by John Scalzi
“It doesn’t matter what he intended to do,” Waverly shot back. “What matters is what he did do. And what he did was single-handedly disrupt a long-running diplomatic process. Now the Icheloe are back on the verge of civil war and we are to blame.”
“It doesn’t have to be as bad as that,” Abumwe said. “If nothing else, we’ve solved the disappearance of the king, which was the cause of the civil war. The war started because one faction blamed the other for kidnapping and killing him. Now we know that never happened.”
“And that simply doesn’t matter,” Waverly said. “You know as well as I that the disappearance of the king was just the polite fiction the factions needed to go after each other with guns and knives. If it hadn’t been the king going missing, they would have found some other reason to go at each other’s throats. What’s important now is that they wanted to end that fight.” Waverly pointed again at Wilson. “But now he’s dragged up that damn king, giving the hard-liners on both sides a new pointless excuse to go after each other.”
“We don’t know that will be the outcome,” Abumwe said. “You had confidence in the process before. At the end of the day, the Icheloe still want their peace.”
“But will they still want it with us?” Waverly said, looking over. “Now that we’ve unnecessarily disrupted their peace process and added complications to it? That’s the question. I hope you’re right, Ode. I really do. But I have my doubts.” She turned her gaze back to Wilson. “And do you have any thoughts on this subject, Lieutenant Wilson?”
Wilson glanced over to Abumwe, whose face was neutral, and at Schmidt, who had preemptively gone pale. “I’m sorry I unnecessarily disrupted your process, Ambassador,” he said. “I apologize.” In his peripheral vision, Wilson could see Schmidt’s eyes widen. Hart clearly wasn’t expecting deference from his friend.
“You apologize,” Waverly said, walking over to him. “You’re sorry. That’s all you have to say.”
“Yes, I think so, ma’am,” Wilson said. “Unless you think there’s something else I should add.”
“I think your resignation would be in order,” Waverly said.
Wilson smiled at this. “The Colonial Defense Forces isn’t generally keen on resignations, Ambassador Waverly.”
“And that’s your final comment on the matter,” Waverly said, persisting.
Wilson glanced very briefly at Abumwe and caught her almost imperceptible shrug. “Well, except to say that I know what to do the next time something like this happens,” he said.
“And what is that?” Waverly said.
“Let the plant keep the dog,” Wilson said.
Praetor Gunztar opened the door to the room before Waverly had a chance to explode at Wilson. She whirled toward Gunztar instead with such sudden ferocity that even the praetor, who was no great reader of human emotion, could not miss it. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Of course, Praetor Gunztar,” Waverly said, tightly.
“Very good,” Gunztar said, barreling through before Waverly could launch into anything further. “I have news. Some of it is good. Some of it is less so.”
“All right,” Waverly said.
“The good news—the great news—is that leaders of both factions agree that no one was responsible for the killing of the king, except for the king himself,” Gunztar said. “It was well-known the king was a heavy drinker and that he would often stroll in his private garden at night. The most obvious explanation is that the king was drunk, collapsed into the kingsflower planter, and the plant pulled him under. When he awoke, he tried to escape and followed the tunnel to his death. The garden was part of his private residence and he was a bachelor; no one looked for him until his staff went to wake him in the morning.”
“Didn’t anyone at the time think to look inside the plant?” Abumwe asked.
“They did, of course,” Gunztar said. “But it was not until much later, when more obvious places were searched. And by that time, there was no trace of the king. It seems that he may have wandered down the tunnel by that time and was either dead or too injured by the fall into the cave to call for help. The bones show his spine was shattered in several places, consistent with a fall.”
Wilson, who remembered Tuffy chewing on at least a couple of other bones aside from the rib, kept quiet.
“This is good news because one continual sticking point between the factions has been finding some way to finesse the disappearance of the king,” Gunztar said. “The question of blame and responsibility are still sore subjects. Or were. Now they no longer are. During our discussions, the head of the pro-king faction provisionally apologized for blaming the agitators for killing the king. The head for the agitator faction provisionally expressed sorrow at the death of the king. As long as it sticks, the job here has become substantially easier.”
