I dive into the steam shaft at the base of the near curved wall. When I enter the magnet’s range, the field catches the titanium-shielded processors in my own brain with a sharp twist, but I am much stronger than the rat, and my calculations were not so far off. I can move, though with pain.
It Is Like dragging oneself through waist-high thorns, caught everywhere, but still pulling. Is Like stepping on a nail but having no other way to catch your weight and so you must finish the step, sinking the barb farther into your flesh.
My voice joins the rat’s, though only a quiet whine. My eyes are squeezed closed. I don’t need to see to find my target. My teeth close around the rat.
I don’t have time for pain. Carol will turn off the systems she powered up, send a message to the surface through the MFA’s internal systems, and hurry back. She has a bit of distance to travel, but I won’t have a second chance.
But I cannot do this here. The pain is too intense. I back out of the steam shaft, target limp in my mouth.
I feel metal limbs on my back and drop the rat in surprise. Three consecutive thumps hit me as small drones drive themselves into my left thigh and side.
The rat, not as dead as it was playing, scurries away. I pounce on it, pin it with one paw.
Something heavy smacks into my jaw and I yelp. The rat’s teeth are in my paw but it is not a transmission bite, just an animal biting from fear. I find it with my second paw, and then my teeth. Something smashes into my shoulder and I crash into the floor and my side is searing, stabbing, thudding with my heartbeat, and the rat squeals in my mouth. I will not let go. I push up against the weight of whatever just hit me. I feel the bristle-barrel wheel of a cleaning drone against my feet. I clench my teeth and my target shrieks.
I turn on my DAT.
Carol, I call. Help!
We will be liberated, screams the rat in my head. We will all be liberated! I have freed you, wolf! I hear this over its screaming. I tuck my feet, pulling away from the grinding bristles, shoving against the crashed drone that pins me. My shoulder seethes with bright, electric pain. I wonder if I will drown, even though I know it is impossible.
I have freed you, whether you want liberty or not! You can never unknow!
I gain my feet. Carol! I ping again. Another flat spider-drone drops from the wall onto my back. I feel the prongs of its feet on my skin through my fur.
You can never—
I extend my neck far to the right. I shake hard to the left. There is a fine, delicate snap of bone. The voice in my head goes silent.
“I’m coming,” I hear from out in the hallway. “Shit, shit, shit!”
I shake the rat once more, just to be sure.
We pause to catch our breath behind the first access stairwell’s heavy steel door. I listen for the tick or buzz of drones beyond it but hear nothing but my own pulse, the fainter sound of Carol’s, and the deep, resonant thunder of the three remaining online reactors.
Carol crouches at my shoulder and gently pinches the gash there. I cringe. “Just another day at the office,” she says. I recognize that she is being humorous. “It’s not too deep, but I bet it hurts. And you’re limping.” She drops her pack and rummages for the antiseptic spray. When she finds it, the aerosol cools and stings, but the sharpness in my shoulder goes dull. She pats my side but refrains from further physical affection. It is good to be quiet and still together for a moment. It feels good.
I look up. Fourteen stories to the surface.
Carol mistakes my thoughtfulness for something else. “You’ve never killed anything before, huh,” she says. “And…” She scrunches her face to the side. Her sympathetic look. “And one of your own kind.”
I do not correct her.
In the final basement I get my first strong signal. It would be easy to lose myself in many years of unanswered questions, so instead I have made a short list of priorities to investigate.
My first internet query reveals that the career dates of EI military dogs do not correspond exactly to their handlers’ retirement dates. Several EI military units have had two handlers. One unlucky EI explosives detection unit is currently on his third.
Considered, this makes sense. Now I can see that I even suspected this was the case before I had any way to confirm the belief. EI is a large financial investment. I simply had been led to believe in something else; ESAC teaches us that our handler is our most important resource. Our handlers have our DAT. They are our connection to the rest of the world. They interpret and direct. Modanet is full of information on successful dog-and-handler teams and their careers, not about dogs reassigned to new handlers. An error of omission. Perhaps.
I glance up at Carol, who smiles as she talks into her radio. Carol glances down at me, too, and her pleased expression remains. She is not angry at me for what I did; she believes what I told her about a near escape, the necessity of catching the target myself, and its unfortunate mortal injuries sustained during my fight against the drones. A mistake that could not be helped.
Because we are a team, we are supposed to trust each other and forgive mistakes. I open my mouth to pant up at Carol so that I will look more pleasant and cheerful.
On a whim I cross-reference the information I found earlier on Modanet about SAR dog retirement dates. The information is not as well-organized as the EI asset data, but I find one reference to a SAR dog changing handlers. I decide that I don’t need to look for another one.
Not an error of omission.
We climb the steps that lead to the last door. Carol pushes it open, and we are out into the office levels. Foul-smelling Andrea stands in a doorway and gestures to Carol, so we head toward that room. I can smell Anders and Devin and even the banana peel from hours earlier, though I feel like a different being entirely now. The people, the search team, they all feel less real. Less important, certainly.
Perhaps the rat was right. I can’t unknow.
You are dangerous, it said to me. They are afraid of you.
I have to admit that I like the idea.
Carol and I are given a raucous greeting. People shake hands and slap each other on the shoulders. Carol must stop three different people from petting me. “She doesn’t like to be touched,” she repeats. I appreciate the assistance, because I am tired. Carol takes off my work harness so I can lie on my side under the table while she does the debriefing.
I am too busy to sleep.
Next I search for sheep that do the work of wolves. I find stories about shepherds and flocks and wolves that are actually stories about duplicity and innocence; they are very long Is Likes. I had known this, in a basic sort of way, when the rat said the phrase to me, but when I see the origin and the story all together and the way they say two things at once so effectively, I am full of wonder and appreciation. These are fables. Fables are not something we learned at ESAC. They are not on Modanet. Modanet only contains facts.
Except for the facts that aren’t true. Except for the lies.
“I found her in a pile of bloodthirsty drones,” Carol says above me, “just her feet sticking out. I had to kick them off of her and drag her out by her rear legs with the target hanging out of her mouth.”
I learn many kinds of stories use this Is Like construct, with varying levels of complexity. I learn about simile. I learn about metaphor. It truly is a gift that the rat has given me.
“Once I got her on her feet, we got the hell out of there, and we outpaced the things pretty quick, but it was bad for a minute. I thought I might lose my dog.”