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“Dark Garden Lake” by Kayodé Lycaon (Read by Ardy Hart, part 1 of 2)

Moshi is a mercenary who again finds himself a pawn on the political chessboard. This time, there is more at stake than his own conscience.

Today’s story is the first of two parts of “Dark Garden Lake” by Kayode Lycaon, a gregarious painted wolf from the questionable habitat of southwest Ohio. This story “Dark Garden Lake” appears in The Reclamation Project - Year One by FurPlanet, and you can find more of Kayodé’s stories on his website kayode.co.

Read by Ardy Hart, a wolf of all trades.

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https://thevoice.dog/episode/dark-garden-lake-by-kayode-lycaon-part-1

Transcript
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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

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This is Rob MacWolf, your fellow traveler,

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and Today’s story is the first of two parts

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of “Dark Garden Lake”

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by Kayode Lycaon,

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a gregarious painted wolf from the questionable habitat of southwest Ohio.

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This story “Dark Garden Lake” appears in The Reclamation Project - Year One

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by FurPlanet, and you can find more of Kayodé’s stories

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on his website kayode.co.

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Read by Ardy Hart,

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a wolf of all trades.

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Please enjoy “Dark Garden Lake”

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by Kayodé Lycaon,

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Part 1 of 2 "You're an odd one, Moshi,"

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Bajit said, holding a sweet roll in one paw and the towel around his waist with the other.

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He leaned his striped back against the frame of the sloped window as he chewed.

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The rancid smell of the wet hyena overpowered the scent of cinnamon

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and honey. In the morning light, the view out the window was gorgeous.

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Vast green farmland on the edge of cloud-covered mountains sprawled beneath them

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and a blue sea filled the horizon.

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Along the coast, sunlight glinted off the city of Ambara Down.

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If the view had been less hazy,

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Moshi could have used his image enhancing software to view individual streets.

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Just barely visible above the windows, the vast arrays of Vakalena's antigravity engines glowed dull red.

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Moshi ran his carbon reinforced claws over the glass;

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the vibration made them jump and click against it.

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He leaned his back against it,

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letting the hum

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rumble down his spine.

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The window was pleasantly cool against his wet, unclothed body.

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Then he sighed and turned his attention to the striped hyena. Bajit mumbled on—

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crumbs and icing sprayed from the sweet roll stuffing his muzzle.

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"You live a pampered life up here with your humans and yet you walk around moping."

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"You don't seem to have a problem with pampering,"

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Moshi said acidly,

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pointing a white paw accusingly at the sweet roll in the hyena's mouth.

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"It's not pampering when you work for it.

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it." The hyena tossed his towel on the bed.

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Then he grabbed another sweet roll off the tray and pointed it at the painted dog to emphasize this point.

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"I can't figure you out.

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You have a perfectly willing prostitute in your room, and you don't even bother to partake in the services he offers.

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offers." He took a bite and mumbled through it.

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"I should be insulted.

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insulted." Moshi leaned his head back and bit down on the anger he felt deep inside.

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He managed to reduce it to a growl in the hyena's direction.

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"What should it matter to you?

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You've been well paid."

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"By your handler,

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or maybe I should say,

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your master?" Bajit said,

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spreading his paws wide.

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"What's your problem,"

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the painted dog snapped.

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"Maybe I take pride in my work?"

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Bajit rolled his eyes.

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"Do you?" Moshi whacked his tail against the glass,

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his anger less pronounced.

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The hyena sighed and sat back on the bed.

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"Sure, but I get a little tired with the constant parade of humans looking for something a little

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exotic. Tired of playing the part of dancing beast and covering up my scent.

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Maybe I expected the chance have a little fun with one of our kind,

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but instead I find a whipped cur."

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"Have you ever tried being a little more polite?"

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Moshi’s ears flattened and he moved over to the tray on the bed to pour a cup of tea.

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"Fuck no. What do you care?"

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"It's all about how you carry yourself.

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yourself." The painted dog picked a sweet roll and sat next to the hyena.

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"Politeness is a sign of dignity."

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"What kind of monkey shit are you talking about now?" Moshi unpeeled the roll,

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tore a small piece off, and popped it into his muzzle.

