Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 2 Read online

  Claire backed away, stopping only when forced to by the wall.

  Getting over his initial shock, Mark shouted. "Professor... Professor Weiler. Stop!"

  Weiler paid no attention. He snarled at Claire and appeared set to leap. From the rear, Mark sprang at him, grabbing him around the neck. The two fell to the floor. Weiler, his head jerking from side to side, snarled and snapped at Mark's wrists, his teeth clacking as they missed their target. Mark only hoped the man didn't have aiDS or rabies.

  Weiler rolled around on the floor, kicking and scratching. The man was strong—unnaturally strong. Mark struggled to hold on. With one arm around Weiler's throat, Mark, when he could, probed behind Weiler's neck for the nodule. As they fought, Mark caught fleeting glimpses of the white transceiver buried under the brown mass of hair. Tiring, Mark desperately grasped for the nodule, fumbled for the switch, found and threw it. Weiler went limp and collapsed to the floor. Mark fell with him.

  On the floor, supine and shaking, Mark took a few shallow breaths. He'd just assaulted his thesis advisor and maybe even killed him. Hearing a grunting sound from Weiler, Mark rolled to a sitting position and took another breath, this time of relief. At least he hadn't killed the man.

  Mark threw his gaze to Claire who had pressed herself into a corner. "Are you okay?" he gasped, scrambling to his feet.

  "His eyes. They were like..." Claire rubbed a hand across her face, then stood erect and took a step forward. "I'm fine," she said, her gaze locked on Weiler who was beginning to stir.

  Groggily, Weiler pushed himself to a sitting position, then leaned back against a wall. "What a trip!" He shook his head as if to clear it, then turned to Claire.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I lost control." Again, he shook his head, slowly, this time. "You can't believe what it was like." Smiling, Weiler moved a hand to the back of his head. Mark tensed, but Weiler took his hand away.

  "I'm sorry that I..." said Mark, hesitantly, trying to decide exactly what he was sorry about.

  Weiler waved him silent. "Having this implanted," he said in a collegial tone, "might not have been the best idea I've ever had."

  "I guess not," said Mark, eying the man with some suspicion. "Didn't you try it out first?"

  "I've had the fibers growing for a couple of weeks now, but just had the transceiver installed this morning. I came straight out here."

  Gone was Weiler's air of superiority, but Mark found he still didn't particularly like him—especially not after the way he'd terrified Claire.

  Weiler got to his feet and looked over to Claire. "Forgive me?" he said.

  "Yes." Claire looked wary. Then she smiled. "Yes, of course."

  "Good." Weiler took a few unsteady steps to the front window and peered out. Not twenty feet away, the dogs, sitting attentive like second-graders in a classroom, stared in. "I felt it," said Weiler, softly, more to the dogs than to the grad students. "Near sentience. A trigger is all it would take." He locked eyes with his Pit Bull and from his expression, a mirror of his dog's, Mark could almost believe Weiler's nodule was still switched on. "I've got to know what's in Killer's mind," said Weiler under his breath.

  "I hope," said Mark, "that you're not thinking of trying it again."

  Weiler jerked his head around, breaking eye contact with Killer. "No, of course not," he said, his eyes showing a feral gleam. Then he seemed to soften. "No," he said again, but softly. "The dogs just took me by surprise." He turned back to the window. The pack still stared in. "Human against dogs," said Weiler. "I'll be able to handle it."

  "What!" said Mark, almost at a shout.

  Weiler spun around and eyed him coldly. "That is, should I ever decide to do it again."

  Mark, feeling uneasy about raising his voice to his professor, went to the computer. "Your word processor is up," he said. "You can write up your thoughts now"—Mark saw Weiler begin to pace—"if you want to."

  Back and forth, the man paced, staring out the window whenever he passed it. Mark smiled, grimly, noting the similarity to an animal in a cage.

  Weiler paused by the door. "I've got to know."

  Mark studied the man. Weiler's eyes blazed with the intensity of a single-minded researcher—or of an animal.

  "I'm sorry," said Weiler. With one hand, he began to open the door while reaching with the other to the back of his head. "I can handle this. I'll lower the receiver gain."

  "It's digital," said Mark, stunned. "Gain only affects distance. The intensity won't—"

  Weiler's expression abruptly turned wild. He growled, flung the door open and darted through.

  "Damn!" Mark ran to the door and slammed it shut.

  "Wait!" shouted Claire. "We can't leave him out there."

  "Let him go." Mark latched the door. "Let him be Lord of the Dogs if he wants it. Anyway, there's nothing we can do." He pointed out the window. The two of them gazed out.

  "'But since I am a dog, beware my fangs,'" said Claire under her breath.

  Weiler, crouching forward and moving with a gait suggesting he'd only recently learned to walk on two legs, staggered about fifteen feet toward the dogs and then stopped.

  The dogs, in silence, drew back their lips, exposing their incisors.

  "The dogs don't seem to like him much," said Claire, her voice a little above a whisper.

  "Especially Killer." Mark watched as the Pit Bull, stiff-legged, inched forward.

