God's Dogs

A primitive cosmic being of divine-animal nature, on the one hand superior to man because of his superhuman qualities, and on the other hand inferior to him because of his unreason and unconsciousness. The more civilized we become, the more we will blame a ‘shadow’ for our misfortunes. Like the trickster of old, the shadow represents a quality that isn’t accepted into the awareness. It can ‘pester’ us unmercifully but always has a gift for us, a missing quality, an attitude needed to cope, or self-realization.

Carl Jung, The Trickster Archetype

Moss was lying in a shallow trench, his body covered in forest debris. The others of his team found their own ambush sites, and the militia was walking into the hoped for kill zone. It was part of their assigned patrol route, so Moss only needed a little luck.

The platoon lieutenant was cautious. He faced other Coyote teams in training before. Even so, he bragged he would prevail this time and did so in a disparaging manner. Since all these trainings were monitored by Penglai staff, the remarks were passed on. Master Lu, who oversaw militia training, forwarded the problem to Quinn, who immediately told Moss. Moss didn’t like braggarts to begin with, and confirmed that the lieutenant needed a lesson in humility.

The dull scrape of clothing against pine needles signaled they were some fifty yards distant. Moss peeked through his periscope monocular and spotted the lieutenant. Moss grinned in expectation. At their slow advance, Moss had time to reflect back to his pivotal experience of dealing with obnoxious people.

Moss’ childhood was boisterous. He was the second son of four children. Mom and Dad owned a pub in the city of Samara, which was below the main space station. Pubs were not outlawed in Penglai, but they were not on every street corner either. Since much of their business was spacers and tourists, the pub was between the upscale and low-rent hotels and served both.

His older brother was serious about customer service and maintaining a good reputation both in the city and with the transient population. With that base covered, Moss was free to engage in mischief. Which he did, and got away with due to his engaging charm. Dimpled cheeks in an angelic cocoa-brown face did wonders.

He worked hard when he worked and became a fair prep cook in the kitchen. His naturally quick mind made school easy, and his natural athleticism made physical education easy as well. He coasted through primary and into secondary school. Life was easy and mostly fun.

Until, of course, the fateful day that brought him to the attention of the masters.

None of his pranks were intentionally malicious, but that was partly due to his amoral character. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a conscience. He did know right from wrong. It was more that he didn’t care – a sort of moral laziness, or the value of a good prank outweighed any ethical ambiguities.

As he approached young adult status, he bristled when self-important, rigid, self-righteous people told him to do something he already knew how to do. It was more than irritating condescension – that he could handle. It was the pushy, demanding, and demeaning, ‘No. Do it this way,’ command that held contempt in its tone. That really pissed him off.

As luck would have it, the offending party was a visiting League dignitary.

Moss replaced his dipping sauce with a habanero sauce. When the dignitary got a mouthful of the capsaicin rich sauce, his face turned red, his eyes and nose watered, and he struggled to breath.

Moss had returned to the kitchen to flee out the back door, but a Coyote intercepted him as he exited.

“Going somewhere?” the black-clad Coyote drawled.

“Yeah. I got homework to finish.”

“I see,” the Coyote said slowly. “You didn’t plan your op very well, did you?”

Moss knew he was busted and tilted his head, grinned his disarming smile, and offered, “It was a legitimate mistake?”

“Cutesy doesn’t work on me, boy,” was the response. “I figured you would do something after the honorable mucky-muck bent your ear, but you lack subtlety.”

“I didn’t have time to come up with something more elaborate,” was Moss’ heated response.

“You had time. You wasted it indulging in anger. How old are you, anyway?”

This wasn’t what Moss was expecting. It threw him for a moment. Then, to his later chagrin, he fed his anger. “Seventeen. So what would you have done?” he demanded.

“Laxative in his dessert.”

A long silence ensued. Then Moss started giggling.

The Coyote cuffed Moss upside the head and ordered, “Turn around. I’m going to handcuff you and take you for a ride. And we’re going to do so in front of the League jackass. That should mollify him.”

Moss sighed in defeat.

The Coyote slipped the handcuffs on and asked, “Ready for your punitive humiliation?”

“Sure.”