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"My place here isn't all that different from yours.

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To most of the humans here,

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I'm a curiosity. Others find me to be a useful tool.

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tool." He swallowed. "But even then,

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they don't respect me.

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What little dignity I have is what I've made for myself."

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"If you're so desperately unhappy,

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why don't you just leave?"

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"I can't. They made my body out of flesh and metal and those metal parts of me need maintenance.

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Without that, I've got a month or two before something important breaks.

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breaks." Moshi sipped his tea.

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"And for what it's worth,

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I might as well be one of them anyway.

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I grew up and went to school here."

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"That's horrifying,"

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Bajit said, folding his ears and staring down.

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"I've never known anything else."

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"So, should I worry about you being taken over by the Machina?"

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The striped hyena asked in a failed attempt to lighten the mood.

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"No. My hardware and software are Greenfield work done by the Reclamation Project.

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All of it built without GNDN components and hardened against AI takeover.

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takeover." The striped hyena paused to pour himself a steaming cup of tea.

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"That sounds like a lot of work.

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Why would the ‘Claimers even bother to make something like you?"

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"They needed something to counter the rogue combat drones that attack the farms.

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AI was too dangerous and

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unfortunately, cybernetic soldiers are too expensive.

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So, they canceled the project after making their first viable prototype and

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found some other role I could fill until they have a better use for me."

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"Which is?" "I solve the problems that they don't want mercenaries making a mess of."

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"Mercenaries?" Bajit's ears perked up in alarm.

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"You mean furred folk that kill other furred folk for their thirty pieces of silver?"

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Moshi refreshed his tea and nodded in reply.

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The striped hyena stared at his cup before asking exactly the wrong question.

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"And just how many have you killed for them?"

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"Only as many as I needed to.

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to." Moshi stared out the window at Ambara Down far below.

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His reply was even,

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almost soft, but it didn't hide the pain behind his words.

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"And if you had ever killed anyone,

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you'd know why you don't ask that question.

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question." Bajit sipped and spoke softly.

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"So, where do I fit into all of this mess?"

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"Nowhere. I just want someone else to talk to.

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to." The painted dog's voice came out in high squeaks.

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"Because, like you,

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I have to put on a pleasant face all the time.

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Because tonight I have to strut around like a pet peacock and talk pretty

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so, they choose me

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over someone who doesn't give a damn

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about who gets hurt."

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"I'm sorry. I'm making a mess of this,"

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the striped hyena whispered. # # #

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Hours after Bajit left, Moshi hadn't moved from his seat on his bed, staring out the window.

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The sun was low in the sky,

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bathing everything in yellow light.

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His fur had dried a long time ago and the tray next to him only held crumbs, an empty tea

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pot, and two cups of cold, untouched tea.

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A chime from the door turned his ears

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but not his head.

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There was never enough time to properly appreciate anything.

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He dragged a discarded towel over his lap so he would as least be covered if he wasn't going to be decent.

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"Come in," he muttered and then he prepared himself.

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The door slid open and Joyce stepped in.

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She wore a green sleeveless blouse that matched well with her cool poise and dark complexion. Bajit's lingering scent made her face wrinkle in disgust.

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"I'm surprised your sensitive nose isn't bothered by this stench."

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"Smells are smells,"

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Moshi said absently,

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his ears following her, pretending to be uninterested.

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"And he didn't cost you much."

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"Anything I saved is going to be spent on scent removal.

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removal." She huffed and sat on the desk chair opposite the bed.

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More out of habit than need,

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she brushed back a lock of black hair.

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"Other than the smell,

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did you have a nice evening?"

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"Nice enough," Moshi replied.

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He managed a slight smile and turned his bright, gold eyes to meet her deceptively soft, brown ones.

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"I'd like to see him again."

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"I'm glad I finally found someone that can hold your attention for more than just a single night.

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night." The painted dog's ears flicked.

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What appeared to be just small talk was not.

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Under the pleasant conversation they fenced,

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each statement a thrust

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or a parry. They were gauging each other's motives and anticipating where the conversation would go,

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each trying to extract information without letting the other know what cards they were holding.

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They both knew what the other wanted

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but to say it directly was the equivalent of throwing a rock instead of prodding with a sword.

