#1

“I need to talk to one of my sons,” said the Dog.
“Sir,” said the Rat cautiously.
“You don’t understand—”
“I do understand,” said the Rat, falling back, with some relief, onto the soft, sweet cushiony pillow-like form of his extensive six weeks of personnel training. “I understand because I am your friend. You are confused – you are hurting – and you miss your sons.”
“Listen to me,” said the Dog. “Don’t give me your speeches. I’ve heard them all a hundred times. I am sick to death of it. You can’t do this to me! You can’t keep me here and you can’t keep me away from my boys!”
“Sir,” said the Rat, recalling the dark difficult days of week three of his training, when he learned to intensify his words, to sound just a little more forceful, to bare just a sliver of his teeth. “I am your friend. Would a friend lie to you?”
The Dog had buried his muzzle in his paws. His ears were flattened along his head. His voice came through his paws muffled, but still clearly a growl. “You are not my friend. You are a Slab lackey, trained to lie to me. Next you will ask me to go back to my room, to read my magazines, to wait patiently for my dinner of eggs. I am tired of it. Take me to my boys!” he suddenly barked.
The Rat, feeling suddenly self-conscious of his egg-stained teeth and his eyes, bloodshot from eating too many eggs, cleared his throat and rubbed his forehead uncomfortably. “Sir. I know you miss your boys. But you must understand that they are gone. Forever.”
“That is a lie,” the Dog whispered.
“They are gone,” the Rat repeated forcefully. “Forever. You have been given a room here, you are fed regularly, and our team of counselors is here to help you through your loss. But it begins, first, with you accepting that they are gone.”
“To hell with you,” replied the Dog, stomping past the Rat’s desk. Claxons and sirens went off as the sensors in the floor read the Dog’s footsteps and aerial DNA scanners read and processed the Dog’s identity, sending it to every security terminal throughout the building. Within seconds a Green level squadron of helmeted Sparrows clutching shock wands in their wings and golden panic whistles in their beaks emerged from hidden metal doors along the lobby walls, which suddenly opened with a simultaneous echoing “shoosh”.
The Rat squeezed his eyes shut in disappointment and fear. The Ferret had already appeared next to the Rat’s desk. The Ferret’s striped waistcoat was spotless and he was eyeing his gleaming pocketwatch.
“Mr. Venables,” said the Ferret in his most distracted, business-like voice, somehow booming over the sudden flurry of buzzing, snapping shock wands and the shrill tones of the whistles.
“Yes, Mr. Tallaree,” replied the Rat.
“Is there something wrong with Mr. Mercaster?”
Mr. Venables turned to look. Mr. Mercaster was crumbled in a sobbing, quivering heap, surrounded by the Sparrows, who were already dispersing, except for two or three stragglers who gave Mr. Mercaster a few final shocks, tilting their heads curiously at each of his twitches and moans.
“He’ll make it,” Mr. Venables said. “We’ll have him back to his room in another few minutes.” The Green level squadron disappeared and two Yellow level Sparrows appeared, picking Mr. Mercaster up and carting him back down the hallway.
“That’s good to hear,” Mr. Tallaree replied. “The Mercaster twins are our most prized acquisitions. The Guided Moon project might very well fail without them. To have their father influencing them or disturbing their work would be unacceptable. I want Mr. Mercaster’s room guarded at all times, I want his movement and behavior monitored, and I want all further outbursts from him to be reported to me immediately, do you understand?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Tallaree, already sounding bored, and he wandered away toward the cubicles.