seat and kicked out at a dog, Killer. The Pit Bull darted to the side, givin
g Mark the clearance he needed. He slammed the door, then glanced over and saw that Claire had made it as well. "Okay. Get us out of here!"
She jammed the key in the ignition and the starter revved—but the car didn't start.
Three dogs leapt to the hood and jumped for the shattered windshield. A further four or five dogs followed behind them. Kicking and poking at them with his laptop, Mark fended them off.
"Claire, please. I can't hold them off much longer!"
"I know. I know." She revved the starter again, and then again.
"Hurry!"
On the fifth try, the car started. Claire threw the car in reverse and some of the dogs fell off.
"Terrific!" shouted Mark, fighting with hands and feet to keep the few remaining dogs at bay. "Now, forward, pedal to the floor. Let's get out of here!"
"But the latch."
"Forget it!" said Mark. "Drive at the gate. The latch'll break." He batted the laptop at a Springer Spaniel. "It had better," he added under his breath.
At the impact of the car hitting the gate, Mark lurched forward, almost hitting the spaniel with his head. But the dog, scrambling to regain its footing, was too busy to bite.
There came a loud snap and the gate flew open. Narrowly skirting Weiler's fancy sports car, Claire sped away. The remaining dogs jumped or fell off.
"Oh my gosh," said Mark, breathlessly. "I really thought we'd had it."
"They're chasing us," said Claire, looking in the side mirror. Her hair fluttered wildly from the absence of a windshield.
We must catch the car. We must kill the humans. Kill the... the tall animals. Why? Many words are going. The Killer-bit of the pack is fading. Knowledge and understanding are fading. Pack is dissolving. Smell of dogs—other dogs. I am a dog. I?
Forest smells. Good smells. Must catch tall masters. Love to run. Love tall master.
Mark, breathing easier now, snapped on his seat belt—the car moved very unpredictably—and looked back. "Now they're dogs doing what dogs do." The clump of the pack became more a line as the faster dogs outpaced the slower, the sight-hounds in front and scent-hounds behind. Beauregard the Bloodhound plodded in the rear, his nose mere inches above the tire tracks.
As he listened to the barking of the pack, Mark wondered if a particular car's tire had a unique smell. Then, it registered.
"Wait!" he shouted. Slow down!"
"What? Are you nuts?"
"Listen," said Mark. "The dogs are barking."
"You are nuts."
"But they're not barking in unison. They're running full out. They're not clumped together anymore. They're getting out of range of each other."
"So you want me to slow down so they can become superdog again?"
"Dogs love to run, especially Greyhounds." He pointed. "It's Earl. He's way in front. Slow down so he can catch up."
Claire didn't answer.
"It's Earl. He's out of range. He's my dog again. Please."
Claire sighed. "I hope you're right." She brought the car down to about thirty miles an hour. As Earl drew close, Mark opened the door, bracing it with his foot against the wind. Earl leaped in. Claire, watching the dog, nearly drove off the road.
Mark grabbed the dog to keep it from falling out the door due to the car's erratic motion. Earl turned and licked Mark's face. "Thank God," said Mark.
Claire regained control of the vehicle and sped up to sixty; the pack grew small in the distance, soon becoming obscured by the dust kicked up on the dirt road. "You do know," said Claire, "that if the pack ever sneaks up close to Earl, he'll likely rip you to shreds."
"Well, I'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen," said Mark, feigning a confidence he wished he had.
Earl twisted and licked Claire on the cheek. "That's Claire," said Mark. "She's nice. I like her." He glanced at Claire. "Very, very much. Rowf."
Claire smiled. "Okay," she said. "Where to now?"
"State Police. Turn left at Ringwood." Mark grew serious. "There's a new beast in the woods. A savage, intelligent killer." He leaned in to his Greyhound. "And we've got to keep it well away from you—at least until we get that nodule removed."
"I wonder," said Claire, "how much of the savagery is due to Professor Weiler's influence—or Killer's, which comes to the same thing."
"I couldn't ever understand that guy," said Mark, staring vacantly out the window. "Dog people are, well... good people."
"Strindberg didn't think so," said Claire. "He said, 'I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven't got the guts to bite people themselves.'"
"Well, I guess that didn't apply to... to Professor Weiler," said Mark. "That's one thing we can say for him." He gazed ahead through the jagged outline of the windshield, quiet with his thoughts. Claire remained quiet as well. Even Earl seemed to be in a reflective mood. At length, when the State Police barracks came into view, Claire broke the silence. "God," she said, softly. "I hope we can make them believe us."
"We've got to."
* * *
Between dog and wolf, as the Romans called dusk, that time when color fades to grey, Mark took Earl for a walk. Claire had stayed in the barracks playing chess with the desk sergeant. It would be at least another half-hour before the police car would return from the dog habitat. By badgering and cajoling, Mark and Claire had persuaded the Sergeant to send a car out to investigate. They'd been asked go along, but refused, agreeing instead to wait at the barracks.
Walking in the dark parking lot with Earl padding in front of him, Mark stared at two parked police cars—mechanical twins. He wondered if Earl could tell them apart by scent. And if not Earl, could Beauregard?
Thinking back to his escape, Mark shivered at the mental image of the dogs chasing after their car. He visualized the Bloodhound lumbering steadily along, its nose to the ground, pursuing the tire tracks like a caboose following a train. Mark glanced over at Claire's car. A cool breeze came up and again Mark shivered—but not from the breeze.
In mid stride, Earl froze. Slowly, he turned his muzzle toward the wild thicket bordering the parking lot.
Mark took a step toward the dog, then slowly retreated a few paces. "Earl," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "What's the matter, boy?"
* * *
A bibliography of Carl Frederick's short fiction may be found at The Internet Speculative Fiction Database. http://www.isfdb.org/cgi-bin/index.cgi
Free Space
Written by Carrie Vaughn
Illustrated by Laura Givens
"Control, what does this look like to you?"
Hart moved closer to the diagnostic monitor to be sure her helmet camera picked up the details on the display.
The reply from Control sounded over her suit comm. Drexler's even voice said, "Explain."
She matched his level of calm. "Those radiation levels. They're too high."
"Those are readings from the storage units, correct?"
"Yes."
She didn't want to deal with this, another malfunction for Control to add to the maintenance schedule and then drag its feet over. This wasn't even her shift. She was covering for Matson, who had come down sick with the flu that seemed to have struck half of Covenant Station's residents. Control had promised to bring in more crew to take up the slack and get the station back on schedule. In the meantime, the rest of the techs worked double shifts. She resisted a futile effort to rub a hand on her face.
The station's refit was six months behind schedule. After twenty years of spinning empty in the space above Mars, another six months wouldn't have made much difference. But settlers had already moved into the living quarters, and many of the systems were still running on temporary stop-gaps. Quietly, slowly, Control was bringing the permanent systems on-line. Problems kept cropping up.
Drexler, Control's Chief, said, "The readings are noted. Finish your job assignment and come inside."
She was supposed to be certifying the cooling system on the station's fourth sector arm, which contained e
mpty storage units awaiting supply deliveries. She couldn't do that, given these readings. The cooling system looked fine, every diagnostic she ran on it came up negative, which meant the excess radiation on the monitor didn't indicate a failure in the cooling system--it had to be coming from somewhere other than the usual background radiation. This had implications Control couldn't ignore. These levels were way above maximum standards for a residential station.
She attacked the problem one piece at a time, scanning part by part rather than the whole system. Radiation levels on the hull were normal. The cooling system itself was normal, although dealing with the spike in this sector was taxing it. The source of the radiation spike then was inside the storage units.
Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 2 Page 8
