An Oath of Dogs

by Wendy N. Wagner

  Peter was glad there wouldn’t be a real mass. He could remember going to church with his abuela, the air bristling with incense, the wonderful rustling of people’s best clothes moving from pew to kneeler, but the act of recalling it made him uncomfortable. His parents, agnostics both, hadn’t discouraged him from going to church, but once he’d left Mexico the magic had seeped out of the whole thing. He could still remember the pain that had crept across his grandmother’s face when he told her the transubstantiation was the stupidest fiction of all time.

  He regretted doing that to her, but damn it, he was a scientist. Religion had meant something to him before he could use reason and education to sort through the mysteries of the world. Of course he had outgrown it.

  The tinny recording of the church bell began, and Peter hurried up the street. The church sat across from the police department, and he had to dodge the puddles and ruts so as not to ruin his dress shoes.

  Once inside, Peter dropped into a pew and looked around himself. Most of the town had gathered in the plastic-smelling church. Lou from security sat a few rows ahead, crying so hard his shoulders shook. A huge bundle of white roses sat on top of the blessedly closed casket, and he saw Niketa setting up one of those ugly floral swags beside it. He sank down in a pew, but he could feel the eyes on him from every direction. He had found McKidder’s body, after all.

  The service began. Father Donovan delivered a few comforting beatitudes. Joe Holder spoke — it sounded like he and Rob had a long history working together, going back to some ratty station off Ganymede — and then Niketa said a few words about McKidder’s family. HR planned to send both Rob’s girlfriend and his aging parents a card and a gift basket. Niketa reminded them all of the gathering in the meeting hall on the west side of the building, and asked everyone to chip in a credit or two for the refreshments, generously provided by the Woodworkers Auxiliary.

  Peter found himself caught up in the flow of mourners. He’d meant to head straight home, but now he was beside the refreshment table, where the scent of scorched coffee presided over plates of store-bought cookies. He took an oatmeal-raisin and a cup of the too-thick black stuff, unsure what to do next. He couldn’t escape without drawing attention to himself.

  An older woman squeezed past him to get a cup of coffee, talking back over her shoulder to a friend. “The dogs never killed anybody before. They were always a menace, but this—”

  Her friend tromped on Peter’s foot as she hurried to catch up. “Things are going to hell around here,” she declared and took a handful of chocolate chip cookies. “Dogs, ecoterrorists, Duncan committing suicide—”

  A group of children ran through, nearly knocking Peter down. He took a few steps away from the refreshment table, looking for someplace safe to hole up. Instead, he found himself closer to the main knot of people.

  Joe Holder’s voice boomed out over the group. “I talked to Deputy Wu yesterday. Sounds like they’ve caught at least one of those eco-assholes.”

  People shifted so they wouldn’t miss any gossip. A knot of men had gathered around Joe, most of them security and operations types from the mill and the company office. Peter saw one logger he knew.

  “I hope he gets the death penalty,” Brett Takas said. “Twenty-five people died in that explosion.”

  “What are you doing to make sure it doesn’t happen here?” Peter didn’t know the woman, but her voice sounded shrill.

  “We’ve doubled guards on every shift,” Brett reassured her. “And we’re keeping close tabs on anyone known to sympathize with environmentalists.”

  Joe’s eyes caught Peter’s just then, and Peter felt the hairs rise up on his neck. He couldn’t help but remember his conversation with Sheriff Vargas about the flyer the ecoterrorists had quoted — the flyer he’d written.

  He stuffed a cookie in his mouth and hoped like hell nobody remembered the fight he’d gotten into at the Mill Cafe. Because if word got out he spent his free time defending leather birds, he would certainly end up on the short list of environmentalists in town, and he had a feeling that was enough to put him in jail around here.

  DR HOLT LOOKED up from her hand unit. Presumably she was looking at Standish’s file, although she might as well have been doing her tax return for the expression on her face. “And ever since the accident you’ve suffered from acute anxiety, despite neural stim for post-traumatic stress?”