  "Odd," said Claire. "Killer is, or at any rate was, his own dog."

  "My point."

  Killer stopped and the scene became a frozen tableau.

  "I wonder what's going on out there," said Claire after a silent minute.

  "From Killer's and Rottweiler's expressions, it looks as if they're engaged in some sort of struggle." Mark smiled, self-conscious about what he was saying. "Like a fight for the heart and soul of the pack."

  "Why is he doing this?" said Claire. "What does he get from being a dog?"

  "It gives one paws," said Mark, making pawing motions with his hands.

  Claire looked at him as if he were some sort of monster.

  "Sorry." Mark cast his eyes down. "My way of dealing with stress. Tasteless jokes."

  We know who we are now. And we know what now is. And the tall masters, humans. They are just animals—single, not a pack. They know much but they have poor noses and they can't hunt without tools.

  But a human is part of us. We are sick. The human-bit doesn't belong. This human brings us knowledge and understanding but it is not a dog-bit. It must be removed from us. Can not understand. One part of us wants to serve them, another part wants to kill and eat them. That part is stronger. But humans know things we don't. A human is a pack-bit now and we know many new things. We know many more ways to hunt. And we can think. But we do not understand what humans want. The human-bit is not necessary. Understanding is not necessary.

  The pack barked, again in unison. Weiler barked as well, but a little late, like a chorister who'd missed his cue.

  "Not quite of the pack," said Claire. "Sort of sad, in a way."

  As Mark threw a quizzical glance at her, he saw motion out of the corner of his eye. He snapped back toward the window. "Uh oh."

  The dogs had each crouched low, and Weiler trembled, visibly.

  "This doesn't look good." Mark started for the door.

  "Wait!" said Claire. "What are you doing?"

  "If he makes a run for it," said Mark, his hand on the latch, "I'll let him in."

  Claire nodded, then took a deep breath.

  "Yeah, I know," said Mark. "But I handled him before. I imagine I can do it again." I hope. He looked through the window at Weiler. The man looked scared. He's not the only one.

  "If we had the brain-scan controller," said Claire, "we could just key them all to sleep."

  "I wish." Mark clung to a thin hope. "You know. He might not want to fight it this time."

  "Maybe you could open the door a little and call to him."

  "Yeah." Mark started to release the
latch, but then, his eyes on the window, he froze. "Oh my God!"

  The dogs, as if reacting to the shot of a starting pistol, had leapt forward, engulfing Professor Weiler. The man managed to stay on his feet until Max clamped his teeth over his lower thigh. Weiler fell to his knees. Killer lunged for his throat. With one hand splayed on the ground to stop his fall, Weiler punched wildly out, catching Killer in mid-leap. Landing on the nose, the blow deflected the dog's jaws from their target.

  Then Miguel, small but with needle-sharp teeth, sank his fangs onto the grounded hand. Weiler shrieked, raised his arm above his head, then slammed his hand onto the ground. He flung his arm back into the air. Miguel flew off, his head canted at an unnatural angle, his neck clearly broken.

  Pain. We are dead. And we are alive. We hurt. The smallest dog-bit is gone. We howl. Dead! Smells like food. We are afraid of death. What is after? We have only just learned what after means. Until now, we have only lived in the now—with memories but no understanding of the past. Now we understand. There is past, present and future. And, bit by bit, we will die. We are afraid. We must howl. The human-bit did this to us.

  The pack went motionless. Seizing his chance, Weiler got to his knees. He struggled to his feet and hobbled frantically toward the door. Mark flung it open and started forward to help. But after a single step toward the professor, Mark stopped short. He watched in horror as the dogs, with a great angry peal of coordinated barking, flew at the man. Weiler looked back over his shoulder. At that same instant, Killer leaped. Its great jaws closed around Weiler's throat.

  We hurt. Can't breathe. Scared. Want to lick wounds but can't find them. Losing something. Growing harder to think. Human-bit is... Tall animal enemy gone. Smells like food. We are the pack. We must howl.

  Claire screamed.

  Mark stepped back, slammed the door, latched it, and leaned his forehead against it for a moment, trying to control his queasy horror. Then he turned to Claire.

  "I'm okay," she said before Mark could speak. Outside, the dogs uttered a single howl, then went silent.

  Mark shot a glance at the window. The dogs stood motionless. Frozen. He returned his attention to Claire. "Are you really okay?" Then he added under his breath, "I'm not."

  "'When the time came, he was torn to pieces by dogs.'" said Claire in a singsong voice. "God, I can't get that quote out of my mind."

  "It's okay to be horrified," said Mark. "You don't have to keep it in."

  "I'm okay," she insisted. But a moment later, she broke into tears and slid to a sitting position. Mark went to comfort her.

  "I love dogs," said Claire, her words punctuated by sobs. "But... I feel betrayed, somehow."

  Mark, seeing more horror out of the corner of his eye, moved so that Claire couldn't see through the window. The pack was frozen no longer. "These aren't dogs," he said. "It's another class of animal, a new entity. You said so yourself." He talked with the hope that the sound would calm her. "It should have a separate taxonomic name—like maybe, Canis Res Ferox. Ferocious dog-thing." His stratagem seemed to work. Claire dried her eyes.

