The Collected Short Fiction, page 147
In the morning I water the big tree near the main gate and rest there for a while. The ocean is off to my left, dull beneath the cliffs and patterned with hungry birds. The tree is to my right, like me a piece of old metal—scarred and stained, white-puckered grooves radiating from the axis of its foundation. Such low, dark trees dot the ragged coast, but I am informed they do not spring native from this dirt. I wonder if they remember their birthgrounds by some impulse caught in the plexus of heartwood and cambial glue. When the winds rush off the water my tree seems to nod at the sky. It murmurs.
Marcello arrives in his glider when the sun grows fat. My tail wags with a crazy mind of its own. Marcello is black as pitch and always smells of violence, which I adore. His eyes are rivets in a cold bulk. Of all loyal hounds in Dad’s stable, he is dominant. Oh, I could rend him, if growl came to snap, for I am Rex, greatest of my kind. Nonetheless, what a battle that would be!
My brains are superior to most canines. Nonetheless, the primitive beast within me isn’t much for long-term planning. His stratagems are Dad’s long knives. Marcy (Dad calls him that when it’s just the boys) is a ruthless man. This is his chief virtue, in my humble opinion—current events call for ruthlessness. It is the time of dog-eat-dog.
They recline near the scarred tree and discuss the situation in Prime. The ocean is smooth today and Prime is an invisible place where people from books compete for favors. These folk caper at court—clowns, buffoons, trained seals in bright clothes.
Dad, too, competed once. Oh yes.
The old Emperor loved him well. The previous ministers were less charmed by Dad’s heroics in the war against the barbarians. General Aniochles, Dad’s bitterest rival, had openly warned the old Emperor about the dangers of popular war heroes with the keys to the Legion. Aniochles was a foreigner—some speculate that barbarian water tainted his veins, and so the old Emperor chose to turn a deaf ear. Later, Aniochles got torn apart by the mob which stormed the palace during the glorious revolution. I wish we had found his body so I could have pissed upon it.
Marcello says that Prime is a safer place now. The partisans of the old Emperor have been rooted out and shriven. More importantly, the partisans of the old General have been dealt their rewards. During the plans for the Grand Transition Dad had feared a Legion divided. To be sure, isolated centurions chafe in their barracks, yet this is nothing to dread. They need a head as a coin needs its head. Dad will more than suffice.
Marcello is confident all wounds will heal in short order; all petty complaints placed aside. He and Dad drink wine and congratulate themselves on a job well done. I lie at their feet and scheme to the best of my doggy ability. Unlike them, I am nervous of complacency. The new regime requires something to cement its unity. War dogs are not welcome in the parlor when the clamor of battle has subsided. Perhaps the conquered barbarians will test their chains and give us cause to rebuke them. If not the rebellious woodfolk, there is always a tribe rattling its shields. I think then of the pallid dwellers of Europa II, their vacuous demeanors and squirming mouths. We have not fired our rockets at the moon for too long. Dad should spread this message to those who command the Emperor’s ear. Nothing serves to bury present troubles so well as fresh blood.
Marcello asks when Dad means to return to the capital. Dad says that he shall return when the Emperor summons him. Until then he will enjoy the restful ministrations of his lovely wife, and pray red-handed Mars permits a soldier’s ease. Marcello laughs and glides away on a tradewind.
Dad and I watch him go. A crow regards us from the branches.
5
Twenty-two months since we discrowned the tyrant and installed his noble cousin Trajan. Dad is anxious that none of the new Emperor’s promises have come to fruition. My master is a soldier’s soldier and he plays the role. Part of that role is keeping one’s mouth shut in public while complaining to one’s dog in private.
Dad’s duties as Consulate General carry him abroad. He has observed firsthand a growing discontent among the Legion ranks and the populace we protect.
We visit Prime at the wane of each moon and find her streets equally restless. Dad reports the news from fortresses along the rim of the empire. The Emperor’s day-to-day security is overseen by Artificer Lyth and Commander Marcello. It is Lyth who frequently greets us in the Emperor’s name. He is spindly and terrible. I do not enjoy the Grand Artificer’s horrifying aspect, or the stench of malignance that seeps from the joints of his armor. Much occurs beyond the view of our esteemed leaders. The denizens of Europa II test our borders with increasing temerity. The jungles of Pash rustle with the activity of barbarian scouts. There are bombings. The Legion awaits word from Prime. No word is given. Dad hearkens to whispers of discontent and his lips thin into a grim line I’ve seen too often of late.