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From a position of strength,

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it could be powerful and effective,

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as long as you didn't mind making enemies.

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Tonight though, the stakes were low.

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Moshi wanted to stay in his room alone with his own thoughts and Joyce wanted to parade him around.

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It would be easy for her to lean on her authority and simply order him to go,

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but by entertaining a dialogue, he had the illusion of making his own decisions,

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of being invited to join her.

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But this too had another purpose.

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An indirect conversation communicated far more than just the words that were said.

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At some level, Joyce did care about his happiness—

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but showing that openly would give him too much leverage over her.

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Her mocking veneer covered her concern.

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His mild interest in her choice of an evening liaison for him was in fact an offer to trade.

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Seeing Bajit again would be his price

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for being agreeable.

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Silence stretched.

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It was Joyce's turn to speak

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but instead she chose to smile politely,

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putting the ball back in his court.

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There was a number of options at this point.

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He could point the conversation at something meaningless and try to draw more information out of her.

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He could mirror her—

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staying silent— and start a blatant contest of wills;

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the first one to speak would lose.

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Or he could step back and invite her to speak.

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"Well, you didn't just come down here to ask about my evening,"

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he said with a polite, measured smile.

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She returned his smile and accepted his request to come more directly to the point.

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"Dinner tonight should be interesting.

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Secretary Andrea has a problem that needs taken care of."

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"What kind of problem?"

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Moshi perked up and crossed his legs to keep his modesty.

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His interest wasn't entirely feigned.

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"The usual. A terrorist named Landolf has been raiding food shipments.

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shipments." There was more behind this request than just doing something nice for the Secretary of Agriculture.

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"This isn't the first time there's been raids on food shipments.

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What are we getting from this?"

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Joyce tipped her head slightly—

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awarding him a point for his attentiveness.

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"There is a food shortage in Ambara

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and this 'terrorist' is helping people who desperately need food.

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If we can remove them from the equation, I can turn this around and get the Secretary to send more food after the next growing season, so this problem doesn't continue.

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Right now, she's turning a blind eye to the people profiting off the increasing food prices.

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But, if we solve her current problem, she might be willing to understand it's in everyone's best interests to not cause shortages like this.

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this." Moshi had his suspicions that he wasn't being told the entire story.

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Still, it was enough for him to work with.

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He nodded for Joyce's benefit.

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"So, what would you like me to wear?" # # #

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They joined the gathering crowd in the lobby of the Grand Hall in Vakalena's administrative district.

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Joyce’s green blouse was traded for a leaf-embroidered sari

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in royal blue and gold,

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while Moshi wore a knee-length gold-embroidered red silk kurta that hid his tail.

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The pads and claws of his bare feet sunk deeply into the thick carpet

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and the eye watering mix of cologne and perfume made him want to sneeze.

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A vast table, heavily laden with fruit and vegetables, filled one side of the room.

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The centerpiece was an elaborate sculpture of

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Vakalena made out of pineapple,

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hovering over the table on a miniature antigravity engine.

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The stack of untouched plates made it clear that this was all a deliberately wasteful display of luxury that would go largely uneaten.

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Every time he found himself near a table like this,

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he made it a point to break protocol and eat as much fruit as possible.

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Moshi passed by the many colors of humanity on his way to do just that.

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On the surface, the Reclamation Project was remarkably egalitarian—

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if one was human.

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He kept his ears forward and alert as he eavesdropped on the various conversations he passed.

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"One of our survey teams discovered a water reclamation plant in The Warrens…"

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"The Secretary's dress is just lovely,

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don't you think?" “…that business with Director Kira?

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These damned human-supremacists are going to ruin everything.”

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"We lost a survey team in the mountains due to a blizzard of all things!

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You'd think those beast creatures wouldn't freeze with all that fur and savagery of theirs."

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"Yes, the underwater hotel should be up and running in just a few months."

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"Of course, I'd be delighted.

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Shall we meet at my place?"

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Moshi grabbed a plate and continued to listen in.

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Most of it was idle talk but occasionally there was a useful tidbit.

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He recorded everything to his computer memory to review later.

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Meanwhile, he piled his gilded plate with starfruit,

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pineapple, assorted berries, and slices of melon.

