I always get to know my targets very well.
Videocams from the data file of Anita Lily Tyler, March 11 2087 - August 31 2117. December 25, 2100. 6:45 AM EST
Anita opens her eyes. Someone is jumping on her. “It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas!” squeals her sister.
Anita jerks away. “What?”
Her little sister is bouncing up and down. “Wheee!” She scoops up the hoverboard at the foot of the bed and scrambles out of the room.
“You little thief! Give it back! Give it back!” Laughing, Anita runs down the hall to where her parents are waiting.
Money is tight this year. I can tell that much just from looking at their decorations. Old- fashioned ornaments hang from the tree and a painting is the only adornment on the walls.
I see a brief flash of disappointment. Then, she glances at her parents and smiles.
There’s only one gift for her this year. It’s medium size, not big enough to be a new hoverboard. Not small enough to be a holopad, either. I can tell she is already trying to mask her disappointment.
A cryo-cage. Inside is a sleek ball of fur, no larger than a holopad. She inhales sharply.
Her mother beams. “A star hound. They resemble dogs,” she says. “Most of them spend their lives with a single owner. Average lifespan is 80-90 years. Extremely intelligent. And loyal.”
He’s beautiful. Like all star hounds, he has a hazy pattern across his body that will develop into definite points as he ages. His eyes are bright blue, like a robin’s egg. The child cradles the puppy with her hands, peering into his face.
Rose wails. “Why does Anita get a star hound? When can I get a star hound?” Anita ignores her little sister, her eyes fixed on the puppy.
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“We bought a leash, too. So if you want to walk him. . .”
But Anita has already leapt out of the door before her parents can finish their sentence.
November 13, 2110. 9:14 PM EST
Anita settles into the armchair. Boris, the star hound, is looking directly at her. The ottoman creaks in protest as he shifts his weight. The tiny flat is buried in sheets covered in tiny, handwritten notes.
The young woman takes a deep breath. “As I was saying, ladies and gentlemen, we need to face the facts. Ninety percent of port docking systems now use oil for fuel. According to the United Energy Committee, we’re going to run out of oil in thirty years. We need to convert the port systems to wind and solar before it’s too late. . .”
She sighs. “What’s the use? I’ll never convince them to change their old systems for new ones.” She frowns. “Erase last sentence,” she says. The text dissolves.
Boris barks in assent.
February 19, 2115. 5:00 PM EST
Anita chuckles as she walks out of the meeting. George catches up with her.
“Did you see that? That was fantastic? Did you see his face?”
She laughs again, this time to him. “Did you see his expression when I told him that oil was going to be cut be fifty percent?”
George starts laughing again. “I know, right?”
“Five years ago, this seemed impossible. But. . .” She shakes her head in disbelief. I’m like one of those old 21st century activists or something. You know, Al Gore or something.”
George pauses. “The guy with the beard?”
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“Not just a guy! The guy who was supposed to be president.”
“You’re a lot better looking.” George harrumphs. He fidgets for a moment. “Well, anyway, um, wouldyouliketogetcoffeeorsomethingwithme?”
Anita pauses. A smile spreads across her face “Yes! But I need to walk Boris. . .”
“No problem! Plenty of places allow star hounds. We’ll look around until we find a place that does.” They walk away, heads bent together, their murmurs inaudible on the video feed.
April 22, 2116. 1:56 PM EST
I see George and Anita walking in the park. George holds the leash in one hand. Boris strains unsuccessfully, tugging at George’s arm.
George looks nervous. His free hand is thrust into his pocket, and I can see it gripping something. Suddenly, a squirrel darts by. Boris lunges after it, yanking George off balance, and he tumbles down a knoll.
“George!” Anita runs to the edge of the knoll and looks down. George is standing ankle deep in the spring mud. Anita runs down to meet him, Boris skulking guilty behind her.
“Are you all right? You must be soaked!” Her voice trails off as George fishes the small velvet box out of his pocket. The diamond glints.
“Anita, will you marry me?” He drops to one knee. I roll my eyes and fast-forward.
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June 29, 2117. 3:47, EST
The door beeps. Boris jumps to his feet, his star hound coat pulsating blue and gold in anticipation.
Anita enters, Boris slathers her with wet doggie kisses, but her face and hair are already slicked with rain. “Whoa!” She gently pushes Boris down.
George looks up from his holopad. “Hi. How was the meeting?”
Anita slumps, her umbrella dripping on the floor. “It was awful. All the ambassadors were accusing each other of adding oil on the side instead of sticking with solar and wind. The only planet with enough oil to actually make a profit was Gallifrey, so everyone was teaming up on them.”
George grins. “That’s why I stay at home.”
August 29, 2117. 8:46 EST
Anita walks inside. George is inside, cooking dinner. Anita flops down in the arm chair. “How was the meeting?” George asks.
Anita groans. “You have no idea. The oil supporters wrote up a proposal of their own and are submitting it to the board on the same day. They want to cut wind and solar by thirty percent! Why would you do that? Everybody knows that the oil will run out in a few decades. Then we’ll be back to square one.”
George smiles. “It’s okay. I’m sure you can pass your proposal. When is it?”
“In a couple months. I need to rally my supporters.” She pauses. “Hey, where’s Boris?” “He gets freaked out if you’re gone too long. I had to put him in the bedroom.”
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“George!” Anita protests. She runs over to the bedroom and lets Boris out. “Poor baby. I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s been so long. I’ll be home for good soon. I promise.”
August 31, 2117. 10:34 EST
The train is going too fast. The nose of the train is kicking up sparks. People waiting for their daily ride to work watch in horror as the train crumples, like a soda can stomped on by an angry giant.
The peacekeeping force push the crowd back. There’s nothing else to do.
My holopad buzzes. There’s a new ping from my employer. I click it. It only has a single line. “You have a new target.”
“Erase,” I say. The line dissolves onscreen.
Boris jumps up on me and growls. I push him away. The kennel will be open tomorrow morning at eight.
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