  "Weiler died doing his experiment," she said. "He'd probably have liked that."

  Mark nodded. "Yeah."

  Claire appeared thoughtful. "I wonder," she said, "how did the collective feel—with it being both dead and alive at the same time."

  "Who can say?" Mark gave a tiny shake of his head. Schrödinger's Dog.

  "I wonder why they killed him." Claire looked toward the window, but Mark's body blocked her view. "Professor Weiler was... was part of their pack."

  "Biology probably—like an organ rejection. Or revenge for Miguel. Who knows?" Mark hoped she wouldn't look around him. "Maybe it's just that Weiler was not a dog—not a genuine one, anyway. And dog-brains are much—"

  Claire, having gotten to her feet, screamed, her eyes locked on the scene out the window. "They're eating him!"

  "Don't look," said Mark, moving to take her by the hand.

  "I'm okay," she said, with a tight smile. "It was just a shock."

  They both gazed out the window, watching the entity feed. Mark didn't want to watch but he couldn't pull his eyes away.

  "'Cry Havoc!'" Claire quoted in a low, even voice, "'and let slip the dogs of war; that this foul deed shall smell above the earth, with carrion men, groaning for burial.'"

  Mark spotted Earl at the periphery of the pack and close to the shack. Suddenly feeling a heavy sense of loss, he went to the door.

  "What are you doing?" said Claire.

  Ignoring her, Mark eased open the door a crack and called to his Greyhound. "Hey boy, come here. You remember me."

  The dog snarled and bared its fangs. Mark closed the door and leaned his head against it.

  Claire came up to him. "You seem more broken up by your Greyhound spurning you than by—"

  "He's my dog," said Mark with more intensity than he'd intended. "Was my dog," he added softly.

  Claire touched his arm, gently. "These aren't dogs anymore."

  Mark raised his head from the door and brushed down his hair. "You'd think a collective intelligence would make the dogs more, well, human."

  "Intelligence is too broad a word, I think." Claire bit her lip. "The map is not the territory, and all that."

  "Still, together, they, it, must have a very large vocabulary. They can't speak it, of course, but I'd think it would make them very smart... very intelligent."

  "There are different kinds of intelligences." Claire gave a tightlipped smile. "A more intelligent dog isn't necessarily closer to a human. I would think it would be a more doglike dog."

  "Yeah, I guess." Mark glanced at the window. "Hey, what're they doing now?" The dogs were nosing around the car, pawing at the doors, and leaping to the hood and back to the ground."

  "They probably smell the kibble."

  "Yeah." Mark walked to the window, slowly took in the panorama, then shuddered. "They probably want a two-course meal."

  "You're terrible!"

  They watched as the dogs continued to worry the car. Then, as a group, the dogs abandoned the vehicle, explored the ground and then began digging at one spot.

  "What now?" said Claire.

  "No idea."

  Then, as the dogs dug deeper, Mark could make out the form of a brick-sized rock. "Looks like they're digging out a small boulder."

  "Why?"

  "I don't like this," said Mark. "They're working with purpose. I think they're preparing a tool."

  "Using tools? Come on. They can't be that intelligent."

  "Why not?" Mark gazed at the dog-entity with growing apprehension. "It's a distributed intelligence." He shuddered as the dogs freed the rock. "Who knows. Maybe even a distributed sentience. Maybe Weiler was right."

  The larger dogs pushed the rock to the front of the car and then, awkwardly and after many tries, they managed to convey the rock to the car's hood. There, smaller dogs rushed the rock toward the windshield, clumsily propelling themselves as well as the rock against the glass. The windshield held and Mark saw the rock slide off the hood and hit the ground, sending up a plume of dusty topsoil.

  Claire let out a sigh of relief. "I'm glad it didn't break. I know it's silly, but it feels good that my car, at least, can stand up to the dogs."

  "I wish it weren't weakened by the crack though," said Mark.

  "What does it..." Claire visibly recoiled as the dogs raised the rock again.

  Mark winced, hearing the clattering impact of stone and dog against glass. The dogs, repeatedly and with enormous effort, raised the rock to the hood and smashed it and their bodies into the windshield—all to no effect.

  Mark felt himself hypnotized by the repetitiveness of the scene. Claire seemed mesmerized as well. They watched in silence.

  It came as a shock then, when the windshield shattered and a shimmering flurry of gemlike fragments rained to the ground.

  "Damn it!" said Claire, coming alert.

  Mark snapped out of his trance as well
and watched as the dogs pulled the bag of kibble from the car and let it fall on top of the pebbles of safety glass. For a moment, the dogs paused. Then, as one, they savaged the bag and gorged themselves on the contents.

  "I'd hate to be caught here after dark," Mark mumbled under his breath. He shivered at the thought, then pulled out his cell phone. "We've got more to worry about than a windshield," he said, dialing 911. "We need the State Police."

  "What do you mean?"