Continued from Part I.

Private Huffleman was concerned.  He switched his grip to the PlasMark II and shoved it down, barrel first, towards the dog as it crept closer.  The weapon’s barrel was shaking back and forth a little (Private Huffleman had never fired it in combat), but it was still aimed at the animal.

The dog, however, didn’t seem fazed.  Instead, it sniffed at the weapon and then extended that long tongue and licked the barrel a couple of times.  Private Huffleman flinched back, in case the animal’s saliva was toxic or acidic, but there didn’t seem to be any reaction.

After the licks, the animal flopped back down on its haunches and looked up at Private Huffleman again.  It seemed perfectly content.

Slowly, still ready to react at a second’s notice, Private Huffleman holstered his weapon.  Instead, he withdrew his supercomputer from its little pocket on his waist and pointed the built in camera at the dog.  “Analyze,” he said, speaking as softly as he could to avoid inciting some sort of attack.

The supercomputer paused for a second, and then beeped.  “Dog, subspecies poodle,” it announced in a crisp, faintly accented voice.  Someone had once told Private Huffleman that the accent was called “Braitish.”  He didn’t know what that meant, but went with it.

“Scientific name *Canis domesticus,*” the supercomputer went on.  “Species originated on Earth several thousand years ago, as a domesticated breed that lived in a mutual relationship with early humans.  Further genetic blending led to more intelligent Canids.  This particular subspecies is known for being an excellent companion, as well as for frequent shedding.”

“Danger level?” Private Huffleman asked.

“Danger level two.  Species may bite when threatened, and bite carries significant chance of infection.  Generally docile and friendly.  Warning signs include: raised hackles, growling, aggressive lunges.”

The dog hadn’t shown any of those signs.  Private Huffleman relaxed a little more.  “Toxicity?”

“Animal is non-toxic,” the computer told him.  “In earlier times, the fur was often touched to relieve stress.”

Slowly, his fingers quaking, Private Huffleman extended his hand towards the dog.  Its eyes locked on his hand, and it tilted its head as it examined the approaching appendage.  It made no other movements, and very slowly, he touched the curly fur on the top of its head.

Indeed, the animal felt wonderfully soft – softer than most things that Private Huffleman touched during his day.  The animal seemed to enjoy the contact, too, its eyes squeezing shut and scooting a little closer to him.  He slid his hand down over its neck, rubbing along the length of its back.  He wasn’t sure, but the dog appeared to grin.

Private Huffleman grinned back, but then his eyes rose up to the airlock hatch just ahead, and that grin faded.  His orders were not to pet artifacts of the Improbability Drive.  He was supposed to jettison them out the airlock.

At his feet, as if sensing his thoughts, the dog whined.  The supercomputer hadn’t said anything about telepathy, but Private Huffleman quickly banished the thought of this poodle going out the airlock from his thoughts, just in case.

What was he going to do?

The dog sat in front of the airlock, its mouth hanging open and a long, pink appendage hanging out between the teeth.  It seemed perfectly content, aside from the huffing noise it was making.  And its eyes were boring into Private Huffleman’s soul.

Private Huffleman (Private Second Class, age 22, currently fourteen months into his three-year-tour, assigned to the UFCS Enterpriser) hadn’t had many issues of morality to deal with yet in his career.  He had been fortunate enough to test out of grunt duty, and had been assigned to a ship that was a third of the way through a government-sanctioned aid distribution mission.  His day job mainly consisted of patrolling the hallways of the ship, especially the exterior access areas, making sure that none of the grateful indigenous populations attempted to hitch a ride off their little balls of rock.

This week, he was also responsible for cleaning up the Improbability artifacts.

This week’s list of artifacts, by his mental count, had so far included several very weird metal sculptures, a few balls of unidentified organic goo, a large spider that had clacked at him menacingly several times before he’d whacked it with the butt of his PlasMark II.  All of these items had been carefully swept out of the corridors, into the airlock, where they were promptly jettisoned.

But now there was a dog sitting in the corridor, staring up at him.

Private Huffleman knew that this animal was a dog.  He had never before seen a dog in person, of course, but he had an annoying tendency to not fall asleep right away and instead lie awake in his bunk reading random entries in WikiUniverse.  The Enterpriser had also made one of its aid relief stops on Arcturus 371_B, which had been settled by a group of Canids.  They had been created through genetic blending with dogs, Private Huffleman had read on WikiUniverse, and indeed, they had borne a strong resemblance to this creature in front of him now.

The dog stood up, wiggling its hindquarters.  A long tail, quite hairy, wiggled back and forth as it gazed up at Private Huffleman.  The private, unsure what to do, reached down to his waist, but hesitated between his PlasMark II and his personal supercomputer.  Was this creature dangerous?

The dog padded a couple steps closer, that pink appendage still hanging out of its mouth.  It looked a lot like a tongue to Private Huffleman, but he’d never seen one that oversized before.  It was getting awfully close…

To be continued!