The Dogs of God

by Chris Kennedy

  The Dogs of God

  Science Fiction According to Chris

  Edited by

  Chris Kennedy

  The Dogs of God

  Edited by Chris Kennedy

  Published by Theogony Books

  Virginia Beach, VA, USA

  www.chriskennedypublishing.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States’ copyright law.

  The stories in this collection are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Editor: Chris Kennedy

  Cover Artwork by Christian Kallias - InfiniteSciFi.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Chris Kennedy

  All rights reserved.

  The stories contained herein have never been previously published and are copyrighted as follows:

  MIRANDA’S LAST DANCE by Chris Ficco © 2019 by Chris Ficco

  THE TAULKE JOB by Chris Pourteau © 2019 by Chris Pourteau and David Bruns

  CHRIS WAS HERE by Kevin Steverson © 2019 by Kevin Steverson

  THE BLAST by Chris Kennedy © 2019 by Chris Kennedy

  THE THETA DECISION by Chris Dietzel © 2019 by Chris Dietzel

  GUNSHIP by Christine Gasbjerg © 2019 by Christine Gasbjerg

  LIFE DURING WARTIME by Christopher G. Nuttall © 2019 by Christopher G. Nuttall

  TO BECOME DEATH by Christopher Hopper © 2019 by Christopher Hopper

  EVE OF DESTRUCTION by Christopher Woods © 2019 by Christopher Woods

  GAMBIT by Christian Kallias © 2019 by Christian Kallias

  THE HITCHHIKER’S PASS by Chris J. Pike © 2019 by Chris J. Pike

  LIFER by Chris Reher © 2019 by Chris Reher

  RIDERS ON THE STORM by Chris A. Jackson © 2019 by Chris A. Jackson

  OF CATS, DOGS, AND DEVLIN by Chris Maddox © 2019 by Chris Maddox

  PLANETFALL by Chris Fox © 2019 by Chris Fox

  KILL THE KING by Christopher Ruocchio © 2019 by Christopher Ruocchio

  * * * * *

  Get the free Four Horsemen prelude story “Shattered Crucible”

  and discover other Theogony Books titles at:

  http://chriskennedypublishing.com/

  * * * * *

  If you want a good story, just ask Chris.

  Unknown, circa 2019

  * * * * *

  Preface by Chris Kennedy

  I’m sure you’re wondering, “Why the dog/God thing? Surely you could have come up with a better title, right?”

  Maybe…and maybe not. The “Dogs of God” came from the Byzantine depiction of St. Christopher as a dog-headed person (almost like Anubis), which was a misinterpretation of the Latin term Cananeus (Canaanite) to read canineus, which means, “canine.” Don’t believe me? Look it up (I did)—there are plenty of pictures showing the dog-headed St. Christopher.

  This title was suggested by Christopher Ruocchio, and I liked it as it was a different talking point for the book. I don’t know how many of the other Chrises liked it, but they at least didn’t complain too loudly, so it stuck.

  What they did do was write great stories, and I am happy to have captured them in this book. Sixteen people named Chris participated in this project (okay, 15 really, and a guy who wrote a story about Chris), incorporating some of the biggest names in both indie and traditional publishing. The stories vary across the spectrum of science fiction, but they have one thing in common—they’re all great!

  The Chrises (and Kevin) also wrote really long stories, for the most part, so if you’re getting this as an ebook, it’s one of the better deals going—170k words of new material, just for you. So sit back (you’ll want a really comfy chair—you’ll need it), relax, and find out all about Science Fiction, according to Chris.

  Chris Kennedy

  Virginia Beach, VA

  Contents

  Preface by Chris Kennedy

  Miranda’s Last Dance by Chris Ficco as Quincy J. Allen

  The Taulke Job by Chris Pourteau

  Chris Was Here by Kevin Steverson

  The Blast by Chris Kennedy

  The Theta Decision by Chris Dietzel

  Gunship by Christine Gasbjerg

  Life During Wartime by Christopher G. Nuttall

  To Become Death by Christopher Hopper

  Eve of Destruction by Christopher Woods

  Gambit by Christian Kallias

  The Hitchhiker’s Pass by Chris J. Pike

  Lifer by Chris Reher

  Riders on the Storm by Chris A. Jackson

  Of Cats, Dogs, and Devlin by Chris Maddox

  Planetfall by Chris Fox

  Kill The King by Christopher Ruocchio

  About Chris Kennedy

  Excerpt from Book One of The Fallen World

  Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy

  Excerpt from Book One of The Progenitors’ War

  * * * * *

  Miranda’s Last Dance by Chris Ficco

  Writing One Last Time as Quincy J. Allen

  Chapter 1

  September 2967 (Terran Calendar)—Colony World Bevin

  “I hate this planet,” Kenny grumbled, loading another crate of shadda roots into Henry Combs’ battered Masahaki hovertruck. The truck was an old, military-grade hauler that still had the gun-mounts—albeit empty ones—on the hood and behind the cab. “Nothing ever happens, and nobody ever goes anywhere.”

  At seventeen years old, Kenny Boudreaux had gone through his growth-spurt with a vengeance. He stood a few centimeters taller than Hank, with broad shoulders, a farmer’s physique, and a shock of curly orange hair that spoke of Irish descent.