  “My other therapist said it was residual agoraphobia. I’m almost perfectly fine unless I get a good look at the sky,” Standish explained. “The stars are my biggest trigger.”

  “Mmm-hmmn.” The psychiatrist made a note with her stylus. “It says here that you were deported to Earth after starting a fight in a bar that caused close to twenty thousand dollars in damage. You broke your nose and sent a man to the hospital with a crushed larynx. Space station legal and psychological council blamed alcohol abuse caused by your untreated anxiety disorder.”

  “But it hasn’t bothered me at all since I got Hattie. Like, not at all.”

  Dr Holt pushed back from her desk. The highlights in her copper hair probably cost her as much every month as Standish had spent on rent back on Earth. Being a shrink on Huginn must be pretty lucrative. “I’m glad you’ve had such success with animal therapy, Ms Standish, but I’m in agreement with your employer. Your anxiety is a significant issue, and eight months is not enough time to be certain it will completely control the problem.”

  “It’s been almost two years if you count the time in cryo,” Standish joked.

  Dr Holt raised an immaculate eyebrow. “Are you funnier when you’re not this uncomfortable?”

  “I’m not… uncomfortable.” Standish caught herself rolling up the edge of her T-shirt and forced her hands to lay flat in her lap. “I’m using humor as a tool to help us connect.”

  “That’s odd. Most of your relationships with your previous doctors were distant, to say the least.” A smile twitched at the corner of Dr Holt’s lips, giving her a mischievous expression. “I think Dr Warner mentioned an incident involving a bottle of water and his head?”

  “He deserved to have his head soaked,” Standish snapped. “He was a dick.”

  “I went to graduate school with Dr Warner. I’d say that’s an accurate description of him.”

  Standish could only stare at her.

  Dr Holt unfolded from her seat, her posture as refined as a ballerina’s. But Standish had to admit there was more to the woman than class and fancy diplomas. She almost liked her.

  “I’d like to get you scheduled for some regular sessions, but I know things are a little hectic in Canaan Lake right now. When things settle down, please set something up. I’ve sent a couple of prescriptions to your hand unit — one for a low-level anti-anxiety and depression med, and another for panic attacks. I want to keep this condition under control.”

  “Like I said, Hattie’s got this. Since we started working together, it’s like I don’t even have anxiety. She’s really my better half.”

  Dr Holt shook her head. “And like I said, I’m glad you’ve had such good luck with animal therapy.” She reached for the button that opened the office door. “But what would you do if something happened to Hattie?”

  Standish left the office, Holt’s words replaying in her head. She stopped in front of the elevator and stroked Hattie’s ears. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, girl.”

  The dog wagged her tail.

  Standish brought up GPS on her hand unit. A red dot flashed on the corner of the map, indicating the nearest pharmacy. Standish turned off the notification and found the route to Dewey’s apartment.

  She drove through the blocks of bland office buildings at the fringe of Space City and headed toward the skytowers in the downtown. The buildings got larger and larger closer to the city center. No cheap plastic printing here: this was grade-A construction with overtones of pre-First Depression USA. These were multinational conglomerations, and they weren’t about to let anyone forget it
.

  She turned onto Monroe Street and headed into a comfortable neighborhood filled with four- and five-story apartment buildings. Most had made some attempt to obscure their simple construction. Balconies and courtyards added texture to every building, and a few boasted art deco facades that echoed the ornate skytowers where their inhabitants likely worked. Standish found the guest lot for one particularly charming building and then made her way through the covered courtyard. A man and woman sat on a bench beside the small fountain, oblivious to her presence. Their little dog jumped up, though, and barked at Hattie. The building’s door swung open and Dewey came out in a pink raincoat.

  “I was just about to go pick up some liquor,” she said. “I thought you wouldn’t be here for another hour.”

  “I got an early start.” Standish squeezed her tightly. Then she pushed Dewey out to arm’s length. “The new implants look good. Work that nice had to cost a bundle.”

