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Hound knows something has gone wrong before he enters Guard Headquarters because Grizzer refuses to go inside.
She plants all four feet on the landing platform, lowers her broad head, and stares through the open blast doors.
From somewhere inside comes a whistle.
Then screaming.
Then the unmistakable sound of several hundred kilograms of massiff hitting a supply cart at speed.
Hound looks down at Grizzer.
“What happened?”
Grizzer gives him the deeply offended stare of an animal who believes he should already know.
The supply cart rolls through the doors without a driver. Three massiffs ride on top of it. Another hangs from the side by its teeth while a Guardsman runs behind them shouting, “Drop the cart!”
The massiff does not drop the cart.
The cart hits a wall.
The animals scatter.
Hound closes his eyes.
He’d been gone for four hours.
Four.
He clips Grizzer’s lead to his belt and enters Headquarters.
The main corridor resembles the aftermath of a small invasion. Storage crates have been opened. Blankets cover the floor. A cafeteria tray is embedded in a wall panel. Two Guardsmen stand on a desk while a massiff circles beneath them with someone’s boot in its mouth.
Thire leans against the security station, drinking caf.
Hound stops beside him.
“Explain.”
Thire takes another sip. “Soups decided to train the massiffs.”
Hound turns his head slowly.
“Soups.”
“He read part of an ARF manual.”
“Which part?”
“The rewards section.”
That explains the smell.
Bits of dried meat are scattered across the corridor. One has been taped to a training remote. Three massiffs are pursuing it while the remote repeatedly shocks anyone who gets close enough to catch it.
Hound looks toward the ceiling.
“Where is Soups?”
A vent cover rattles above them.
“Safe,” Thire says.
Soups’s voice emerges through the grille.
“They’re very food motivated!”
Hound stares upward.
“You trained six military massiffs without an ARF handler?”
“I was improving morale.”
“You taught them to attack supply carts.”
“That wasn’t intentional.”
One of the massiffs slams into another cart.
Soups amends, “Mostly.”
Grizzer growls.
Every loose massiff in the corridor stops.
Six heads turn toward her.
Grizzer looks at Hound.
Hound understands the question.
“No killing.”
Her disappointment is visible.
The nearest massiff trots toward them carrying Stone’s riot helmet. Stone follows several meters behind with one hand pressed against a bleeding scratch on his forehead.
“That animal stole my helmet.”
Hound takes it from the massiff.
The animal immediately sits.
“Reward,” Soups calls from the vent.
“Do not reward her,” Hound says.
“She completed the retrieval.”
“She retrieved it from Stone’s head.”
“That showed initiative.”
Stone looks up at the vent. “I control the prison.”
Soups goes quiet.
Hound crouches beside the massiff and checks her collar.
“Prayer.”
The animal wags her tail hard enough to hit Stone’s leg.
“Idol is going to murder someone,” Hound says.
“She’s already looking for Soups,” Thire replies.
Another whistle sounds from the far end of Headquarters.
All six massiffs explode into motion.
Grizzer jerks against the lead.
Hound catches the wall before she drags him off his feet.
“What did that whistle mean?”
Soups hesitates.
“Find contraband.”
A Guardsman rounds the corner carrying an unauthorized bottle of tihaar.
The massiffs hit him as one unit.
The bottle flies into the air.
Thire catches it without spilling his caf.
The trooper disappears beneath scales, claws, and enthusiastic snuffling.
“I surrender!” he shouts. “It isn’t mine!”
Hound points at Thire.
“Stop enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
“You caught the bottle.”
“Evidence preservation.”
Hound gives Grizzer the command to stay and walks toward the pile.
Before he reaches it, Prayer lifts her head.
Her nostrils flare.
The other massiffs go still.
This is different.
No wagging tails. No playful yips. Their bodies lower, muscles tightening beneath their hides as every animal turns toward the maintenance corridor.
Grizzer feels it too.
A low warning rolls through her chest.
Hound follows their line of sight.
The corridor should be empty. Repairs sealed it two days ago after a conduit failure. No Guard personnel are assigned there.
Something scrapes behind the temporary wall panel.
Hound draws his blaster.
“Thire.”
The humor leaves Thire’s face. He sets down the caf and reaches for his sidearm.
Stone retrieves his helmet.
Soups pushes the vent grille aside and peers down.
“What is it?”
“Stay there.”
“For once, gladly.”
Hound unclips Grizzer.
“Search.”
She moves first.
The others follow without being told.
They surround the maintenance panel, spreading naturally across the corridor exits. Grizzer scratches once at the lower seam.
Someone behind it swears.
The panel bursts outward.
A man in a utility uniform dives through carrying a heavy satchel. He makes it three steps before Prayer catches the back of his jacket and yanks him flat.
The satchel skids across the floor.
Stone grabs it.
His expression changes as he opens the top.
“Thermal detonators.”
Thire plants one boot between the infiltrator’s shoulder blades.
“Six.”
Hound checks the man’s false utility badge.
Separatist encryption glows beneath the civilian identification.
The massiffs sit around their captive, tongues hanging out and tails thumping proudly against the floor.
For several seconds, nobody speaks.
Then Soups lowers himself from the vent.
“So,” he says carefully, “the training worked.”
Hound looks at the destroyed corridor, the overturned carts, the trooper still trapped beneath two massiffs, and Stone’s clawed helmet.
“No.”
Prayer nudges the captured saboteur and looks expectantly toward Soups.
Soups reaches into his pocket.
Hound points at him.
“Do not.”
“But she found the contraband.”
“She found a Separatist bomber.”
“That sounds like advanced contraband.”
Grizzer steals the dried meat from Soups’s hand.
The other massiffs immediately swarm him.
Soups vanishes beneath six delighted military animals.
Hound watches him scream for help.
Thire picks up his caf again.
“Are you going to intervene?”
Hound clips Grizzer back to his belt.
“In a minute.”