It was humiliating. His mom cried as the Coyote frog-marched Moss through the pub. The flyer the Coyote shoved him into was cold and cramped. The holding cell at the nearby monastery was damp and dark. The next morning, the Coyote escorted him to a master before he had breakfast.

Of course, the master sat at his desk eating breakfast. The Coyote positioned Moss before the desk then flopped down in a nearby chair.

“So,” the master began as he dabbed at his chin with a napkin. “It seems you have a habit of pulling stupid stunts.”

Moss noticed a file on the master’s desk. He assumed the master knew his life story. He didn’t answer. There was nothing to say.

“You are an under-achiever, a prankster with a solid work ethic, paradoxically enough, and you seem to possess a flexible moral code.”

Moss sighed, “If that’s what it says, master.”

The master nodded. “So what would happen if you applied yourself?”

Moss snorted, “Where’s the fun in that?”

The master continued nodding before saying, “There are some emotions we could label spiritual. Despair would be one. Joy might be another. And, I daresay, fulfillment could be a spiritual feeling. The feeling that you are on track to fulfill your higher purpose.”

Not knowing how to respond, Moss kept silent.

The master stared at Moss for an endless moment, seeming to peer into Moss’ core self. Moss tried not to squirm. Then the master said, “You’ll be entering Coyote training when you finish secondary school, which I see is in four months.”

Moss’s mouth fell open.

“Take him away, Rand.”

The Coyote rose and escorted Moss out to a flyer to return him home.

Once seated in the flyer, Moss regained the ability to speak. “What the hell was that?”

Rand chuckled, “I think Master Lu really doesn’t like you much.”

“No shit.”

Over the next four months, a tutor was assigned to Moss to help him prepare for the Coyote boot camp, which he entered two days after his graduation. The next six weeks was a blur of brutal training: sleep deprivation, physical exhaustion, hours of meditation, field stripping weapons, ambushing and getting ambushed, lectures, and so much more. He never really could recall clearly what happened during that first week, and the following five weeks weren't much better. Of the fifty-seven men and women that started boot camp from Moss’ region, nine graduated. The rest ‘dropped on request’ (DOR), which was the rule going forward as well.

Then there was a two week break, and all the ones that completed boot camp from the other regions on Penglai, some 98 men and women, gathered for the first year — the initiate year -- of Coyote training. This year wasn’t much better than boot camp. It was fourteen to sixteen hour days that included hunting the game animals for the monastery, weapons training in general, meditation training on the various levels of spirit, capture the flag against one another, physical conditioning, martial arts training, and on and on.

Another twenty-seven dropped on request before this brutal year ended. Then there was another two week break, and the second year began. Even though it was more of the same, the trainees were conditioned now to handle it better. As such, the difficulty came with the more subtle expectations built into the curriculum — emotional maturity, facing their own demons, healing hot button issues, as well as greater proficiency in combat.

Coyote training did awaken something in Moss. He struggled for months to figure out what. Since he never felt the sense of self-satisfaction that comes from pursuing one’s destiny, it took him a while to identify the feeling as fulfillment.

Once that registered, he committed to the training, knowing he would not be denied. Now settled into a singular purpose, he also resumed his career as a prankster.

To no one’s surprise, Moss graduated Coyote training some five years later, successfully deployed on his first mission, and easily won his blood stripe.

It was after his first mission, Master Lu called him to a meeting. Moss figured it was to assign him to a permanent team.

Moss entered the same office he’d been in over five years ago. This time Master Lu, whom he hadn’t seen in all that time, rose from his desk.

“Moss,” he smiled and directed Moss to the seating area.

“Master,” Moss dipped his head in a shallow bow.

When both were seated, Lu continued, “Do you know why our ancestors insisted on the title of Coyote?”

“It’s a reference to the Trickster archetype. We’re jokers in the deck.”

“True. But why insist on that to begin with? Why do we need a joker in the deck of interstellar relations?”

Moss shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“We needed Raven to steal fire from the gods, or mankind would still be running around the savannas chasing dinner with a sharp stick.”

Moss chuckled at that mixed metaphor.