“Wow,” Wilson said. “And here I thought that the disappearance of the king was just a convenient excuse already warring factions were using to go after each other.”
“Of course not,” Gunztar said, turning toward Wilson and thereby missing the flush that drove itself up Waverly’s neck and face. “To be certain, the factions were ready to fight. But our civil war would not have lasted so long, nor have been so bloody, had one side not accused the other of regicide. And so the Icheloe owe you a particular debt of thanks, Lieutenant Wilson, for what you have done for us today.”
“If you thank anyone, you should thank Ambassador Waverly, Praetor Gunztar,” Wilson said. “Without her, I would never have found your lost king. After all, she is the one who brought Tuffy.”
“Yes, of course,” Gunztar said, bowing in the Icheloe way to Ambassador Waverly. She, still furious at Wilson and yet also aware of how he had just transferred credit for the praise to her, nodded mutely. “And that, I’m afraid, brings us to our bad news.”
“What’s the bad news?” Waverly said.
“It’s about Tuffy,” Gunztar said. “The crown is attached to him.”
“Yes,” Waverly said. “It’s tangled in his hair. We’ll get it out. We’ll trim his hair down if we have to.”
“It’s not that simple,” Gunztar said. “You can’t get it off him because it’s tangled in his hair. You can’t get it off him because microscopic fibers have come off the crown and physically attached themselves to him, binding the crown to his physical body.”
“What?” Waverly said.
“The crown is permanently attached to Tuffy,” Gunztar said. “The scans our medical scientists did when he was brought back to the surface show it.”
“How could that possibly happen?” Abumwe asked.
“The crown is a very important symbol of the king,” Gunztar said. “Once taken up, it was supposed to never be taken off.” He pointed to a set of ridges on his own head. “The crown is designed to sit on the head of the king in such a way that it need never be removed. To assure that it never is, it is made with nanobiotic strands on the inside surface, tuned to graft to the genetic signature of the king. The crown is also sensitive to the electrical signals produced by life. It only comes off at death, when all brain and body activity are quiet.”
“How did it get attached to Tuffy?” Waverly said. “He obviously has no genetic relation to your king.”
“It’s a mystery to us as much as you,” Gunztar said.
“Hmmmm,” Wilson said.
“What is it, Wilson?” Abumwe said.
“How much of this genetic material would need to be present for the crown to register it?” Wilson said.
“You’d have to ask our scientists,” Gunztar said. “Why?”
Wilson motioned to Tuffy, who had dozed off. “When I found him, he was chewing on one of the king’s bones,” he said. “He’d been in and around that skeleton for at least an hour. More than enough time to get some of the king’s genetic material all over him. If the crown wasn’t programmed well, it might have registered the genetic material, registered electrical signals from Tuffy being alive and decided,
‘Well, close enough.’”
“So we give Tuffy a bath, wash off all the king’s, uh, dust, and the crown lets go,” Schmidt said. “Right?”
Wilson looked over at Gunztar, who offered up a negative gesture. “No. Only death will cause the crown to let go,” he said. He turned to Ambassador Waverly. “And the council, I’m afraid, is adamant that the crown must be removed.”
Waverly looked blankly at Gunztar for the ten seconds or so it took for what the praetor said to sink in. Wilson glanced over to Schmidt and Abumwe as if to say, Here it comes.
“You want to kill my dog?!” Waverly exclaimed to Gunztar.
Gunztar immediately threw up his hands. “We don’t want to kill Tuffy,” he said, quickly. “But you must understand, my friend. The crown is an object of truly immense historical, political and social value. It is no exaggeration to say that it is one of the most iconic and significant objects we Icheloe have. It’s been missing for generations. Its importance to us is incalculable. And your dog is wearing it.”
“It’s not his fault,” Waverly said.
