Dogs of S.T.E.A.M.

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “Beefsteak?” Gearhead asked, ginning.

  “Want to make something of it, Little Bite?” the hard-bitten old dog demanded, but without a trace of rancor. “Up to you.”

  “No!” Gearhead exclaimed, edging behind Quigley. “Curious, that’s all. Just seemed an odd…”

  “No dog who wears a fez should mock older and wiser dogs,” the police veteran said gruffly. “And it’s Sergeant Beefsteak.”

  “Yes…yes, sir,” the Corgi-mix sputtered.

  “Especially when his name is Gearhead,” Chauncey added.

  “I’m proud of my name!”

  “And I came by my name honestly as well, lad, so let’s put it behind us, shall we?” Beefsteak suggested. “We’ve work to do.”

  Gearhead nodded.

  “Report, Sergeant Beefsteak,” Quigley said softly.

  “Fifty minutes ago, my assigned PC and I were walking patrol on the Old Kent Road, in the vicinity of the Thomas A’ Becket Public House, when we saw a light in the direction of the Metro Gasworks,” Beefsteak said. “The PC said it was a most ‘unnatural glow, greenish-like,’ which I cannot confirm or deny, being a scent hound and not much good with colors anyhow. We was concerned, being as how it was a portion of the Works what’s been shut down for some weeks now. When we approached the perimeter of the area, we saw how a portion of a wall had been busted open, then covered with brush as to try to hide it.” He paused. “And none too good a job it was, since even my PC could see it.”

  “Did you enter the Works, Sergeant Beefsteak?” Quigley asked.

  “No. I detected a strong canine scent at the hole—several Pit Bulls, some Mastiffs and many dogs of dubious breed,” Beefsteak explained. “The PC wanted to go in, him not knowing what waited for us, but I herded him, unawares. back to safety. In addition to smelling what he did not smell, I also saw what he did not see, a no-good hanger-on to several packs…a devious runt called Snitch.”

  Spyro and Chauncey glanced at Quigley.

  “Yes, we know Snitch,” Quigley said. “A sneaky villain.”

  “My lack of reaction at the site convinced the PC the matter was not worth investigating, and we resumed patrol,” the old police dog continued. “As soon as I could, I separated myself from my PC and legged it here to make my report. I did not know if the activity at the shut-down portion of the Gasworks had anything to do with that bounder Lord Cerberus, but we were told to report any strange events in our area. I figured it might be worth looking into.”

  “You figured right, Sergeant,” Quigley confirmed. “The light your PC saw could not have anything to do with the Works, but it might involve technology stolen from a murdered Companion.”

  “Technology!” Beefsteak snorted. “It’s a shame what happened to the Companion, of course, but unfettered technology will be the death of us all sooner or later.” The old police dog lowered his gaze momentarily. “Sorry, not my place to…”

  “Posh!” Quigley said. “You are hardly the first dog to question the wisdom of this flowering of technology and industrialization, and you will not be the last.”

  “And you may be right, mate,” Spyro added.

  “Could you tell how many canines might be in presence at the Works?” Quigley asked.

  “Hard to say, sir,” Beefsteak replied. “Some scents were strong, some were weak, but I’d say there were more than a half-dozen, less than a dozen.” His eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open. “I recall now there was another scent, almost lost among the canines. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I should have remembered it before now. Getting old, I guess.”

  “What was the scent?” Quigley asked.

  “It was feline, sir,” Beefsteak answered. “A cat.”

  “That clenches it!” Chauncey exclaimed.

  “Lilith!” Penelope hissed. “Lord Cerberus’ herald.”

  “You think this is what you have been looking for then?” the police dog asked, looking confused. “Lord Cerberus?”

  “No doubt about it,” Quigley replied. “The place is right for his plans, if we have sussed them out correctly. The canine scents are correct for the soldiers he employs. Even the presence of Snitch is right—he hangs around whatever outlaw packs are willing to give him scrap-work, but he has been on the outskirts of Lord Cerberus’ doings from the beginning. But what really ties it is the cat.”

