It's not easy being a futuristic bionically-enhanced cat-hating dog commando, and humans just seem to make it worse. In this week's chicken-fried-steak-and-gravy packed chapter, Gravity Dog will explain...
I am the epitome of the German Shepherd breed, the genetic apex if you will, although it has been many years since Germany existed as a country. It had melted into the creamy soup that was once called Europe, which itself degenerated into a Babel of tiny feudal states whose loyalties and interests constantly shifted. I assure you, I am easily bored by the bizarre social-economic ruckus on which humans seem to thrive:
France, in a stunning masterstroke of tactical surprise, launched a blitzkrieg pre-emptive surrender on Great Britain. Britain’s fragile economy collapsed under the strain of occupation. French Quebec surrendered to the Principality of Vermont in a show of solidarity with France. Vermont rejected the surrender. Eastern Canada refused to take Quebec back, because it had been secretly negotiating to trade it in exchange for better cable TV programming options from the United State of America. Mexico was vacant—everyone left.
It was 2215 hours, and Cosmic and I were strapped into webbing in the back of the JC-125TAC jetchopper assault craft. The black aircraft hovered above the ground for a moment as if testing its own sense of equilibrium, and threw itself into the sky with testicle-wrenching force. Yes, I still have mine, so don’t ask. It usually takes a few minutes after take-off to unclench. In a matter of moments, we were tracking along the contours of the sleeping Earth, flying low to avoid detection—almost low enough to mow the grass that looked black in the darkness. I strained against the webbing to thrust my head outside the open window. The compressed riot of smells as it impacted my senses was like drowning in strong liquor. I was intoxicated.
I glanced back into the jetchopper cabin long enough to see Cosmic looking-at-me-without-looking-at-me the same way he did in my sitting room. His appearance was that of a typical soldier: black uniform, dull gray body armor, night-vision goggles pushed back on his helmet, sidearm at his hip. Something about his eyes was wrong, though. I can’t read humans particularly well, but I can read animals in general. This guy was neither predator nor prey. Fine. There was nothing like a covert mission to get to the heart of the matter—separate the dogs from the puppies. Unfortunately, it was going to be my furry ass at risk while I found out.
Considering our species were in different zip codes, Jonny Cosmic and I had a striking family resemblance. Although my coat is shiny polished brass and onyx, the battle gear I wore was the same as his in form and color. I did not need his night-vision goggles, but he sure could have used my finely-tuned nose. I looked quite sharp in my body armor, with my integrated backpack carrying electronic countermeasures, telecommunication devices, and a small rocket launcher. Mister, does your dog bite? Only with high explosive-tipped rockets, kid.
We were so close to the front lines that it only took forty-five minutes to get to our insertion point. My stomach felt like it did the time I ate bees. Jonny Cosmic did not twitch or curse or chatter at all—I decided that he must be mentally deficient. How else could he be so calm? It was not very encouraging to know that we were scraping the bottom of the barrel this early in the war. Once again, it was going to be up to the dog to get things done. Man’s best friend. The enemy’s worst nightmare!
The JC-125TAC dumped speed like a failed romance, and settled into a clearing surrounded by dark evergreen trees. Cosmic and I jumped out of the jetchopper before it came to a full stop. With a whisper, it spun around and headed back to our base. I can’t count very well, but I would have guessed there were at least twenty-five stars in the clear sky, maybe a million. It was close to midnight but the moon had not yet risen, which was perfect for our purposes. My download had revealed that our target was in the uplands of Missouri, deep within enemy territory. Our mission: a routine assassination of an enemy commander. Whoever the guy was, he was already dead—he just didn’t know it yet.
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