Emperor Trajan is a wise ruler; he vows to restore Prime to her former majesty. He vows to repeal the heaviest taxes, to rekindle our aggression toward the barbarians and their allies. He vows to return the teeth of our empire. Yet his days are full of courtly doings unrelated to these pledges. His tastes are…curious. He craves exotic entertainment at court. The silken charms of Far Western nymphs consume his attention. He is enthralled by the ecstatic powders of the southern realms. Captive barbarian princes twist in wicker cages above slow steam, and their misery quirks his lips with amusement.
When Dad is finally granted a personal audience, he speaks to his eminence of concerns regarding the Legion and of our far-flung provinces. The Emperor nods his blond head and promises to address the Senate. His glassy eye does not shift from the pale forms wilting in their prisons. Our time is always short—Artificer Lyth hovers near, a monstrous cleg in red and black. He swoops to bleed the Emperor—the woodland savages carry many plagues, many plagues, indeed!—and for this, privacy is essential.
Dad takes leave, questions unresolved. I give the Artificer a baleful glare in passing.
Dad customarily sups with Marcello and dour Iade and commends them to protect our Emperor from harm. His lieutenants assure Dad that the capital is proofed against the machinations of evildoers. In the end we fly from Prime, Dad smelling of uneasy thoughts. He should be pleased, except that he is too much like me in that regard. His instincts are powerful and they whisper to him of danger. He groans in his sleep, reliving battles, or anticipating new ones.
Consulate General is an exalted post. A wealthy post. With Trajan upon the throne, it proves fantastically more so. Trajan lives in dread of assassins. The Legion wants for nothing. Our home is splendorous. Our servants are many. Dad’s lands stretch from deep into fertile plains and shaded hills down the coast. The trees are heavy with fruit; cattle mill in green tracts. Horses stream across wide grasses. He no longer rides them; his back hurts too much for the saddle. It pleases him to watch them gallop beneath puffed clouds as I nip at their heels.
Adjoining our home is a massive structure, low-beamed and windowless. A storehouse for Dad’s greatest prizes. He owns several vehicles—skimmers, racers, bi-spindle gliders, and a light war chariot. This last trifle is prohibited for non-military use. I too am government property. General Aniochles had often raised this point to the Emperor—when not rending the enemies of the Empire, my place was a barracks kennel, not serving as a lap dog to a commander. Yes, well fuck him too. Rank hath its privileges. I’m a bit long in the tooth. Snoozing on the plantation appeals to me more than I would’ve guessed back in the days I chewed iron and pissed fire.
In the concrete floor is a concealed trap that leads to a vault where Dad stores more interesting possessions. Here are his favorite toys—the blades and guns and armor of warfare. He keeps them in fine repair, each instrument polished and whetted in anticipation of grim eventualities. We do not enter the vault this day, although he glances at it with a far-eyed expression I know well. His scent causes me to sniff for hidden danger, yet I sense no enemies lurking. The odor I whiff from his pores is tinted with the same metal as his thrashing nightmares.
Today he does not wish to slaughter a barbarian regiment. He only wishes to drive a pleasure chariot. Before the barbarian troubles he amassed a fortune driving similar vehicles in races at the Hippodrome. Dangerous business, that. Perhaps more dangerous than being a war hero and a politician. He still likes to drive. So we go. I get stuffed into the copilot slot, webbed in and protected by a canine helm Artificer Trang devised before he took the long stroll into night. Artificer Trang had looked and smelled so much better than Lyth. I mourn the dead man as the helm snicks into place.
It is a warm, listless day. From the state-sponsored radiocast—last week’s news. An opera by Laconte. String music. Long static-filled pauses. Nothing about the garrison bombing in New Portugal. Nothing about the Coliseum riot. Marcello sends him a terse message: General, your presence is not required. The dissidents are quelled. Dad does not enjoy this news. His jaw bunches, his hands clench. The people are increasingly restless. The stability of the Empire is paramount. More and more, she is anything but stable. Even a dog can see this.