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Then he made his way around the room until he caught the gaze of a bronze-skinned human wrapped in a shiny teal kurta.

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They both smiled in recognition of each other.

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Moshi spoke first,

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dropping into his role as a guest of low station.

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"Nathan, it has been far too long since I've seen you here.

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What brings you to Vakalena?"

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"Oh, just visiting family.

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family." Moshi tilted his head-

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-silently acknowledging Nathan's deflection.

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His former childhood friend was not one to visit family lightly.

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The next step was to extend the metaphorical olive branch by asking about their health.

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That was met with sincere but shallow answers that confirmed things he already knew.

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What his former friend wasn't saying, spoke volumes.

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In fact, those volumes seemed almost too easy to read.

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The painted dog picked a piece of pineapple daintily with his claws and carried it to his muzzle.

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His deliberate social faux pas was either completely missed

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or ignored. It was like fencing with a mannequin.

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Nathan was either completely unaware of the larger game

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or was playing a game of subterfuge a dozen moves ahead.

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Moshi readied his verbal saber;

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time to flush out the game.

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"As I recall your uncle works in Greenfield Projects.

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he mentioned there was some difficulty getting high grade silicon.

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Has your department had any luck getting the GNDN EAFs working?"

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Nathan froze for the briefest moment and his eyes widened.

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"I can't really discuss that."

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"Sorry, I was just curious.

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I don't always know what's sensitive information.

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information." Moshi waved a paw in dismissal but smiled inwardly.

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He had won and his opponent was completely unaware of it.

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The conversation petered out on a discussion of the next growing season.

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Given the floating city's dependence on food from the surface,

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agriculture was an evergreen topic.

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Nathan walked away convinced that Moshi was the same has he had always been,

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a token curiosity brought out to show off the Greenfield Projects' dominance in the fields of genetic engineering

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and cybernetics. That mistake suited the painted dog just fine;

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being underestimated had enormous tactical value on this battlefield.

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Nathan was nothing more than a blissful antelope walking around unaware of the predators lurking in the tall savannah grass.

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The painted dog turned his predatory mind to other things

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and placed a grape into his muzzle.

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When he bit down,

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it flattened and then popped, squirting a seed-filled pulp full of sour sweetness,

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a wine grape picked far too early.

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Moshi savored the novelty of the experience but mentally shook his head;

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an artist must have stocked the table.

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Hopefully, the chefs preparing the dinner would have culinary skills. # # #

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An attendant in a simple black and white suit guided Moshi and Joyce through a sculpted wooden arch into the elaborate dining hall.

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The marble columns and their gold embellishments seemed a little much, he thought,

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but they were pretty.

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They were seated at the end of the third column of tables with the lesser dignitaries.

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The wait was long as small groups of increasing important humans in decreasingly elaborate clothing were seated by attendants.

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To Moshi's surprise, the waiters were a variety of feline furred folk with spots or rosettes, dressed in blue,

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and the sommeliers were rodents in red and gold suits.

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A smiling black mouse poured champagne into the painted dog's crystal wine glass

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while an immaculately-groomed jaguar placed a tiny white plate of olives and flatbread in front of him.

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There were no serving trays in evidence;

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the waiters carried plates two at a time from a discrete hallway at the end of the room.

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Mirroring Joyce, Moshi unrolled the gold napkin wrapped around his silverware and settled it on his lap.

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He nibbled on the peppery olives and salty flat bread,

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then sated his resulting thirst with careful sips of wine.

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Fifteen minutes later—

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by his internal estimate—

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the room was half filled.

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A sandy-colored gerbil with a furred tail

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refilled his glass and a cheetah leaned over him.

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"Would you like another plate, sir?"

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Moshi flicked an ear and then waved an open paw forward in a gesture he had seen the humans at the table use.

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It would appear that showing any consideration to the waiters was a social faux pas.

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The behavior grated on Moshi.

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Three glasses of wine and two plates later, members on the board of the Reclamation Project,

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including Ambara Down’s newly-installed Executive Director Helpmann,

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were being seated at the head table.

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Joyce touched his arm and whispered low without turning her head.

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"Andrea is the one in the sea green dress.

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dress." The painted dog flicked an ear to acknowledge he heard.

