The Empty Warrior

by J. D. McCartney

  His work gang had been laboring steadily through most of the morning when O’Keefe unexpectedly began to feel the ethereal presence of Regulus. Yes, it is I, he felt the words coalesce in his mind, and I have only now arrived. I wouldn’t think of interrupting your work, mind you, but I could sense your awareness of my presence, so I felt a greeting to be imperative. It would seem the nanite construct is still operating admirably. That is an extraordinarily good sign. Look for me to your left, near the stern of the freighter. O’Keefe did so, and in a moment, through several other gangs of dockworkers and down the entire length of the ship, he saw Regulus sitting, looking over a massive shoulder while ostensibly standing guard over another group of inmates. His tail began to wag slightly when O’Keefe’s eyes found his.

  What do you guys do, just wander around the colony anywhere you want? O’Keefe thought to Regulus. Don’t you have specific tasks set out for you? Doesn’t anyone keep track of where you are and what you do? How can you just show up here in the middle of the day? And how in the hell is it you know my language? That’s bugged me ever since that thing was built in my head last night.

  I do not know your language. The nanite construct is interpretive; it does all the work. It is not programmed for your native tongue, but interfaces with your Akadean implant to convey my thoughts to you.

  And no one here keeps track of our movements. When we were taken, the Vazileks were totally incognizant of our abilities. They believed us to be common beasts, mere creatures of instinct, capable of learning basic commands and nothing more. So when the packs were brought to Ashawzut, the dragons were to be our trainers; they were to be the ones to inculcate and then issue those simple commands. Regulus’ thoughts were awash with disdain at the memory. The Slayer believes that they still are our masters, as we respond to their orders with alacrity. But the dragons are dismally dull of mind. They are intelligent enough to maintain their existence and do the will of the Slayer, and that is all. Once we learned what was expected of us and demonstrated that we needed none of their supervision, they were happy enough to leave us to our own devices. They are incredibly insouciant about where we go and what we do. In their minds, our independence only serves to take a significant weight off their already overburdened little brains. They care not what we do as long as we are present where needed and the prisoners are pushed to wherever they are supposed to go. The fact that there might be negative repercussions implicit in allowing us the freedom to do as we will has never dawned upon them. The awareness of the dragons is so dim that even the blatantly obvious ofttimes passes before their eyes with no recognition whatsoever.

  Yeah, they don’t seem too bright, O’Keefe agreed. So the guards don’t care what you do, and you walk in here with no problem. But how did you know exactly where I was, with as many workers as there are on the floor? Can you sense where I am just by my thoughts?

  If you focus on your surroundings, sometimes that is possible, but that was not the case today. Today my litter mate, Shaula, watches over you. She is the fleetest and most agile of our brood, and keen of sight and scent. She is gray, with white paws, and lies to your right.

  O’Keefe glanced that way and saw her. She stared directly into his gaze, her jaws slightly parted as she panted in the heat of the hangar. She was clearly a magnificent dog. She had the fast and agile look of all shepherds—lean of face and snout; and even as dirty as the dogs were kept in Ashawzut; her long, gray coat still gleamed dully from beneath the dust and grime.

  “Hello, Shaula,” O’Keefe whispered under his breath. Her ears immediately snapped to the full upright position. “Yes, you are a beauty,” O’Keefe cooed, again in a small voice that no one around him could hear. In response, her jaws widened almost imperceptibly, nearly resembling a smile.

  Shaula thanks you, Regulus projected to him. And she is enamored of you as well. She says that you have the scent of trustworthiness.

  Damn, O’Keefe thought. No wonder these dogs know so much. They hear everything. He did not mean to transmit the thought to Regulus, but it was too late.

  That is true, the pack leader replied. It is well that the Slayer and her dragons do not guess our abilities.

  As long as we’re on the subject of your abilities, what happened with Nelkris and his bunch last night, after we left? As he was thinking, O’Keefe grabbed a crate from the pile before him and mechanically hoisted it over his shoulder, lest he spend one second too long in inactivity and invite the whip. Too late. He heard the crack and felt the sting in the same instant.