  Dewey pulled out of her grip, clearly uncomfortable. “I work a lot of extra hours. Anyway.” She waved around her with a bright smile. “What do you think of the place? Classier than anyplace I’ve ever lived.”

  “Remind me not to have you over to my house,” Standish grumbled as she followed Dewey into the pink-tiled lobby.

  Dewey drew back the bronze grate of the elevator. “Heroes first.”

  Standish led Hattie on board. “Do you have anything for an early lunch? We’re starving.”

  Dewey laughed. “Some things never change. Yes, I was prepared for your rapacious appetite. Good cheese — cheese, can you believe it? — bread, sliced meats, that steak for Hattie. I’ve got some wine, too, nothing too good, but what do you expect on a planet this cold?”

  They got off on the third floor and Standish watched her friend closely as Dewey led them down a hallway apparently papered with gold chevrons. A closer inspection revealed the walls had been printed with the design, all the class and charm just floating on the surface. Like Dewey’s good mood.

  “So what’s bothering you?” she asked as the door closed behind them. The sweet vanilla of Dewey’s favorite perfume hung over the apartment.

  “Lunch first?” Dewey didn’t meet her eyes as she went to the fridge.

  “How about you talk while you get lunch? I don’t want to wait.”

  Dewey disappeared into the refrigerator for a moment and appeared with a bottle of white. “I might need a drink. You might need a drink.”

  “I might need a drink?” Standish took the bottle out of Dewey’s hand. “Dewey, what the hell is going on?”

  “Look, I’ve been hearing things about Canaan Lake. I know you found Duncan Chambers’ body, and I know what that must have meant to you.”

  “It meant I found a dead body.” Standish took a long drink of her wine. “There’s no reason to worry about me.”

  “I’m the only person in this system who knows they ought to worry about you.” Dewey sat down on the couch and patted the seat beside her. “Ostensibly, my job is part of Huginn’s government. Huginn is recognized as a territory of the North American Trade Federation. It has none of the rights or responsibilities of any state in the NATF. The way the laws are written, Huginn is just like a space station: the property of the corporations that built her.”

  “I’ve worked on space stations. I know all this.”

  “Well, let me remind you who built the infrastructure of Huginn. Eighty percent of the first survey work was done by Songheuser Corporation. Fifty-five percent of the initial spaceport was built by Songheuser. Thirty-five percent of all the roads on this world: built by Songheuser.”

  “So Songheuser’s a big deal. What does this have to do with me?”

  Dewey put her wineglass down on the coffee table. “Songheuser is a dangerous company.” She took a deep breath. “I was going through some old logs, trying to sort out some details about orders for the station on Muninn. There were parts that kept failing, circuits that should have had a longer lifespan. I thought maybe a manufacturer was screwing us. It led me to a contractor named Lohmax-Keysound.

  “The more I learned about them, the worse it got. I discovered Goddard Station contracted out the station’s construction and operations management to Lohmax-Keysound. Several major installations overseen by the company have had critical failures based on the sourcing of inferior parts. About three years ago, a class-action lawsuit against them triggered an investigation by the NATF Trade Board. The suit created a fund for those stricken in several accidents caused by the company’s knowing use of recalled parts in their exterior maintenance tracks.”

  Standish licked her lips, which were suddenly dry. “Once again, what does that have to do with me?”

  Her voice sounded smaller than she’d expected it.

  “The NATF determined that the accident on Goddard Station — your accident, Kate — was caused by Lohmax-Keysound’s negligence. If you hadn’t been moving around — if you’d received and signed the papers — you would have received three-quarters of a million dollars.”

  Dewey took Standish’s hand. “I kept digging. Lohmax-Keysound is a shell company for a subsidiary of Songheuser Corporation. Do you really think it was a coincidence that Songheuser reached out to you when they did? That their headhunters just happened to seek out communications tech workers at the same time lawyers were looking for you? When did you go to Ohio for your training with Hattie?”

  Standish pulled her hand free. “You’re saying I got my job, I got Hattie, just so Songheuser could save three-quarters of a million bucks?”