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"And pace yourself,

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people will be watching.

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watching." Moshi didn't reply.

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In his boredom, he had forgotten the battlefield he was in.

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The weapons here were different

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but no less deadly than the light railguns he had trained with.

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Beside him, Joyce was talking in low tones with the thin, pale-skinned woman in a ruffled purple blouse across from her.

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He wasn't sure who she was,

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so he pulled up his facial recognition program and asked it to find her in the local database.

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A few seconds later it reported she was Rayna Bastola,

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one of Angela's assistants.

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Their seating had not been as arbitrary as he had thought.

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"We've made excellent progress in the last year.

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Our application development libraries for GreenScript just got released and the language itself has been in production use for six years now.

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Moshi's core firmware is entirely written in it,"

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Joyce said waving a hand at him.

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"Does it talk?" Rayna asked.

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Moshi bit his tongue,

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steeled his expression,

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kept his ears forward, and inclined his head.

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"I do ma'am." "Oh how delightful!"

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she exclaimed. "He,"

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Joyce said, drawing the attention back to her.

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"Moshi is male." "Oh!

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It's so hard to tell with his kind.

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Do you have any females of his model?"

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"Unfortunately, no.

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The genetics, instincts, and anatomy of male painted dogs was easier to work with for his augmentation.

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augmentation." Moshi tuned out the conversation, thankful for Joyce's redirection. It was a conversation

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he'd been in many times before and had no desire to repeat.

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The waiters brought out tightly rolled towels and placed them on cleared plates.

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Silence slowly fell on the room as one of the humans at the head table-

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-a dark-skinned woman wrapped in white silk-

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-stepped up to the podium beside the table.

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A chime sounded and all that was heard was the faint rustling of cloth as everyone turned towards the speaker.

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She settled a digital notepad on the podium and looked up with a bright smile.

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"Good evening, our esteemed ladies and gentlemen.

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Today marks the twentieth year since the founding of the Ambara Survey and Reclamation Project…"

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The speech dragged on for nearly half an hour, recounting the Project's achievements,

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politely-couched recounting of the conflicts between High Empyros, Vakalena, and Alikant over who had “salvage rights,”

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and an even-more-politely elided reference to war and its repercussions.

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Throughout, the nearly silent waiters replaced wine glasses with cold, refreshing glasses of water.

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Moshi sipped his and let his attention drift.

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He'd heard a dozen of these speeches before and they never had anything interesting in them.

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He wished that Bajit could have stayed for more than just one night.

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The striped hyena had been abrasive and a terrible conversationalist,

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but his paws had been soft.

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Their strong fingers had expertly kneaded the muscles behind his jaw,

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then his forehead,

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but that's as far as they had gone.

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Moshi had no interest in the hyena's other talents.

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Instead they had simply spent the night sleeping,

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huddled together on the bed,

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easing the painted dog's almost constant loneliness in a way no one else had managed.

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As the speech drew to a close,

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Moshi returned his attention to the present.

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A wine glass had replaced his water and the human behind the podium was raising her glass towards the tables.

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Keeping his momentary panic in check,

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he raised his in time with everyone else.

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"A toast, to the future of humanity and all sentient creatures,"

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she said. “A toast,

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to the grand Reclamation Project.”

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Moshi sipped and savored the flavor of the sherry as it glided across his tongue—

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strong, dry, and mildly sweet.

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Fortunately, no one seemed to have noticed his distraction.

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With the speech over, some of the humans excused themselves to use the facilities.

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Others used the towels to clean their hands.

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Moshi mirrored them, using the damp towel to remove the olive residue from his claws and wipe his paw pads before the food arrived.

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The first course was a salad of crunchy lettuce and

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a bright mixture of vegetables,

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drizzled with a simple dressing of salt,

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pepper, olive oil and vinegar.

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Moshi stabbed a green pepper with his fork and nibbled on it.

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To his delight, the dressing was sour and pungent.

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He took his time finishing the salad,

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eating around the bits of cucumber and sipping his wine while keeping an ear on Joyce's conversation with Rayna.

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A plate of herbed cheese and tomato compote on toasted bread followed.

