The Terrors of Yip

by Shawn Jacobson

I’d just returned to Earth for the first time since, oh, I think it was twenty years. Mom greeted me by lecturing me about my life in space, and how I should settle down here on Earth.

“Brides from Algeria,” read the pamphlet Mom pushed to my E-phone. It was written in a font that made the words scream into my consciousness. Just reading them made me want to cover my ears.

“Please read this son,” she said. “I worry about you out there alone in the void. Just yesterday, I read this article in The Paranoid Inquirer about young men like you seduced by alien babes from space. The whole thing was just too horrible to bear. I worry about you,” she repeated as she replaced the pamphlet with said article.

I gave the thing a look, it was a piece of yellow journalism written in purple prose that would make a hack writer wince; I know I did. I ploughed through a mound of junk journalism that was, mostly, wrong.

Why mostly wrong? Because space is a vast domain across which humanity is thinly spread. Most humans in space are square pegs that don’t fit into Earth’s round holes; most other beings in space are there for similar reasons. Put it together and the great Out There provides ample room for high weirdness. The galaxy gets flakey around the edges.

I’m not stupid enough to try explaining this to Mom. After all, Mom’s little home in her small Indiana town is about as round a hole as Earth has.

“There are even more facts too lurid for the magazine to print,” Mom continued. “I checked their website; but I’d have to pay for the information. I didn’t want to fork over the money,” Mom continued, “but you should.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I replied.

“You know,” Mom continued, “If you’d read normal stuff like I do and not all those weird space stories, you’d probably be in a nice, normal home on Earth with a nice, normal human wife and nice, normal human kids and not be out in the void doing God knows what with God knows who.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I continued. When Mom got cranked up like this, the only wise course was agreement.

“Speaking of which,” Mom continued, “there’s a new space series that’s sweeping the world, it has nice doggy aliens, not like the mean ones you write about. You should check it out.”

“I’m sure they’re very nice,” I said, shocked that Mom was suggesting I read space fiction. She really doesn’t respect that sort of writing. But then, the love of dogs will get people to do unexpected things.

I recognized the new material Mom pushed to me. F’tima, my agent among the Fi’one, had shoved a pile of paperbacks across her desk to me just before I’d left for Earth; what Mom sent was the paperback on top of that pile.

“Here’s the competition,” F’tima spat as she sharpened her claws. “Know your enemy.” Apparently, the enemy had made it to Mom’s house.

It was the sort of artisan writing that prioritized big booms and blaster bolts over any pretention to literary merit. I’m no Heinlein, but I’m sure I could do better if pushed to do so.

“Anyway,” Mom continued, “I ran into the author at a fundraiser for the animal shelter, a wonderful lady who loves dogs. I told her about your writing. She’d really love to meet you.”

“Sure, Mom,” I continued, “anything you say. I’ll have to bone up on her work.”

“Excellent,” Mom said as she sent the appointment. “She’ll see you in three days.”

* * *

On the day of the appointment, I caught a ride to the appointed location. The place was a nondescript building in a seedy industrial park near the animal shelter. I walked in the door to find dog photos all over the place. Ms. Yip was a hound for canines. But then, I would have expected that from her writing.

“Good to see you Mr. Cattenger,” a lady said to me as I observed her photo gallery. “I’m glad you could stop by to talk literature. Please follow me to my office.”

She escorted me to a door in the back of the room then down an incredibly long flight of stairs. I wondered if I’d made one of those Darwin-award bad decisions, the kind that require a case of beer to plan, save that I’d missed out on the good buzz that a case of beer would give.

I did not share the love of dogs that the rest of my family had. I might have if not for a childhood encounter with a neighbor’s guard dog that left me traumatized, but I’ll never know, one way or the other.

I know that things got worse when I went to space. Between mean space dogs and doggie aliens who didn’t appreciate my writing, things got plenty rough for me among the stars.

While engrossed in these dark memories, I followed Ms. Yip to an office that looked more like a mad scientist’s lab than a writing den. The room featured tables covered with stuff that looked vaguely scientific. What appeared to be a giant metal dog dominated the scene.

Ms. Yip showed me a chair that looked like a leftover from a bad movie. “Wait here while I change into something more comfortable,” she said heading to a door opposite the one from which we’d entered.

I considered Ms. Yip attractive in a lean huntress sort of way, but I’d seen alien females that were more attractive. This is because some of these females can really doll themselves up for us naïve humans when properly inspired — something Mom’s scandal rag had right — and I’d seen some really dolled-up aliens. When Ms. Yip returned, I added one more to my list. I knew the breed. As her ears popped up, I muttered, “Not another evil doggy alien.”

My problem with alien canines goes back to my writing. It’s popular with the Fi’one, a feline race who barely defeated their ancient canine enemies in a bloody war for their planet. Given my taste for space stories, and my traumatic childhood experience with a dog, it was natural for me to write stories with said conquered canines as the bad guys. I thought the ancient canines were dead and gone; writing about them seemed safe. But on planet Dogwood, I learned that they were alive, dangerous, and angry (or should I say raved) about my portrayal of their kind. A member of their race implemented a plan to teach me what it was like to be the antagonist of my stories; these lessons would have killed me had my agent, along with a tiger team of claw warriors, not rescued me. Thus, Ms. Yip’s new look was, to say the least, disturbing.

“You see now why I’ve taken an interest in your work,” Ms. Yip said. “You’ll understand why my people give it a bad Yelp review.”

“Yes,” I’ve already had a review from a member of your race,” I responded. “It did make me yelp, in fact, it almost killed me.”

“And deservedly so,” she said. “Your work inflicts suffering among our people.”

“And what of your writing?” I asked. “I’d think comparing your people to dogs would be demeaning.”