  Dewey took a deep breath. “I’m saying that last year Songheuser took over the contract to manage Goddard Station. They could do it because outside of a very tricky paper trail, there’s nothing to connect them to Lohmax-Keysound, and they’d like to keep it like that.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  Standish couldn’t stay still any longer. She jumped to her feet. “Jesus Christ, Dewey, that’s just what’s happening at Canaan Lake, and I know it. Duncan had these papers, maps and stuff. He knew about the secret road out there in Sector 13. He knew something about the company!”

  “Stop it.”

  Standish pushed on, pacing. “That’s it. Songheuser is covering up something. God, maybe they even killed Duncan. That would make some kind of sick sense.”

  “Standish, shut up!”

  Staring at her friend, Standish dropped onto the couch.

  “You can’t talk like that. At most, you can try to get your money from that suit, but you cannot talk about Songheuser like that. You’ll have your visa rescinded and find yourself on a cargo hauler back to Earth before you can even find your attorney’s phone number.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve seen it happen.” Dewey took a long drink of her wine and then gave Standish a weak smile. “I can get you a job in my department, I know it. So just hold tight. Don’t go stirring things up yet, Kitty Cat. I don’t want to lose you again.”

  Standish took a deep breath and looked out the window. From this angle, the skytowers blocked out the sky, their pointed tops and sharp spires directed at the sun. Those companies were giants who strode between worlds, who owned whole cities and spun the futures of entire planets in their wake. An ember of hatred flickered to life in her chest.

  “Please, Kate.”

  “OK, Dewey. I’ll mind my own business. Besides, the sheriff thinks Duncan was probably a suicide anyway.”

  Dewey gave her a hard look.

  Standish forced a wide smile. “Hey, I brought you a present!” She reached in her pack for the soft scarf she’d made last night from Believer yarn and watched Dewey’s face soften into happiness.

  But Standish barely heard her coos of delight. She was thinking. Would Dewey have made such a fuss if she wasn’t sure Songheuser had something to do with Duncan’s death? Standish had a feeling there was more to her friend’s story than she’d shared.

  What does a dog know? Can it know its creator?
Can it know it is a creature spun out of love and logos, or does it only know sensation, instinct, immediacy? Do dogs think?

  It is impossible to take that last question seriously. One has only to watch animals for the briefest moment to see that they feel and have intentions just as we do. The difference is only that they do not name things.

  — from THE COLLECTED WISDOM OF MW WILLIAMS

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HUGINN, Day 179

  Alex Perkins destroyed the cryo tanks this morning.

  I’d been waiting for something bad to happen ever since I saw Vonda’s baby, but when I walked in and saw the mess in the root cellar, I fell on my knees and cried.

  I had gone into the kitchen early to start a tray of bread. Bread’s a nice word for what I make out of ground pinto beans and sawdust, but it’s something to dunk in the flavored water I’ll call soup, and it’s nice to get up before anyone else and start the ovens. It’s really something, being warm and dry. You don’t appreciate it until you’re outside in the rain all the time. I turned on the ovens and I headed to the food stores to get another bag of beans. It’s cold down there, colder than my mama’s root cellar, and the blue lights of the cryo tanks are all the light we’ve got.

  But this morning, the root cellar was dark, and the stink of death lay over the room, like the slaughterhouse before it gets washed out. I had to go find a lantern to see just what happened, but of course I already knew. Hadn’t Perkins told us all that he blames cryo for what’s happening to us?

  Every last cryo tank had been smashed open. The embryos made a pinkish-gray pulp on the dirt floor, and cryo liquid pooled around the legs of the shelves. I began to shake with anger.

  All those lives, put out like a candle.

  What a waste. An unimaginable, horrible waste. Even if we couldn’t have raised those creatures to adulthood, we could have incubated them into something edible. To waste those lives when every morsel of food is a treasure and a terror all at once? Waste them, when I’m so hungry that my hair comes out of my head in handfuls?