A narrow road cuts through the white cliffs. It is neglected; the pavement is cracked. There are craters and switchbacks, and hairpin turns. Sometimes the road drops to sea level where rocks lie scattered, ready teeth. We flit past them, the sleek chariot whirring and trembling as it slices right to left with the precision of a stitching machine.
It is not the rocks or the turns that undoes him. A stag wandering from its field is the mechanism of our destruction. It appears in the road, a hoary brute with thick horns lowered. A gray wall. Why does Dad swerve? I do not know. The chariot would cut the beast down without issue. Nor is it fear that rules him—he has crushed many a foe’s glider beneath his own, shorn valiant pilots from their cockpits with a scything sweep of his wing and exulted in the flames and the blood.
Yet, he turns aside. His iron hands are betrayed by a signal, an errant signal that I, with my superior senses almost apprehend in its passage. I smell guilt and awe. The chariot turns as it is commanded to turn and falls among the sharp rocks. The sky and the ocean grapple, trading positions. I recall that the white stag is Dad’s personal standard, the standard of his noble lineage. I should make something of this, yet don’t. Not in this moment. Terror masters me as we crash and burn.
Somewhere dead Aniochles chuckles. Difficult to hear him above the clatter of many shields thrown down at once, my despairing howl…
6
You are a destroyer, Rex.
It is true, what this ghost voice says. This accusing voice that shivers from wrapping fog. I am now, and have ever been, a destroyer of men. It is my little niche. Some dogs fetch, some dogs preen. I crunch bones in my teeth and tear down the works of our enemies. Such work is noble. Some things must be torn down that more important virtues may thrive. I am needed as a wrecking bar is needed. There is no shame.
Protector of tyrants! The phantom hisses. Like master, like dog! Lapdog, sycophant!
The fog lifts and I see my beloved mentor, the Kennel Master Callys, alive in his armor. One of the few men I have ever feared. He is a brick furnace surrounded by soft-mouthed puppies in white tunics. He reeks of blood. The pups shine, eager for his instruction.
Callys teaches us there is nothing complicated about killing a dog or a man. The mechanics are quite straightforward. Some men die easily, other men are hard to kill. Dogs? Dogs are only as good as the hand on the leash. There is no mystery. To reflect upon the destruction of another man is the difficult portion. Instinct has taught us to bow in deference to the sacred pact that has existed since the era of cave dwellers.
First, we must never regard the enemy as men—they are objectives given flesh. Next, Callys advises us to wipe their faces from our minds. We must never look back. This applies to humans and dogs alike. It is the deepest secret to success in the Legion. Then he fits me with my first war collar and sends me with my pack-mates to dim Pash to do the Emperor’s work.
He is correct, my grizzled Callys. Men are easy to kill.
Common folk tell superstitious tales about the barbarians of Pash. The woodsmen are savages who fight with the vigor of ten centurions. They lay horrible traps and eat the flesh of our poor fighting boys. I find that the barbarian squeal and shit of their death throes are much the same as my pack brothers and the hastati who accompany us. It is almost a disappointment.
You are a hound of hell. Your master, your “father,” is a traitorous mutt. He is the real cur.
I am positive the barbarians who looked into my grinning face thought me a terror. The Legion is a juggernaut built to destroy the Empire’s foes. Nothing else. In the dim jungle my purpose is the juggernaut’s terrible purpose, my Dad’s purpose. If that makes me a fiend, then yes, I am a fiend. Gladly.
The fog lowers and bells clang, first at distance, now close and all around. War bells, no mistake. My pulse explodes, but the angry bells soon fade. My vision shifts as the fog boils, closing, and then receding. The old Emperor awaits my master and I upon the Capitol steps. He is a regal man; a king’s king as his title indicates. He loves my master as a son, better than his own sons. My master, my human father, loves him right back. The old Emperor is called tyrant in some quarters. He does not trust in the greatness of Prime. His edicts are harsh. He expects every citizen to weigh his wealth and strength against the welfare of the Empire. The Empire is besieged from without and from within and the old Emperor believes a storm shall someday blow down the towers his ancestors have raised. Yes, the empire has many enemies. The old Emperor has more. Woe unto him. He hugs Dad to his breast. Dad looks away in shame, the way I hang my head after ruining the carpet.
