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Major Hound has inspected twenty-three potential partners, and every single one has been wrong.
The first massiff is too small.
The shelter worker calls her compact.
Hound calls her incapable of tackling an armed human without becoming an improvised projectile.
He doesn’t say that aloud.
The second massiff is nearly the size of a speeder and responds to every command by sitting on Hound’s boots.
“Affectionate,” the shelter worker says.
“Crushing my toes.”
“She likes you.”
“I need a tracking animal, not a weighted blanket.”
The shelter worker’s expression tightens.
Hound immediately adds, “Respectfully.”
Natborn civilians have an irritating amount of authority over clones. This one probably doesn’t know she can submit a complaint and recommend Hound for reconditioning.
Probably.
Hound isn’t willing to test the theory.
He has only recently received approval to form the Coruscant Guard’s first dedicated K9 units. Commander Thire had signed the proposal after crossing out the phrase bite criminals on command and replacing it with controlled suspect apprehension.
Fox had approved the budget after staring at Hound for several long seconds.
“If any senator loses a limb,” Fox had said, “I’m assigning you to explain it.”
“Understood.”
“And you will not train them to attack on sight.”
“Of course not.”
Fox had narrowed his gold eyes.
Hound had maintained innocent eye contact until Fox signed.
Now all Hound needs is a suitable alpha. The first animal will establish the behavior of the entire pack, so she needs to be intelligent, confident, disciplined, difficult to frighten, and large enough to bring down a fleeing suspect.
She also needs to tolerate clone handlers.
The third candidate is too friendly.
He licks Hound’s helmet for six uninterrupted minutes.
The fourth bites through a durasteel feeding bowl but runs away when a cleaning droid enters the enclosure.
The fifth is seventeen years old and falls asleep during the scent test.
The sixth tracks the sample perfectly, then refuses to release it and eats Hound’s glove.
The seventh is described as independent.
This turns out to mean she climbs over the enclosure wall, steals a shelter worker’s lunch, and hides beneath a transport for two hours.
Hound is impressed, but she ignores every command he gives.
“Too stubborn,” he says.
“She’s strong-willed.”
“She stole my comlink.”
The shelter worker looks beneath the transport. “She does that.”
Hound retrieves the device after exchanging it for half a ration bar.
By the eighteenth candidate, his patience is beginning to fracture.
“This one has excellent obedience training,” another attendant assures him.
The anooba sits when ordered.
It stays when ordered.
It comes when ordered.
Then Hound activates a recording of blaster fire.
The animal climbs him.
Hound remains perfectly still while forty kilograms of claws and panic cling to his chest armor.
The attendant winces. “We can work on that.”
“No.”
Hound carefully lowers the animal to the floor.
The anooba hides behind him.
He crouches and scratches beneath its jaw before standing again.
“Find it a civilian home.”
“You don’t want it?”
“I want it to survive.”
The shelter worker’s expression softens.
Hound pretends not to notice.
By the time they reach the final row of enclosures, he has begun considering whether the Guard should use probe droids instead.
Droids are predictable.
Droids don’t shed.
Droids also don’t chew through evidence bags because someone stored them beside dried meat.
Then something slams against the final gate.
The shelter worker jumps.
Hound doesn’t.
A female massiff stands behind the bars, broad and muscular, her mottled hide marked with old scars. Her yellow eyes fix on Hound through the visor of his ARF helmet.
She doesn’t bark.
She watches.
“Who is that?” Hound asks.
The worker’s face twists. “Grizzer.”
“Training record?”
“None.”
“Temperament?”
“Hostile.”
Grizzer bares her teeth.
Hound leans closer.
The worker catches his arm. “Don’t.”
Hound looks down at the hand gripping his armor.
The natborn releases him immediately.
“She bites visitors,” the worker says. “Staff too, sometimes. We keep her isolated.”
“How many?”
“How many what?”
“Visitors has she bitten?”
The worker checks the enclosure record. “Nine.”
“Staff?”
“Four.”
“Repeat offenders?”
The worker stares at him. “You sound impressed.”
“I’m gathering information.”
Grizzer’s gaze follows every movement in the corridor. She ignores the worker and watches Hound instead, nostrils widening as she samples his scent through the gate.
Hound removes his helmet.
The worker takes a step backward.
“Major, that’s a terrible idea.”
“Most useful ideas are.”
He crouches outside the gate.
Grizzer approaches slowly.
Her head remains low. Her shoulders are tense, but she isn’t frightened. She is evaluating distance, reach, and whether Hound is stupid enough to put his fingers through the bars.
He is not.
“Open it.”
“No.”
“That was an order.”
“You’re not my commanding officer.”
Hound considers this.
“Please open it.”
“That animal sent a Rodian councilman to the hospital.”
“What did the councilman do?”
“He tried to pet her.”
“Without permission?”
The worker pauses. “Yes.”
“Grizzer demonstrated appropriate boundary enforcement.”
“You cannot put that in a report.”
Hound absolutely can.
The worker opens the enclosure remotely and retreats behind a divider.
Grizzer steps into the corridor.
Hound remains crouched.
She circles him once. Her nose passes over his armor, belt, boots, and the scent sample clipped at his side.
Then she snaps her jaws beside his wrist.
Hound doesn’t move.
Grizzer stares into his eyes.
“Finished?”
She growls.
Hound slowly holds out the scent cloth.
“Find.”
Grizzer sniffs it once.
Her head rises.
She turns toward the corridor, walks past three closed doors, and stops outside a storage chamber.
Hound opens it.
The matching sample is hidden behind two crates and a sealed medical container.
Grizzer paws the correct crate.
The worker peers around the divider. “She’s never done that before.”
Hound moves the sample to a second location.
Grizzer finds it.
He hides it beneath a bench, then inside a ventilation grille.
She finds both.
On the fourth attempt, Hound gives the cloth to another worker and tells him to walk through the facility.
Grizzer tracks him across two floors, through a crowded intake lobby, and into the loading bay.
The worker tries to distract her with food.
She ignores it.
He tries to hide in a parked transport.
Grizzer climbs onto the hood and stares through the windshield.
Hound feels something dangerously close to joy.
He opens the passenger door.
Grizzer immediately grabs the worker’s sleeve and drags him halfway out.
“No biting,” Hound says.
She releases him.
Everyone freezes.
Hound looks at Grizzer.
Grizzer looks at Hound.
“Sit.”
She sits.
The shelter worker’s mouth falls open.
Hound scratches the massiff beneath her heavy jaw. Grizzer leans into his hand hard enough to shift him sideways.
“She’s perfect.”
“She’s dangerous.”
“So am I.”
“She hates visitors.”
Hound puts his helmet back on.
“That makes two of us.”
Grizzer rises and takes her place beside his left leg without being told.
Hound looks down at his new partner, his future pack alpha, and possibly the only creature on Coruscant with less patience for strangers than the Guard.
“Come on, Grizzer.”
Her tail strikes his leg once.
They leave together.