“I agree, of course,” Gunztar said. “But ultimately that is neither here nor there. The council is unanimous that the crown must not stay on your dog.” He pointed out the window, toward the chittering masses gathered in front of the palace. “The reactionaries we have at the gate don’t represent our people at large, but there are enough of them to cause trouble. If they were to find out a pet wore the crown of the disappeared king, the riots would last for days. And I would be lying to you if I said there weren’t those on the council who didn’t find the fact Tuffy wears the crown deeply insulting. One of them even began calling him ‘the Dog King.’ And not in an affectionate way.”
“You’re saying Tuffy wearing the crown is jeopardizing our diplomatic mission,” Abumwe said.
“Not yet,” Gunztar said. “The fact that you found the disappeared king far outweighs the issue of the crown, for now. But the longer it takes for it to be returned to us, the more questions the negotiating council will begin to have about it. Make no mistake that eventually it will jeopardize your mission, and your standing. And the standing of the Colonial Union.”
“Philippa,” Abumwe said, to Waverly.
Waverly said nothing, looked at them all and then went over to Tuffy, who was by this time on his back, paws adorably in the air, snoring lightly. Waverly sat next to her dog, picked him up, waking him in the process, and began sobbing into his little back. The dog craned his head back and heroically tried to lick the head of his owner, hitting only air instead.
“Oh, come on,” Wilson said, after roughly thirty seconds of awkward silence from everyone in the room except Ambassador Waverly, who continued sobbing. “I feel like I’m twelve and being made to reread the last couple chapters of Old Yeller.”
“Lieutenant Wilson, it might be advisable to let Ambassador Waverly have her moment with Tuffy,” Praetor Gunztar said. “It is hard to say good-bye to a friend.”
“So we’re all agreed that we’re going to have to kill the dog,” Wilson said.
“Wilson,” Abumwe said, sharply.
Wilson held up his hand. “I’m not asking just to be an asshole,” he assured Abumwe. “I’m asking because if we’re all agreed that’s what has to happen, then no one will look at me like I’m nuts for offering a completely insane potential solution.”
“What solution?” Abumwe asked.
Wilson walked over and stood by Waverly and Tuffy. Tuffy lolled his tongue out at Wilson; Waverly looked up at him with deeply suspicious eyes.
“Badly-designed technology got us into this problem,” Wilson said, looking down at Tuffy and Waverly. “Maybe better-designed technology can get us out of it.”
“Here you go,” Schmidt said, handing Wilson the small wand with a plunger button on top and then motioning with his head to two nervous-looking Icheloe technicians. “Press the button, everything goes down. Press the button again, hopefully everything comes back up again.”
“Got it,” Wilson said. He watched as another Icheloe technician brought in Tuffy and placed him on a stainless steel table, a small work towel placed in the middle to keep the dog’s feet from getting too cold.
“The technicians also wanted me to tell you thank you for being willing to be the one to press the button,” Schmidt said.
“Of course,” Wilson said. “Ambassador Waverly already hates my guts. And if this doesn’t work, then better it’s someone on our side than one of the Icheloe.”
“Their thinking exactly,” Schmidt said.
“How is Ambassador Waverly, anyway?” Wilson asked. He hadn’t seen her for several hours.
“Abumwe is with her now,” Schmidt said. “I think the plan is to keep feeding her alcohol.”
“It’s not a bad plan,” Wilson said.
Schmidt looked at his friend. “How do you feel?”
“I feel fine, Hart,” Wilson said. “I’d like to get this over with, however.”
“Can I get you some juice or anything?” Schmidt asked.
“What you can do is help that technician with Tuffy,” Wilson said, nodding to the Icheloe tech holding the squirming dog. “He looks like he’s about to lose it.” Schmidt hurried over and took the dog from the tech, then settled it down on the table. The tech backed away quickly, obviously relieved to be rid of her burden. The other two techs also quietly excused themselves.
“You want me to go?” Schmidt asked, petting Tuffy to keep the dog still.
“No, I need you to help me,” Wilson said. “You might want to move your hands, though.”
“Oh, right,” Schmidt said, and moved a step away from the dog.
Tuffy moved to go after Schimdt, but Wilson said, “Tuffy!” and snapped his fingers at the same time, drawing the little dog’s attention to himself.