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Moshi's empty wine glass was traded for a glass of Sauvignon Blanc

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which he found disappointingly acidic.

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His eavesdropping was starting to get interesting.

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The recent terrorist raids on food shipment was the Department of Agriculture's top priority

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and all of Andrea's subordinates were getting a lot of pressure to solve the problem.

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The soup course arrived

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—a creamy potato curry in a tiny cup paired with a fruity Rosé.

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Joyce was describing Moshi's last mission hunting down poachers

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hunting in a wildlife preserve with what he thought was more than a bit of exaggeration.

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He hadn't stalked them tirelessly for days.

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It had been an easy mission after finding their air lorry hidden in a stand of trees.

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After waiting for their return, he knocked all of them out with a neural stunner.

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Then it was easy to trestle them up

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and remove their comlinks and a finger from each of them as evidence of his success. When he returned to Vakalena, he called one of their families with their location so they could be rescued before exposure or wild animals caused them too much harm.

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It was one of his more successful missions and it had brought him to the attention of the other departments.

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In the aftermath of that mission, he had graduated from a mere curiosity to a pawn on the political chessboard.

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Those thoughts threatened to darken the evening, but he pushed them aside.

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Plates with a small fillet of flaky grilled fish on a bed of leafy lettuce replaced empty soup cups and the Rosé was traded out for a dry Chardonnay.

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Moshi enjoyed the tingle of lemon and pepper on his tongue

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and then the sensation of the wine washing it away.

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No matter what was accomplished this evening,

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he was going to remember the excellence of the food.

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A jaguar took his plate and a cheetah set down a shallow bowl of beef tips on brown rice topped with a mushroom gravy.

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The gerbil Moshi remembered from before brought him a deep red glass of Pinot Noir.

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It would have been easy to lose himself in the rich flavors, but he kept listening.

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Joyce had moved on to discussing what he could do for the Department of Agriculture.

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"Perhaps it would be best for you to talk directly with Moshi,"

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she said. The painted dog picked an appropriately serious expression and turned towards Rayna.

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Her eyebrows rose slightly as she saw the sharp, predatory intelligence behind his eyes.

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"How may I be of service?"

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he asked in a low voice.

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"Well, my department would like to see these terrorist raids on food shipments stopped."

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Moshi increased his evaluation of her.

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She had recovered quickly.

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After swallowing a sip of wine, he replied,

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"My sources in Ambara Down tell me that a terrorist leader known as Landolf has been coordinating the latest raids.

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There's a few options for dealing with such a person.

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person." Rayna waited with polite interest.

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Unsure of her thoughts, he continued.

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"It would be relatively easy for me to locate and dispatch Landolf while giving the Prefect and the Project plausible deniability."

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"But?" The other woman asked.

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She was sharp. He twirled a paw in a fashion that was common with the humans had grown up with.

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Give her a bit of familiarity and she might listen just a little more to his words rather than their source.

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"Removing Landolf in this fashion could make them a martyr

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and could possibly escalate the situation.

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The death of the warlord Tsaibei Hrotan has destabilized the various factions of the desert

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and emboldened groups such as the Watersnakes,

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and of course the Ambara Defense Front is always looking for an excuse to cause trouble.

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Capturing Landolf openly has a number of possibilities.

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Rather than making them a martyr,

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you can imprison Landolf and make them a hostage against the terrorists’ good behavior.

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They could be a public example of how we are just and honorable

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in the treatment of those who oppose us.

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us." In the corner of his eye, he saw Joyce's mouth twitch ever so slightly.

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Rayna actually smiled.

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"There's more to you than I had expected."

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"Thank you, ma'am," Moshi replied,

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with a slight bob of his head.

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It was helpful that most of the body language he needed was automatic to him.

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"I'll of course need to discuss this with Andrea but I think she'll approve.

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approve." Joyce picked the conversation back up to discuss new software for the Department of Agriculture's combines.

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The painted dog let out a mental sigh of relief and focused on his arriving dessert plate—

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three pieces of fried plantain drizzled in a chocolate sauce

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paired with a cherry port. # # #

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After dinner, Joyce and Moshi returned to his room.

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Moshi stripped out of his kurta as soon as the door closed,

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leaving himself covered only by the loose wrap around his waist.