  A dozen meters off, Henry Combs smiled and, with a shake of his gray-haired head, swept several dead leaves from the headstone at his feet. He kneeled, placed his hand upon the name MIRANDA laser-etched into the stone, and ran his finger over the dates, 2934–2942.

  He remembered, and a wistful look—one neither happy nor sad—crossed his face.

  “You managed one more year of sleep,” he said softly. “Let’s hope it lasts a lifetime.”

  He straightened, his joints popping a staccato reminder of his seventy-nine years, and let out a long, weary breath. Stretching his strong, sinewy arms, he turned toward Kenny, whom he’d hired to help with this year’s harvest of the versatile tubers indigenous to Bevin. They were the colony’s primary cash crop. The meaty tuber was an ingredient for several anti-aging pharmaceuticals produced off-world, as well as an excellent source of carbohydrates and protein in meals. It also made excellent mash for those who knew how to distill it into a bourbon-like drink unique in the galaxy.

  The exceptionally potent, yet silky-smooth libation had been dubbed “süns” by Kahn Soong Lei, the Mongolian descendant who’d invented it. The old man had thought his ancestral word for “ghost” was an appropriate name. When he’d arrived in 2952 with the first wave of colonists, he came up with the spirit almost immediately. He was a master craftsman of any distillation process, and Hank had considered the man to be the da Vinci of alcohol. A two-year-old batch of the old Mongolian’s brew was good. Five was better. Anything beyond that was like drinking God’s quicksilver without killing you.

  Hank ambled over to his hovertruck and examined Kenny’s work. The crates had been stacked tight and neatly set into the bed of the vehicle. He had to admit, Kenny was well worth the eighty credits a day Hank paid him. He stepped up and gave Kenny the sort of patient, crotch
ety half-smile only old people know how to use.

  “Son,” he replied, yanking off a dingy, broad-brimmed hat and running a hand through a high-and-tight swath of gray hair, “believe me when I say a shitty, backwater world like Bevin is a blessing.”

  Kenny had worked for Hank for nearly two months and hadn’t let Hank down yet. The lad complained a bit, but never let it get in the way of the job. Hank had made the arrangement with Kenny’s father over a long card game and a daisy-chain of locally brewed ales made from an indigenous grain called traba. Like most of the colonists in New Haven, the oldest farming community on the planet, Kenny’s father looked up to Hank like a grandfather figure of sorts. The whole colony did.

  Kenny turned sour, disbelieving eyes to the old man as he loaded another crate onto the truck. The kid really does have a solid work ethic, Hank thought with a satisfied nod.

  “I don’t have to agree with you just because you’re paying me, do I, Mr. Combs?” Kenny said, stretching his shoulders as he moved to the nearby stack of crates.

  “Not ever, son,” Hank said affably. “And maybe it’s time you started calling me Hank.”

  “Alright,” Kenny said a bit uncomfortably, “…Hank.”

  “That’s better.” Hank took a patient breath. “You don’t know it, but even that one question sorta makes my point for me, although you’re too inexperienced to know why. You should count that as a blessing, too.”

  “If you say so.” Kenny chuckled. “I guess I’ll just keep counting my blessings. And crates.” He grabbed another crate and set it down in the bed of the hovertruck. “Not that the alternative would make any difference around here.”

  As Hank moved over to the dwindling stack of crates, a faint but deep rumbling filled the air. Kenny scanned the countryside, running his gaze along the long dirt road that cut through Hank’s four-hundred acre farmstead, but Hank’s eyes lifted to the sky, turned west toward the setting sun, and immediately picked out a narrow contrail tipped with a glowing spark of light that was coming in about halfway up from the horizon.

  “There.” Hank pointed toward the incoming ship, and Kenny’s eyes shifted in that direction. “Were there any cargo haulers due in today?” Hank asked.

  “Nope.” Kenny’s father doubled as both the colony’s mayor and the port master for the handful of airfields that qualified as the only official starport on the planet. There were even a few small, older starships parked out there gathering dust. They looked more like a ship graveyard than anything else. None had lifted off in over a decade. “Nothing was due in for another week, although another big süns shipment is scheduled to go up tomorrow night.”

  As they watched, the ship stitched its way across the sky, bleeding off velocity as it dropped in altitude. It went into a hard turn a few miles to the east, and moments later passed directly over their heads. A sonic boom echoed across the landscape. A high-pitched turbine shriek filled their ears as the ship fired its retros. Its velocity decreased significantly, and Hank was able to get a good look at its silhouette. He recognized the design, although it was more modern than the ones he remembered.

  “Well, shit,” he said, and then let out a long, disgusted breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Kenny asked.

  “One pass to reconnoiter, and a final approach to deploy,” Hank said, sounding like he was reading it out of a manual.

  “What are you talking about?” Kenny’s voice was tinged with confusion and a trace of fear.

  “That’s a Ming dropship, son,” Hank said, glancing at Kenny. “Watch…” Hank’s eyes darted back to where the dropship was making its final approach toward town six miles away. As it did, a half-dozen dark objects ejected—three on each side—from the main fuselage and shot away in downward arcs. “And those are drop pods…. God dammit,” Hank muttered, slapping his hat back onto his head.