  “Work faster, human,” a lizard hissed. “Or I mess you up good.” O’Keefe didn’t need another reminder and, even under the heavy weight that he carried, nearly ran forward to the supply train where he deposited his parcel. All the while he could feel Regulus’ mind boiling with rage and the desire for attack. It’s all right, he thought. It’s just a scratch; don’t do anything foolish. We’ll have our revenge in good time.

  Regulus relaxed slightly, but his thoughts were sanguineous. I will enjoy tearing the trachea from that one’s throat.

  Yeah, so would I. But we need ships before we make our move, and this one old tub won’t do. So forget that. Tell me about the plotters.

  When Regulus’ thoughts came back to O’Keefe they were still covered with a thin patina of rage, but the most murderous of his impulses had subsided. They are very careful, as well they should be, so it is difficult to know exactly what was considered, but it is clear that your appearance with the pack at your side has caused no little consternation among them. Even now they spread the word of your ultimatum to Nelkris among their fellow conspirators. The leaders, the ones in Nelkris’ barracks, have scheduled a discussion for tonight after the lights go down. Their intent is to report on the communications passed to the leaders in other barracks this day. We will monitor their conclave, and when it is done I will know more, but my feeling is that they have already decided to wait for you to act. Their scheme was born of desperation; even its formulators gave it little chance of success. You have offered them an alternative of which I believe they will almost certainly avail themselves. Still, they do not trust you. Some of them seem to know more about you than others, and those that do seem to think ill of you in some way.

  Yeah, I know, they call me an aberrant. They think I’m some kind of mass murderer or something.

  Suddenly there was mirth intertwined with Regulus’ thoughts. Yes, I heard those words, but I did not want to repeat them. They believe the same of the pack, and also for no reason. None of our number has ever killed an innocent prisoner. We save our wrath for those betrayers that would endanger our secrets. Otherwise, we snarl in a ferocious manner, and draw what blood as must be spilt to protect our true nature, but that is all. Yet your fellow humans remain convinced that we would massacre them if given half the chance. Perhaps that is good. If humans were more discerning, surely the Slayer would have become aware long ago that we do not serve her.

  But Regulus, you do serve her, do you not? O’Keefe cut in.

  Yes, I suppose you are right Achilles, Regulus continued. But we do not serve her willingly. We are slaves in Ashawzut just as surely as you and the Akadeans are slaves here. As are even the dragons and the Slayer herself. As far as the pack has been able to discern, all in the Vazilek Dominion are slaves. We all serve their nefarious purposes. While it is difficult to think of our actions serving such evil, they do. However, the pack would like to think otherwise. I imagine I should say that although we serve the Slayer, we prefer to think of that as a temporary necessity and know that we owe no allegiance to her. In the end the pack will do whatever lies within our power to bring about her demise. This you must believe.

  Hey, I believe you. O’Keefe thought. Trust me; I’m ecstatic you’re on our side. I was just nitpicking a little, I guess.

  There was a pause during which O’Keefe could still sense Regulus’ presence, but could feel no concrete thoughts or emotions from him. Then suddenly the dog’s animus returned. I mu
st leave now. Tell Shaula if I am needed, Regulus unexpectedly projected to O’Keefe. He caught a glimpse of the big alpha trotting away toward the exit while another pack member took his place, and shortly felt his presence fade to nil. He checked Shaula, who still lay in the same spot, panting lightly in the same manner, and every few seconds turning her attentive gaze toward him. He felt reassured and, despite the abrupt departure of Regulus, for the rest of the day the loads he carried seemed easier to bear.

  And so it went for four days. There were occasional contacts with Regulus, including one where he informed O’Keefe that the Akadean conspirators had indeed shelved their planned uprising indefinitely, but those were the only breaks in the drudgery. It was otherwise days of hard labor followed by nights of exhausted sleep. For the last two of those days, the hangar had been empty of ships, but the men had been kept busy inexplicably moving supplies from one storeroom to another.

