Going to the Dogs

Going to the Dogs

  by

  Michael D. Britton

  * * * *

  Copyright 2012 by Michael D. Britton / Intelligent Life Books

  So much for the planet.

  As the debris from what used to be Gerlax Prime approached my skiff from behind, I punched the throttle and accelerated to G-50 in a heartbeat, outrunning the hurtling chunks of rock.

  The explosion of my business partner’s home world shrunk into the distance behind me, a trillion tiny sparks expanding into the blackness of space.

  Franco was probably one of those little flaming points of light, fizzling out, becoming interstellar dust.

  Maybe one day his atoms would help form a new star, or a planet – or become part of a beautiful nebula.

  Regardless, the universe will be better off without Franco’s atoms running around in the form of a man.

  A slimy, deceitful, cretinous thug of a man, who killed my wife.

  #

  It all started just over a week ago, when Anna suggested we go with Franco and his girlfriend Selas to Yoro Beta, a so-called “pleasure planet” in the Georgian System.

  “It’ll be fun, Hilo,” she said. “We’ll have a great time, Hilo,” she said. “We can let your brother run the store while we’re gone,” she said.

  Reluctantly, I agreed. My brother Shentu isn’t the brightest laser in the array, but he’s responsible, if plodding.

  So I said, “Fine. But we can’t be gone for more than a week.”

  “A week!” she shrieked. She was smiling and clapping her hands together like a little girl. “I figured you’d say we could only go for the weekend!”

  And so she started packing.

  I called up Shentu, and a couple days later, the four of us – me, Anna, Franco and Selas – hopped in my skiff and off we went.

  Straight into the heart of darkness.

  #

  Things were going fine the first couple of days.

  We played pencha and a few rounds of julinga hoops, swam in the purple waters at the palm-lined beach, enjoyed massages from beautiful Yorans, purchased useless souvenirs, ate delectable meals – everything you’d expect from Yoro Beta.

  On the third day, Franco insisted we visit the dog races. The girls didn’t want to go (and frankly, neither did I). The girls got to go visit an art gallery, while Franco dragged me to watch eighty kilo quadruped creatures called jackos chase around in a circle. Franco called it the dog races because it reminded him of something he’d once seen on Earth.

  So we arrived at the racing dome, a huge complex filled with tracks of various kinds (everything from insect races to hoverslips to four-wheeled combustion vehicles), and Franco said, “Here, Hilo, take this thousand tabs and place a bet for me – Vernal Equinox in the third race.”

  I said, “Why don’t you place it yourself?”

  He said he had to run to the restroom and the betting window was closing. “Besides,” he said, “it’ll give you some experience outside your sheltered little life.” Then he disappeared into the crowd.

  I was left literally holding the bag, and the clock was ticking, so I did as I was asked.

  “A thousand tabs on Vernal Equinox in the third race,” I said.

  “A thousand? Good luck, buddy,” said the short, copper-skinned man behind the glass.

  “Why you say that?” I asked.

  “I take it you’ve seen the odds? A thousand tabs is a lot to lay down on a fifty-to-one shot. But it’s your money.”

  Actually, it wasn’t. He handed me a ticket and I made my way to the observation levels.

  I met up with Franco there. “Hey, what’s the deal with this fifty-to-one jacko you’re betting on?” I asked. “I mean, how can that be the odds, anyway? I’m no mathematician, but it doesn’t look to me like there are even fifty animals in the race.”

  “There aren’t,” said Franco, lighting up a cigarillo the size of a toothpick. “They run ‘em ten at a time. But ol’ Equinox only has three legs, so he’s not so highly favored to win, see?”

  “Three legs? You bet on a three-legged jacko? With a thousand tabs? What are you smokin’, anyway?”

  Franco just laughed. “Martian cigarillos, my man. Finest in the galaxy.”

  The “dogs” lined up for the third race, and Franco and I shoved our way through the smelly, sweaty bodies to the front of the viewing deck. A snapping sound, and the creatures were off and running.

  Or, in the case of Vernal Equinox, off and limping.

  “I can’t believe they even let that thing race,” I yelled over the throng. “Shouldn’t they just put the poor beast out of its misery?”