What have you and your master done, hellhound?
I know Dad has come to resent this new, young Emperor. He regrets elevating lofty Trajan, he is disgusted at the debaucheries at court. He broods over the malaise abroad. A storm upon the horizon. The stag regards him with contempt and he turns my chariot toward the ocean.
What has my father done? I do not know. My poor overworked positronic brain is a crude marvel. It can only take me so far.
7
A spiked collar makes an excellent close-quarters weapon. Drive in with the spikes, rip out with the fangs! It is among Callys’ favorite exhortations.
The enemy soldier, a barbarian mastiff smeared in red ochre, does both of these things to me. There is a skirmish to end all skirmishes. Chaos and fire. Men squirming in separate pieces; chattering reports of spindles and malspheres. Dogs whining their last. The mastiff whips me with his claws; his spikes tear my neck, his cracked fangs slash the flesh of my belly. I roll away and wheel. My spurting blood forms a circle in the dirt. I charge him through the sudden mud. He sinks his teeth deep into my shoulder and braces for the killing twist. It is too late for him though. My jaws snap shut upon his neck, my diamond-sharp jaws, and there is no escape from them…Then Dad is there with his gladius blazing a nova and he cuts the mastiff in two. Dad is slathered in crimson. His left arm dangles, shattered. His body is full of holes. He laughs.
So I tell you, this small accident by the water is of no consequence.
Reports are we walked away from the wreckage of the chariot. I do not remember anything except darkness and the distant roar of my ancestors on the plain. I remember gauze curtains, leeches hovering in their robes. Mom weeps. She has seen Dad in the yard, gore from toe to crown, clothes rent from his body. Raving of battles long past. He carried me, a bloodied lump of torn fur and exposed bone. Mom thinks me dead while I dream of chasing the horses across endless fields toward the purple sea. The leeches also think me a goner; my injuries are grave. Ah, they don’t know the trouble I’ve seen. I descend from the supreme canine bloodline. I am augmented with weaponry. I am built to endure.
Only I know that I have seen much worse. I do not say this when I open my eyes and see her nearby, mopping Dad’s brow. My vocalizer seems to have been damaged in the crackup. I whine and sleep again.
8
Dad is a famous man; our accident is reported during numerous newscasts. Sabotage? The broadcasters are titillated. Flowers arrive from all corners of the empire. The Praetorian Guard establishes a cordon around the hospital. Citizens camp in the fields, hoping for a glimpse. It worries me to consider that some of them do not come bearing gifts or fond wishes. Yes, Dad is a famous man, but also a hated one if you ask the right people.
The days roll into weeks.
Faithful Mom keeps vigil, only leaving for the brief visits by Marcello, Iades, and Dad’s other confidants. Marcello brings whiskey and cigarettes. The leeches wisely ignore these transactions.
The news from the capital isn’t good. Three more riots in Prime. Food shortages are raising eyebrows among the Senate. However, the senators do not seem concerned that we have lost a garrison near the Pash border. A few centurions more or less, eh fellows? These days the state radio does not cover foreign events at all. Football scores, celebrity gossip, music. The masses are surely as drugged as our fine Emperor.
I dream of the wreck. I dream of hunting. In the hunting dreams, the stag emerges from cover. He pauses to regard me, his mortal enemy. My tribe has stalked his kind since time immemorial. That my human father bears the stag as his heraldry seems a paradox, and one I am too weary to sort.
The stag’s antlers catch the light and gleam like a crown of blades. His eyes are familiar. He tosses his shaggy head and ambles out onto the plain. The dream is a jumble of life and fantasy—I am injured from the chariot crash, and bleeding heavily, yet I follow my prey. Stubbornness is a virtue among dogs. The stag recedes to a blot and vanishes. I track his prints in the dirt. I snuffle his musk among the blades of the grass. I wander through a copse of trees and piss against one. The stag has escaped. Behind me, the plain is golden gulf edged in darkness.
I begin to retrace my steps back to the house. At first, this isn’t difficult since I’ve left a trail of blood gleaming to light the way. A flake of snow loops around and catches on my tongue. Then a few more, and then many more until a blizzard erases the world and me with it. I awaken, filled with a terrible yearning that I do not understand.