  “I’m just an old plod, sir,” Beefsteak said with a small self-deprecating chuckle. “I know something of Lord Cerberus, mostly through the canines at Special Branch, but…a cat?”

  “Lord Cerberus keeps company with a cat named Lilith,” the alpha explained. “Back when Lord Cerberus stopped being a rumor among the East End packs…”

  “Blade,” Beefsteak said, voice tinged with sadness. “He was a right villain, he was, but a good bloke otherwise. Always looked out for his pack.”

  “At first, we gave no credence to stories of a black and silver cat who commanded dogs in Lord Cerberus’ name, but that was a mistake,” Quigley continued. “We learned Lilith was quite real, just as vicious as Lord Cerberus and maybe more cruel.”

  “As only a cat can be,” Beefsteak said.

  “Do you think you or your PC attracted any attention,” Quigley asked. “Did you detect any awareness?”

  “No,” Beefsteak replied. “I got the PC out quick as I could.”

  “All right, we have to get cracking,” Quigley told his pack. “I think there is a good chance we can catch them unawares. Spyro and Chauncey, coordinate a perimeter with the pack-alphas of S.T.E.A.M., as well as the Metropolitan Police and available Army packs. Lord Cerberus is not going to slip through our paws again.”

  Spyro and Chauncey left quickly to contact the proper dogs. It would be arranged without alerting Companions. Not only was there a strong chance of violence, but this was solely a canine matter, best handled by the dogs themselves without interference from well-intentioned but rather clueless Companions.

  “Gearhead, you contact the alphas at the Science Ministry,” Quigley told the little Corgi-mix. “When we take Lord Cerberus and his pack down, I want someone there to take charge of that infernal Time Blaster…”

  “Time Disruptor,” Gearhead corrected.

  “Whatever!”

  “Yes, Guv!” Gearhead gulped.

  “I want that thing off our paws and back to the Companions with all due haste.” He paused, then sighed. “Actually, what might be best is to drop it into the Thames, let it be swept out to the depths of the sea, lost forever.”

  “I could…I suppose…” Gearhead stammered.

  “No, can’t stuff the djinn back in the bottle,” Quigley sighed. “It will bring no one any good, but some things Companions have to learn on their own. Besides, they would just make another.”

  A slight sound made the dogs turn. Beefsteak, his duty done, was returning to patrol, heading back to rejoin his Companion in the Regular Police walking a beat.

  “Sergeant Beefsteak,” Quigley called.

  The old police dog stopped and turned. “Sir?”

  “Can you conduct us back to the break in the wall at the Gasworks?” Quigley asked.

  “I can,” Beefsteak replied. “But you don’t need an old plod like me to find it. If a Companion can find the opening with his limited senses, dogs like you surely can.”

  “You’re not eager to see the end of Lord Cerberus?” Penelope asked. “Keen to be in on his capture?”

  “Yes, quite keen,” he said. “But I know my place, and I know S.T.E.A.M. dogs are the finest. You don’t need the likes of me.”

  “That’s where you are wrong,” Quigley corrected. “We would be honored if you would help us…to temporarily join our pack.”

  Beefsteak lifted his head in pride, hit by a wave of unwonted emotion. He had been a police dog for fourteen years, all in patrol, walking London streets, guiding his assigned PCs, protecting Companions and canines dwelling at the Empire’s heart. He was an old plod, but not through any lack of talent.
He had many times refused promotion to CID or Special Branch. It was his duty to protect Companions and canines. He could not do that better than he did on the streets of London.

  “We get accolades, such as they are,” Quigley said, “but dogs like you are Britain’s soul, dogs who keep the Empire standing.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Beefsteak said quietly. “If you think I can help, I will do what I can.”

  Spyro and Chauncey returned from their assignments and reported all arrangements had been made. Moments later, Gearhead appeared and said the Science Ministry would have dogs standing by to take charge of the device and return it to the Companions.

  “Gearhead, I want you to supervise that portion of the operation personally,” Quigley said. “Make sure there are no slip ups.”

  “The alpha from the Science Ministry has that well covered,” Gearhead replied. “We can trust Maxwell to do his job.”