Lu indulged himself with a smile and went on, “The trickster operates both inside and outside of time. He is the out-of-the-box thinker, bound by no laws, respects none of the gods, and through destruction brings evolution.”

“I can see that,” Moss allowed, wondering where this was going.

Lu said, “You live under the influence of the trickster archetype. Study what it means. You must find your way to challenging convention so that stagnation gives way to new growth, both in a simple conversation and in interstellar politics. Don’t get stuck at the lower manifestation of this archetype – creating chaos for its own sake.”

Moss thought about that for a bit before responding, “I don’t think I do that anymore. It’s not as satisfying as it once was.”

“Good. Even so, study up on this archetype.”

“Okay.”

Lu rose to indicate the conversation was over but offered one more insight as Moss was leaving.

“They call the coyote God’s dog. Find out why and learn to embody that in your work.”

Moss thought about that admonition as the lieutenant drew closer to the leg snare. One more step and Moss triggered the snare. Bingo! Now the lieutenant was upside down, hanging from his snared leg, twenty feet off the ground.

The platoon reacted by turning toward the lieutenant, which was the signal for the others to open fire. Quinn, Pax, and River opened up with training lasers. This brought the focus outward, which was Moss’ cue to uncover and attack from their rear.

The lasers, when they impacted lethal targets, froze the armor. Within moments, the platoon was down. The lieutenant still dangled.

Moss approached him and said, “Hey, LT, what’s it like up there?”

“Are you going to let me down?”

“Nope. I figure that’s a good place to view the error of your ways.”

Then Moss joined his team as they headed back to their spike camp in the forest.

River asked him, “Aren’t you going to give him a clue?”

“No. He wouldn’t listen.”

“You sure?”

“He’s a control-freak. They never listen, because they think they already have all the answers.”

“Okay. Seems a bit harsh, though.”

Moss grinned. “It is. I love it.”

The next day, though, Quinn received a complaint. They were still at their spike camp, lounging around a small, smokeless fire.

Quinn disconnected from the command net and smiled at Moss, who was nearby cleaning his rifle.

“You pissed off lieutenant what’s-his-face, Moss.”

“Good.”

“Word is he’s gunning for you.”

Moss looked up. “Really?”

Quinn shrugged, his face a craggy massif.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to up my game.”

River and Pax groaned.

Moss was their dedicated medic. As part of his training, he learned about the local flora and its medicinal or toxic properties. He headed off to the woods to gather a mix of plants and set to building a concoction of some sort. When he finished, he sat back against his pack and looked to his curious team.

“Where are they camped?” Moss asked.

Quinn pulled out a topo map and indicated the location.

“Not that far,” Moss observed. “Anybody want to come with me?”

They stared at him in silence. Cosigning Moss’ operations was a known bad idea.

“Fine. I should be back by morning.”

So saying, Moss pulled on his pack, attached his rifle to his armor, picked up his evil brew, and jogged off.

Pax was the first to speak. “He’s really upset with that lieutenant.”

“And rightly so,” Quinn said. “Control-freaks have no compassion. It gets turned off for some reason.”

River wondered, “How did he get to be a lieutenant?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn answered. “Somebody dropped the ball.”

Moss edged into the platoon’s camp. As he figured, the lieutenant enjoyed his own latrine and bathhouse. Moss made his way to the latrine, triggered his armor to full coverage, and dropped into the pit below the toilet seat. Then he waited.

When the lieutenant arrived for his evening constitutional, Moss sprayed his exposed bottom and testicles with the evil brew. The spray was under-powered and only felt like a gentle breeze.

The lieutenant finished his business and left. Moss began a slow exfil from the camp. As advertised, he made it back to the spike camp before dawn.

Moss slept in the next morning. Even so, the call from the militia medical staff didn’t come until after lunch.

Quinn was on the command net with them for a while before he called out to Moss. “They can’t relieve the burning and itching on the lieutenant’s private parts.”

Moss chuckled. “And I won’t give them the antidote until that jackass gets some serious counseling.”

“He won’t agree.”

Moss raised an eyebrow.

Quinn smirked, “I figured that was what you were after.”

“Well, then, let him suffer.”

“It won’t wear off, will it?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. I’ll tell them.”