  On the fourth day however, after lights out, O’Keefe’s torturous routine was suddenly altered when he was jolted awake by the touch of a cold, wet and very large nose pressing against his cheek. Wake up, Achilles, Regulus thought. We have procured the supplies that you were in need of, and the dragons seem torpid beyond their usual custom this evening. You must come and restore the function of your weapon.

  “Not now,” O’Keefe said wearily through a half awake yawn. “I’m too tired. There were no ships in the hangar today anyway. It can wait a day or two.”

  In response, Regulus swabbed the left side of O’Keefe’s face with a saliva-laden tongue.

  “Oh, damn, that’s nasty,” O’Keefe whispered resignedly, sitting upright in bed now and futilely attempting to wipe his face with his shirt.

  Yes, but you are up and alert, are you not?

  “Can I put on my boots before we go, or is that too much to ask?” he whispered.

  There are no dragons in the immediate vicinity. Don your footwear if you must, but please do not dawdle. We should leave here while the way is still clear.

  “Okay, Okay. I’m working on it,” O’Keefe whispered as he laced and tied his worn boots, his fingers moving as rapidly as they were able. When he was done, he swung down from his bed, throwing an arm over Regulus as he did so and affectionately patting the big dog’s flank. “Let’s go,” he said, while checking on Lindy and Steenini and finding them both to be still lost in deep sleep, Steenini snoring stertorously.

  The route to the dog’s warren was indeed clear. O’Keefe did not need to be carried for a single stride. He was able to walk beside the impatient Regulus for the entirety of the trek. They passed only other pack members stationed as sentries at points along their route, and not once did O’Keefe so much as hear the clank and rumble of an approaching lizard. Yet he could feel that Regulus never ceased hearing them.

  When they reached the den, Regulus led O’Keefe to what the Earther thought was the same chamber where the bonding had taken place, but there was no sign of the trusty’s body. Instead there were only the impedimenta he had specified to Regulus, along with the gun and its holster, lying spread across the floor in the center of the room, illuminated by the light of a powerful lantern. He was pleased to see that along with the solvent, the oil, the rags, and a toothbrush; the dogs had somehow managed to come up with a brush fitted to the end of a metal rod that looked tailor-made for gun cleaning. Like the solvent, it must have come from the guards’ maintenance shop, where it was probably used to clean some tubular part of the their chassis or engines. It didn’t matter. The important thing was that now it belonged to O’Keefe.

  He rifled through the pile of stolen rags, all of which were as clean as could be expected after having been carried through the grubby environs of Ashawzut in the mouths of dogs, until he found the largest one. He spread it open across the floor, pulled the pistol from its holster, ejected the magazine, and fieldstripped the weapon, carefully placing the three resulting assemblies down on the cloth. Then he went to work.

  First he wiped as much of the dirt and dust from the gun as was possible with only a rag. Next he wielded the toothbrush and got down to the real business of cleaning. The solvent was of superior quality, better than O’Keefe had ever seen, and it melted the rust and grime from the pistol with only the merest touch. He quickly brushed the gun clean of nearly all of its accumulated filth. Then he poured a little solvent on a piece of cloth, spent a short time polishing, and soon the parts lay spread across the cloth shining as if new. He briefly regretted not having a screwdriver, as he was unsure how the obviously potent solution would affect the plastic grip guards and wished he could have removed them. However, when he was done, the stock looked none the worse for wear. In the end the procedure was more successful than O’Keefe had dared to hope. The only difficult part of the whole endeavor had been getting a piece of cloth down the barrel to oil it after he had scoured its insides with the solvent and brush.

  In less than an hour the gun was cleaned, oiled, loaded, and apparently in perfect working order. O’Keefe tested its action several times before wrapping it in a rag, reholstering it, and wrapping that in another rag before handing it off to one of the dogs.