  “I prefer you ensure that all goes well,” Quigley insisted.

  “I don’t understand, Guv.”

  “It’s very important that the device be handled properly.”

  “But Maxwell will…”

  “I want you to handle it!” Quigley snapped.

  Gearhead was silent a long moment. “I deserve to be there, Guv. Lord Cerberus killed my Companion.”

  “This is not about revenge, Gearhead,” Quigley pointed out.

  “No, Guv, it is not,” Gearhead agreed. “It is about justice, about doing the right thing. Is that not the purpose of S.T.E.A.M.?”

  “Yes, but there are many ways to achieve those goals,” Quigley said. “You are a valued member of our pack, but your skills are of a more technical variety. You’re a thinker, Gearhead, not a fighter. We need you to ensure our efforts are not put to waste by some fumble-pawed boffin in the Science Ministry.”

  “I may not be quite the fighter Spyro and Chauncey are, or even Penelope and yourself, but I can hold my own,” Gearhead asserted. “And I am no coward!”

  “No one is…”

  “I was not able to protect my Companion from Lord Cerberus and the others,” Gearhead continued, “but I did not back down.”

  “But you have to understand that…”

  “Besides, of all of you, who is going to ensure that the Time Disruptor will be handled properly until the boffins finally show up?” the Corgi-mix demanded. “As you said, I am a thinker, and maybe you need that in the fight against Lord Cerberus as much as you need tooth and nail.”

  “Perhaps,” Quigley admitted with a sigh. “I wanted to keep you from harm, but I see now that that would not be best for the pack. Let’s be on our way…don’t want the boffins to beat us, do we?”

  By the time they reached the Gasworks off the Old Kent Road, the fog had dissipated. The full moon lit their path. They passed the perimeter and found the opening as Beefsteak had described. They cautiously entered, fanning out, keeping to the shadows.

  The buildings seemed vacant, not a light showing, but even the sight hounds knew they were not alone. Warily, they approached, converging as they neared. Canals were filled with mist. The barges in them, some with coal, others empty, creaked at their moorings in response to small tides and currents. As they drew near the structure most likely the source of the earlier light, they heard a muffled thud. They found Beefsteak standing over a Pit Bull.

  “Just sleeping,” Beefsteak whispered, answering their enquiring expressions. “As a sentry, he was less than competent, but I saw no reason to put the buffer down when I didn’t have to.”

  Quigley nodded approvingly. “Lord Cerberus would not be so charitable with his failure. Do we know him?”

  The others peered closely at the downed sentry, but none knew him. He was just another muscle-dog from the East End, attracted to Lord Cerberus’ service for one perverse reason or another. When the lines of power began to shift after the sudden and mysterious advent of Lord Cerberus, the quality of loyalty, deeply seated in the heart of every dog, no matter how given over to villainy, was sorely tested. Most dogs failed, alpha- and pack-based loyalties withering before the need for self preservation.

  Their suspicions about the building seemed confirmed by the presence of roving sentries, all of whom were dispatched without a sound. Gearhead, knowing the truth of Quigley’s concerns, ranged behind the larger, more experienced dogs. Though he had received training in the martial arts and knew the forbidden ways of fighting, he knew it was best to let the others lead the way. He could bring down a larger dog in a fight, but it would not be a stealthy conflict, and the need for silence was paramount at this point.

  They left the dogs to be either taken into custody or disposed of by the canines in the perimeter closing in behind them. Five sentry dogs were taken down. If Beefsteak were correct about the number of dogs present, then the only ones left inside should be the soldiers of the inner circle—Mordred, Urias and Sykes—the cat Lilith, and Lord Cerberus himself. Of Snitch there was no sign, which caused Quigley a measure of worry; the wretched little runt was a devious and treacherous bounder, always underestimated by others.

  Any doubts they might have had about Lord Cerberus being in residence were dispelled by swirling flashes of greenish light behind the grimy windows of the closed-down building. Quickly, Gearhead rushed to Quigley’s side.

  “That has to be the Time Disruptor,” the Corgi-mix whispered excitedly. “The display is like what Companions described amongst themselves.” He paused, watching the green coruscations within. “But they seem stronger, more persistent.”

