Dog In the City

I always did.

Wally and I didn't need to talk in the patrol car for the trip up the seven blocks to the power station. Either he knew what I was thinking, or didn't care. I watched the old neighborhood pass by the window, not getting any better looking in its old age. Growing up here, I'd thought it was a pretty cool place. But after it was rezoned as heavy industrial, it had been slowly dying. Except for the cops, most of the folks who worked here could afford to live somewhere else. I couldn't afford to leave, and had nowhere to go anyway.

The assemblage of cars at the front of the power plant as we pulled up looked just like the scene you see in the movies, where the bad guy has hostages in a building, and there's always some idiot with a bullhorn pleading with him to play nice. Only in real life, twenty cops seemed like an awful lot to handle one genetically enhanced dog, and the idiot had a radio instead of a bullhorn.

Pacheco said, "Thompson, it's about time you showed up. Vacation's over, get to work." He turned away, as if nothing I had to say interested him. So I just stood there, huddled in my jacket against the wind, hands in my pockets. A few minutes later, he remembered I was there and came closer. "Dammit, didn't you hear me?"

When my right hand came out of my pocket, it held a pencorder. I asked quietly, "What do you want me to do, and what's your offer?"

His eyebrows went up in astonishment, even as his mouth tried to sneer. "Just who do you think you are? Put that thing away. What do you think you're doing?" he said.

I said, "Making sure I get paid for doing your work for you, baldy. Spell it out nice and clear, or I go back to bed."

His hand went to his shiny dome before he thought to stop the motion, but it was too late. I heard a chuckle somewhere, and I knew he heard it too. After scratching his head for a few seconds to try to cover his gaff, he said, "Alright, hot shot. You go in and help get that dog out, and you'll be paid."

That's what I needed. My standard rate was already on record at the city accounts department. He wouldn't be able to weasel out of paying me like he'd done the last time. It was the city's money, and he'd done it just for spite. I put the pencorder back in my pocket, grabbed the radio from Wally's belt and looked through the fence toward the plant.

"Is there somebody here from PakGen who knows what we're dealing with? Am I dealing with a poodle or a pack of dingoes?"

A young man leaned around a squad car, and then walked around to me with his hand half extended, like he was afraid I'd refuse. I grabbed it briefly while I checked him out. Young businessman, white collar, middle management. The "casual" slacks and blazer he'd put on when they got him out of bed probably cost more than a month's rent at my apartment.

"Wilkins, Pakow Genetics," he said. After a moment, he added, "I was the only one available."

"Mr. Wilkins, I'm Jeri. What am I looking for?"

"Well, Sheba -- that's the dog -- is a female cocker spaniel, normal sized, and a partial empath."

I asked, "Aren't cockers normally more intelligent and sensitive by nature anyway?"

"Um, yes... Well, we've been working on this breed to bring that trait up to a much higher level.