  “Well, that’s it,” he said to Regulus. “The damn thing’s lethal now.”

  Let us pray that you are correct, Achilles.

  For the following seven days, O’Keefe worked the storerooms and the dock, waiting for enough ships to berth in Ashawzut for his plan to commence. During that time a big freighter arrived, was unloaded, filled with ore, and then departed. For days after it had risen on its antigravs and carefully found its way out through the hangar door, there had been nothing. But on the eighth day O’Keefe arrived for his work detail to find two of the largest freighters in the Vazilek inventory—or at least the largest that he had seen—and one smaller transport lying across the wide expanse of the cavernous hangar. There was so much metal spread over the dock that from the bow of the first one, the hull of the last could not clearly be discerned for all the dust stirred up by the work parties and the guards. He whispered to the dog nearest him to get Regulus and within ten minutes he felt the pack leader arrive. A few moments later the massive canine was trotting off to reclaim the Colt and hide it beneath the mattress of O’Keefe’s bunk. The time had come to put their plans in motion.

  That evening O’Keefe was, as always, one of the first back to the barracks. A dog was lolling about, seemingly unconcerned, just outside the entrance, but the nonchalance was a façade. The alert eyes that met O’Keefe’s gaze as he jogged up made it clear that the animal was there to provide security, both for him and the pistol. Less than a minute after he had entered, the dog followed him in and lay down next to the doorway.

  O’Keefe strode quickly to his bunk and found the holstered gun, dropped his pants, and struggled for several minutes trying to find a way to adequately secure it to his upper leg. At last he succeeded, using strips torn from the rags that had covered the gun to tie the straps of the holster tightly around his thigh. Two other inmates, who apparently worked in the laundry, where already back in the barracks to witness what he did, but they lay on their bunks catatonic, if not asleep, and paid no heed to what went on in the far corner where O’Keefe made his preparations. Not that it mattered. Even if they had noticed what he was up to and wanted to do something about it, the dog would have easily thwarted them. He had just pulled up his trousers and was retying the drawstring when he heard the sounds of a lizard guard approaching, heralding the arrival of the first of the men from the mines.

  When they had tottered past him and collapsed into their bunks, O’Keefe quickly and quietly informed Lindy and Steenini of the news. Although both had been heartened by his unexpected breakthrough of befriending Regulus and the pack, O’Keefe did not think that they really had an understanding of just how capable the canines were. They were also utterly spent by the rigors of the day and neither could do much more than nod or shake their heads to denote an affirmative or a negative response. O’Keefe was unsure if they were
too tired to be excited, if they were too apathetic to care, or if they still believed him to be merely a deranged and violent outworlder with a crazy scheme in his head.

  The answer came once his friends were restored enough to speak. Both badly wanted to escape, but they were cognizant that success still hinged on the Earther’s ability to kill Elorak in the arena while somehow surviving her assault robot’s wardship. Neither thought it possible, and both still believed O’Keefe to be mad for attempting it. The two of them explicitly expressed that sentiment, but they had also come to know O’Keefe well enough to understand that any effort to dissuade him from the path he had chosen would be futile. His course was set, and nothing would alter it now. Halfheartedly they pledged to assist in whatever way they could, but the look in their eyes said they believed O’Keefe to be a dead man. It seemed clear that they expected nothing more than to witness him blown into pulp or to see his mangled body adorning the business end of one of the guards’ harpoons.

  O’Keefe, for his part, scowled and heaped scorn on his friend’s presumptions. It irked him to no end that they initially had been all for any kind of action against the Vazileks in general and Elorak in particular, even if it meant certain death; but now that the actuality had arrived they sat listless and acted as if the whole enterprise was maniacal, even though neither of them had any real part to play and no hazards to risk. Perhaps that was part of the problem, O’Keefe thought, sighing inwardly. Maybe if they were more involved they wouldn’t be so defeatist about what was to come.