  “Jesus, Hank,” Kenny blurted “What the hell is going on?”

  “Mercs, I imagine,” Hank said. “Probably looking for an easy payday.” His eyes flicked to Miranda’s headstone and then back to Kenny. “And if they’re this far out in the galactic arm, it’s because they couldn’t get an easier payday anyplace else.”

  “Mercs?”

  “Remember what I said about being on this planet being a blessing?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, it’s a double-edged sword, and I was hoping I wouldn’t see the other edge before they planted me.” He turned toward Kenny. “Do you know anything about firearms?”

  “Sure,” Kenny said. “Dad and I go hunting all the time.”

  “Then I need you to do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going into town to see what these bastards are after.” He took off his hat and laid it on top of the crates they hadn’t loaded. “I need you to go into my house and down into the basement.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “In case I’m right,” Hank growled. “You’ll find an old wooden table on top of a large floor rug. Move the table and pull back the rug. Beneath, you’ll see a small cover plate for a large hatch. Lift the cover-plate, punch in the code MIRANDA, and when the pod opens, start prepping everything you see in there as best you can.”

  “But…” Kenny started.

  “No buts,” Hank barked. “Just do as I say, and maybe we’ll all live through this.” In a flash, the nice old man Kenny knew had disappeared. Before him was someone else altogether, and Hank’s tone brooked no discussion. There was an edge to his voice and posture that Kenny had never seen before. Hank’s taut shoulders relaxed when he recognized the look in Kenny’s eyes. “Listen, son.” He looked down the road toward town. “Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m overreacting, and they’ll turn out to be new colonists or something.” He placed a hand on Kenny’s shoulder. “It’s just better to be prepared, alright? Get on in there and do as I ask. It could make all the difference.”

  Kenny licked his lips. “Okay,” he finally said.

  “Good lad,” Hank said. “If nobody shows up here by midnight tonight, then head on into town like nothing happened.”

  “You got it,” Kenny replied, heading toward the house.

  Hank moved around and opened the door to his hovertruck, and as he thought about what he needed to do next, he realized he should probably warn Kenny.

  “One more thing,” Hank called out. “A few folks might stop by this afternoon. If they show up and tell you Miranda sent them, take them downstairs.” He eyed Kenny. “Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kenny replied, looking even more worried.

  “Everything’s gonna work out,” Hank said.

  Kenny turned, nodded once with a fearful expression on his face, and then headed for Hank’s front door.

  Hank hit the power on his hovertruck, and the soft, electric hum of its Masahaki power plant filled the air. The vehicle lifted off the ground about a foot, and the struts beneath retracted up into the chassis. He eased the accelerator, guided the truck out onto the dirt road, and headed for town.

  As he drove, he initialized the comm unit implanted beneath the scalp behind his right ear and connected to Sam Teller, one of his best friends. Sam, whose much larger plot of land lay five miles north, was fifteen years Hank’s junior and had been one of the older colonists in the first wave. The two men had hit it off immediately, for a variety of reasons, including why they had chosen to settle on Bevin.

  The comm buzzed twice, and then Sam picked up.

  “I take it you saw it?” Sam said quickly and without preamble. There was neither surprise nor worry in his voice, only resolve.

  “Yep,” Hank replied.

  “So, what do we do?”

  “Get to my house,” Hank said. “Carl’s son Kenny is there. Tell him Miranda sent you. You’ll know what to do.”

  “Copy that,” Sam replied. “And I may be able to round up a few more.”

  “Do that,” Hank said. “I’m heading into town to see what’s up. If I’m not back by m
idnight, you’re on your own.”

  “Good luck,” Sam said.

  “You, too, Sam.”

  Hank cut the comm and slammed the accelerator to the floor.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 2

  Hank strolled into the small town of New Haven, a long stem of traba grain sticking out the side of his mouth. He had parked his truck on the far side of the wide, tree-lined river that ran north to south about a thousand meters outside of town. He’d kept the vehicle out of sight and hadn’t spotted any aerial drones or flitters, so it was likely the new visitors hadn’t seen him come in.

  The city of New Haven, small though it was, had a population of about two thousand. They were mostly farmers and tradespeople who had sought refuge from the complicated life of cosmop worlds and large populations. They were—in general, anyway—a simple people in search of a simple life. As Hank surveyed the end of Main Street ahead, right where the dirt road ended and the permacrete pavement began, he knew their tranquil existence had been shattered by mercenaries…and not just mercenaries, but corporate mercenaries.

  Standing in plain sight on the nearest street corner were two troopers, one man and one woman. Clad in light combat armor and helmets with opaque visors pulled down, they held pulse rifles casually cradled in their arms. The armor looked like modern derivatives of ArmyTek’s line of modular armor. The lines looked right to Hank’s eye, but it was an educated guess at best. Both troopers wore red and black uniforms, but they were clearly not Republic troopers, which meant New Haven was in real trouble. The troopers’ eyes were fixed upon Hank as he walked slowly up the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath his feet.