  “Keep watching,” yelled Franco without taking his eyes off the track.

  A moment later, the oddest thing occurred. The jacko in the lead, a dark brown animal with white spotting in its hind quarters, suddenly lurched toward the outside of the track, crashing into the jacko in the number two spot.

  The two tumbled together, legs flying in all directions, and the rest of the tightly grouped pack – except for the far trailing Vernal Equinox – all piled up like a hover wreck.

  As the animals scrambled and whimpered in a pile, Vernal Equinox limped along, slow and steady, and passed the mess on the far outside edge of the track.

  The confused creatures in the pileup never really got reoriented – they just stumbled around in a daze and licked at their wounds – and Equinox hobbled the rest of the way to the finish line unchallenged.

  “You see that? You see that?” Franco grinned at me. “I just made a quick fifty grand, my man.”

  “How did you know that was going to happen?” I asked.

  “What?” he asked. “Know? Know what? What are you talking about? I didn’t know anything. You just get instincts when you’ve been doing this for a while. Now come on, let’s go collect my winnings. I’ll buy dinner tonight.”

  Something smelled very unpleasant – and it wasn’t the jacko droppings. But I let it pass for the time being.

  Later that night, Franco showed up at our door right when we were about to go to sleep.

  “We gotta leave. Leave Yoro Beta,” he said.

  He was sweating, but it was cool in the climate-controlled hotel.

  “What are you talking about? What’s the matter with you, Franco?” I asked. “Come in here for a minute,” I said, opening the door all the way.

  “No – no time! I’ve got a shuttle waiting out back to take us up to the orbital. How fast can your skiff go, anyway?”

  Franco looked like he was hopped up on Stimmies – he couldn’t quit dancing back and forth, like he had a hot foot or something.

  “What did you do?” I asked with an intentionally accusatory tone.

  “Nothing. Now let’s go.”

  Anna came to the door with a sheet wrapped around her body. “Where’s Selas?” she asked Franco.

  “She’s uh, gone. And so should we be. Let’s go.”

  I looked over at my wife, then said to Franco, “Give us five minutes,” and then I slammed the door in his face.

  “What’s the matter with him?” asked Anna.

  I moved to the bedroom and started getting dressed, throwing things in a suitcase as I did. “I have no idea – he won’t say. But he is Franco. Which means he probably rubbed someone the wrong way, stole something, or tried to bribe an authority.”

  “Why is he such a screw up, Hilo?” asked Anna, as she followed my lead and started getting dressed.

  “He’s your cousin. You tell me.”

  “But you work with him. Does he pull this kind of crap all the time, in business?”

  I zipped up my case and started to tie my shoes. “All the time, I’m alway
s having to clean up after his messes. You know that.”

  “Yeah, but you never indicated he was a criminal, just sort of lazy.”

  “He’s taken lazy to a whole new industrial level, Anna.” I grabbed her suitcase and started for the door. “To support his laziness, he works like a horse to find shortcuts, freebies, handouts, and not-so-legal schemes that will, theoretically, allow him to retire young and do nothing with the rest of his pathetic life.”

  Anna took a few seconds to primp her auburn hair in the mirror. “Then why do you put up with him?”

  “He’s your cousin,” I said. “I just didn’t feel right kicking a member of your family out of the business.”

  “Well, let me ease your conscience,” said Anna. “Feel free to kick away. The little jerk is ruining our vacation!”

  The business was a pretty solid startup (five years and running), that involved interstellar trade arrangements. We basically brokered deals and set up transportation, provided insurance. All above-board stuff – at least when Franco wasn’t involved too heavily.

  Last year we finally turned a decent profit, and that’s when we bought our new home and the skiff.

  This was actually our first vacation since our honeymoon six years ago. I just had a hard time leaving the business in other peoples’ hands. Especially Franco’s – which is one reason I agreed to this – he’d be coming with us.

  A loud, urgent knock came at the door.

  “Five minutes are up. C’mon!” Franco’s muffled voice said.

  I groaned and hefted the suitcases. Anna opened the door for me, and we headed out.