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He turned towards Joyce with a small, optimistic smile.

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Even here he couldn't drop everything and ask the question he wanted.

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"Dinner was nice." Joyce unwrapped her hair to let it hang free.

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She pointedly smoothed out her sari,

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as if emphasizing Moshi's choice to remove his outer layers.

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She sat on the arm of one of the chairs and ran her finger through her hair,

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untangling it. "One of the better presentations, I think.

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think." The painted dog was really getting tired of this indirection.

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Dinner had already been incredibly tiresome,

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and a full belly made him just want to get this all over with so he could sleep.

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"It seemed well received,

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but I'm hardly good at reading crowds."

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"In this case, I think I would agree.

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This has been a good year for the Project.

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Project." And for us, Moshi added mentally.

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He turned to look out the window at the dark landscape below.

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Only the red glow from the antigravity engines was visible through the reflections in the glass.

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With a tight hold on his expression, he replied,

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"Do you think Andrea would be interested in our proposal?"

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Joyce tutted and shook her head slightly.

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"Manners, Moshi." He kept his face impassive and threw down the gauntlet of patient silence.

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A real gauntlet would have been so much more satisfying.

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"Fine." She sniffed.

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"I think she will be very interested in having Landolf killed.

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She likes things neat and tidy.

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Imprisonment has

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complications." It took every last shred of self-control to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

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"Delightful. So, how does this benefit us?

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We're not doing this out of the goodness of our hearts and the depth of our concern for the good people of Ambara.

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Ambara." Joyce thought for a moment before replying.

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"Optimistically, it will pave the way to getting the Director of Greenfield Projects onto the Board.

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Board." The painted dog looked her in the eye.

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She just told him,

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in her own subtle way,

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that he held all the cards.

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That was a dangerous gamble.

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He saw the calculation going on behind her eyes.

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His pawn was reaching the end of the board and would very soon get promoted to a much more useful piece.

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Moshi chose his next words carefully.

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"And all we need is another body for the pile?"

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Her replied was equally bare fisted.

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"If that's what it takes.

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takes." And with that, Landolf's fate was sealed.

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He held his eyes on Joyce as he did his own calculations.

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Refusal would have drastic consequences for him and do little to change the outcome.

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All that was left was damage control.

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He remembered the poachers whose lives he had saved and the relief their families had felt when they were safely returned home,

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minus some fingers.

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If he took this mission,

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he could spare everyone but Landolf.

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Someone else would have no compulsions killing unfortunate bystanders.

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They both knew he would do it.

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If his position got important enough,

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he could find himself on an advisory council in a few years.

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He would no longer be just an asset but an influence.

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With Greenfield Projects on the Board and his name known to them,

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he could push for a more congenial relationship with the furred folk of Ambara Down.

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Helpmann would certainly be an ally there.

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"Perhaps, I can offer some more incentive,"

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Joyce said and Moshi realized she had misjudged his silence for reluctance.

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"You liked that… boy?

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The hyena?" The painted dog had to swallow past the lump in his throat.

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Joyce was probably considering Bajit as both an incentive

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and as another tool that could be used to ensure his compliance in the future.

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It bothered him that she thought his honor could be bought so cheaply,

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but being underestimated now would pay dividends later,

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and it would be nice to have a little more companionship.

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He chose to play her game

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and let his loneliness bleed through his mask.

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"Yes," he said. "Bajit."

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"Perhaps we can arrange something a little more

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permanent?" Moshi nodded, as if he didn't trust himself to speak.

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Joyce's face softened.

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"I want to get you in place before we get official approval.

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Can you meet Richard in the armory tomorrow morning and then head down to Ambara?"

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Moshi nodded and then Joyce silently walked out.

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Only the faint hiss of the door told him he was alone.

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Then, he turned towards the window and stared down at the dim lights flickering far below.

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This was the first of two parts of “Dark Garden Lake”

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by Kayodé Lycaon,

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read for you by Ardy Hart, a wolf of all trades.

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Tune in next time to join Moshi in the armory before he heads down to Ambara.

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As always, you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

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or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Thank you for listening to The Voice of Dog.

About the Podcast

Show artwork for The Voice of Dog
The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

About your host

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Khaki