  “You think Lord Cerberus may be testing the device in some way?” Quigley asked.

  “No, I think he may be getting ready to use it,” Gearhead said. “It must not be allowed.”

  Quigley nodded reluctantly. He would rather have thinned the opposition further, at least have taken out one or two of the main soldiers before attacking, but Gearhead was right.

  “Get back and tell the alphas to bring their packs in,” Quigley said. “But press this upon them—no noise unless they hear us first.”

  The Corgi-mix turned and sped the way they had come. He knew the importance of the task given him, but he did not intend to miss Lord Cerberus’ defeat. He delivered the message, lingering only long enough to ensure Quigley’s orders were carried out, then whirled about. He flew over the uneven ground, his feet a blur in the moonlight, his floppy ears streaming behind him. Had it not been for the cord under his chin, his tasseled fez would have gone tumbling into the night.

  A small figure leaped at him from the shadows. Normally, such a slight dog would not have knocked him over, but uneven terrain and his own speed worked against him. Tumbling toward the mist-laden surface of a canal, he saw flashing teeth like needles, curved and wickedly sharp, such choppers as no normal dog should possess.

  “Snitch!” Gearhead gasped, avoiding being scissored even as he kept from splashing into the canal.

  “Mutt!” the breedless dog snarled. His adversary was not much bigger than himself, but he kept his distance now that the element of surprise had been lost. “So you know me, do you?”

  “We know that you’re one of Lord Cerberus’ cur lackeys,” the Corgi-mix replied, seeking a way around the small dog with the big teeth. “We know that you are as doomed as Lord Cerberus.”

  “Lord Cerberus is not doomed,” Snitch declared. “The dogs of S.T.E.A.M. are the ones who will be destroyed.”

  “Even now Lord Cerberus’ defeat looms before him.”

  Snitch laughed, a breathy guffaw filled with hiss and spittle. “You know nothing of Lord Cerberus, of his godlike essence. He will stride over dogs and Companions alike.”

  “You’re mad,” Gearhead accused. “Stark barking mad!”

  Behind them, in the building where greenish lights still danced across the filthy windows, there suddenly arose a deafening chaos of barks and growls. Simultaneously, the dogs along the closing perimeter bayed and moved in swiftly.

  “We’ll have his ‘godlike essence’ in th
e docks, we will,” the Corgi-mix promised. “He will whine like any dog when faced with the full brunt of canine justice, savage and swift.”

  Snitch looked neither at Gearhead nor in the direction of the dogs closing in for the capture. It was as if he did not hear them.

  “No!” Snitch cried, breaking into a frenzied run. “No! Not without me! You promised!”

  Then Gearhead heard what had wrested Snitch’s attention from the danger of the moment. The pulsating green glow within the building had reached a fever pitch, and was now accompanied by an undulating trill, at first barely audible, even to a dog’s ears, unless one were listening for it, as Snitch had obviously been, but was now stridently insistent, even painful to hear.

  Gearhead sped for the source of light and sound with a speed that would have made a Whippet envious. He passed Snitch, but neither dog paid any attention to the other. All that mattered was getting into the building, though their reasons for doing so could not have been more different.

  Snitch and Gearhead burst into the cavernous interior. The only source of light was a green glow, painful in its intensity. Though the eyes of dogs were more sensitive toward the reddish end of the spectrum, this glare was still searing bright.

  The baying of the pursuit hounds vanished from Gearhead’s ears. All he heard was the weird trilling noise, but now he could see its source, a machine that was simultaneously alien and familiar. Its form was unlike anything he had ever before seen, but portions of it resembled the Time Machine crafted by his Companion.

  He saw Quigley and the others in pitched battle with Sykes, Urias and Mordred, tooth and nail clashing, but the fight seemed as if in slow motion. Gearhead, also, felt sluggish, as if he were fighting his way against a swift-flowing river of mud. The cat Lilith sat atop the device in which the Time Disruptor had been installed, eyes glowing, watching the fight with carnivorous glee.