“Good dog,” Wilson said, to Tuffy, who gave him a happy doggie smile and wagged his fluffy little tail.
Wilson accessed his BrainPal and got the feed on the two small monitors the dog had on his body, one at the top of his head and the other on his chest, close to his heart. The two monitors showed Tuffy’s brain and heart electrical activity. There was something else on his body as well, at the back of his neck, close to where his spinal cord met his brain. Wilson didn’t have a monitor for it.
“Tuffy! Sit!” Wilson said.
The dog sat, winningly obliging.
“Good boy!” Wilson said. “Play dead!” He pressed the plunger button in his hand.
Tuffy’s brain and heart monitors flatlined instantly. The Lhasa apso gave a tiny squeak and collapsed stiffly, like a stuffed animal blown over by a wind gust.
“‘Play dead’?” Schmidt said, ten seconds later, after examining the dog. “That’s just cruel.”
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll have bigger problems than a tasteless joke,” Wilson said. “Now, shut up for a couple of minutes, Hart. You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry,” Schmidt said. Wilson nodded and walked over to the dog on the table.
Tuffy was dead.
Wilson poked the body with a finger. No response at all.
“Any time,” Wilson said. The Icheloe had assured him that their biological systems were similar enough to those of Earth vertebrates that Wilson was willing to risk his little experiment. Nevertheless, he wanted the crown to realize its wearer was dead sooner than later.
A minute passed. Two.
“Harry?” Schmidt asked.
“Quiet,” Wilson said, staring at the crown, still nestled on the dog’s body.
Another two minutes passed. Three.
“What do we do if this doesn’t work?” Schmidt asked.
“Are you asking if there’s a plan B?” Wilson asked.
“Yeah,” Schmidt said.
“Sorry, no,” Wilson said.
“Why are you telling me this now?” Schmidt asked.
“Why didn’t you ask earlier?” Wilson asked.
Another minute.
&nb
sp; “There,” Wilson said, pointing.
“What?” Schmidt said.
“The crown moved,” Wilson said.
“I didn’t see anything,” Schmidt said.
“You remember that part where my genetically-engineered eyes are about ten times better than yours, right, Hart?” Wilson said.
“Oh, that,” Schmidt said.
“Remove the crown, please,” Wilson said.
Schmidt reached over to the dog and gently removed the crown from the body. It came off easily.
“Got it,” Schmidt said.
“Thank you,” Wilson said. “Stand back now.” Schmidt backed away from the table.
“Okay, Tuffy,” Wilson said, looked at the dog and raised his wand. “Time to learn a new trick.”
He plunged the button down a second time.
The dog twitched, peed himself and scrambled up from the table, barking furiously.
“Wow, he’s pissed,” Schmidt said, smiling.
“True in more than one way, and a totally appropriate response,” Wilson said, smiling himself.
The Icheloe flooded back into the room, one of them carrying a bag full of red fluid: Tuffy’s actual blood.
“Wait,” Wilson said, and realized the Icheloe had no idea what he was saying. He made himself clear through gestures and then turned to Schmidt. “Tell one of them to go get Ambassador Waverly, please,” he said. “I want her to see that her dog is fine before we transfuse the poor thing again.”
Schmidt nodded and spoke to the Icheloe through his PDA. One of them departed in a hurry.
One of the other Icheloe pointed to the dog and looked at Wilson. “How is it that you could give this animal your blood?” Wilson’s BrainPal translated the Icheloe’s chitter as saying. “You’re not even the same species.”
Wilson reached over and borrowed Schmidt’s PDA. “It’s called SmartBlood,” he said, setting the PDA in front of him. “It’s completely non-organic, so the dog’s body wouldn’t reject it. It also has several times the oxygen-carrying capacity, so we could stop the body’s processes for a longer period of time and still have the tissues survive.” Wilson reached over and picked up the still-damp dog, who had stopped barking by this time. “And that’s what we did. Replaced this little guy’s blood with my blood, then stopped this little guy’s heart and brain long enough for the crown to think he’s dead. Then started him up again.”