When we go into space, we tend to think of other races in terms of the animals we know. We think of The Fi’one as cats because they look somewhat like cats and share a similar evolutionary niche. Likewise, we think of Ms. Yip’s people as dogs for the same reason. All people who go to space do this; wise spacefarers though are cognizant of the differences. For Ms. Yip not to be so cognizant struck me as odd.

“These stories are for human consumption,” Ms. Yip explained. “You humans like heroes who are cute, even when they’re not. I wouldn’t even monkey around with your kind except for your human friends, the ones who buy your books and do animal sacrifices.”

My books do not sell well among my people, among the exceptions are a church, if you want to call it that, which uses my books in their rites, rites that involve animal sacrifice. I don’t necessarily approve of their religion, but then, I don’t sell enough books to be squeamish about such things.

“Why do the acts of my readers concern you?” I asked.

“Because,” Mrs. Yip explained, “they’ve come to our colony on Quay Nine. They came with your books and their rites. They think we’re fit animals for their sacrifices, sacrifices done in the name of their prophet,” Ms. Yip snarled, “you. But now, you have the chance to atone.”

“So,” I asked, “how do you want me to atone?”

“You will use your writing talents, such as they are, for good for once in your wretched life,” Ms. Yip explained. “You will write of the nobility of our people in the face of the vicious acts of our ancient oppressors. You will teach your disciples that it is wrong to use us in their rites.”

“I will,” I asked trying to leave the chair. I found that metal bars now held me fast.

“You’ll remember the doom chair from the torture scene in Bad News Kennals of Arf. The great Mutt Howlmund couldn’t escape its clutches, and he was ten times the warrior you are. You might as well accept your mission,” Ms. Yip said. “But first, let me give you some inspiration. You mentioned yelping before; now hear the real thing.”

Suddenly, a piteous noise filled the room, a yipping so loud and piercing that it reached into my head making it ache with mounting agony.

“This is how my mate sounded when your disciples wounded him in his mission to save our kind from the sacrificial knives.”

“Make it stop,” I pleaded.

“That is up to you,” Ms. Yip said. “As long as you write and your work meets my approval, you won’t have to worry about it. But if you stop writing, or your work sucks,” Ms. Yip paused, “you’ll find that my dogbot’s bark is worse than its bytes. Good writing or else,” she said as she exited the room.

* * *

Time passed and words flowed. Since the horrors I’d experienced on planet Dogwood, I’d striven to widen my pool of antagonists, but using the folk who bought most of my work, in that role was hard.

I’d tried using felines who didn’t quite look like said friends and customers only to get yelped at through a stretch of time that seemed eternal. I tried feline aliens from another universe; the noises from the dogbot got worse. Then, I tried feline aliens fighting giant spacefaring squirrels. At this, Ms. Yip bounded into the room.

“You aren’t taking your penance seriously,” Ms. Yip barked in a sound almost as heartrending as the dogbot’s recordings. “Do you not realize that your writing encourages our enemies in their war, that your writing caused the pain of my mate, his terrible battle wounds?”

“Wow!” I replied. “I just thought I was writing entertaining stories, works of literature the Fi’one would enjoy.”

“Well,” Ms. Yip said, “my people don’t find your work entertaining at all. The trap you envisioned in Dog Days on Barkroft was used to capture my mate; now you will know his suffering, the suffering of a spacefaring being caught in a trap for animals.”

“I didn’t create the trap,” I said. “I read about it in a military magazine; it’s called research.”

“You may think our pain is nothing but entertainment to you,” Ms. Yip said, “but you’ll learn the reality of my people’s agony. You’ll not only feel the pain that my mate felt at the hands of your readers, but you’ll also feel the pain of the innocent victims of your disciples.” At this the dogbot played more sounds from the battlefield, save that now there were many canines yelping with pain;

“Now you will know suffering the likes of which you’ve never known before...”

“As will you if you don’t release my client,” a new voice yawled through the lab.

“Damn cat,” Ms. Yip snarled, “just as I was teaching him empathy.”

“Through torture?” my agent asked. “You’re really barking up the wrong tree. But then, barking up trees is what your kind is good for.”

“And your kind is only good for coughing up hairballs and making obnoxiously cute videos,” Ms. Yip said.

“I’m also good at rescuing my client,” F’tima said as a flash of light illuminated the room. “He needs it.”

“Why is smoke coming out of my dogbot’s ears?” my erstwhile captor howled over the sizzle of Bar-B-Qued electronics.

“Let my client go,” my agent said, “or you’ll find out the hard way.”

The smell of burnt wiring must have convinced Ms. Yip that writing class was over. After I’d reasoned F’tima out of carving up Ms. Yip with her claws — after all, she’d sort of let me go voluntarily — we ascended into the light.

* * *

“Imagine,” F’tima sniffed, “I let you out of my sight and you cat around with another woman.”

“But dear,” I said, “I only cat around when I’m with you. With her, I was dogging it.”

“Hmmm,” F’tima replied. “I bet she likes it doggie style. Anyway,” she continued, “I hope you aren’t going to publish what you wrote. Your sales among my people would be dead as a dormouse.”

“You’re right.” I replied.

As we left the evil lair of my imprisonment, I wondered about what I’d heard. Within the screams, I’d heard, well, I couldn’t call it humanity — Mrs. Yip would find that offensive — but rather a sense of intelligence. These were not the bestial sounds of the guard dog that had gotten loose and cornered me so many years ago. They were the sounds of true, unwarranted suffering. I wondered if I’d failed to be cognizant of the differences between Mrs. Yip’s people and dogs. Was I an unwise citizen of the galaxy?

Meanwhile, the conversation turned to the mix of business and pleasure that business associates who’ve become more than that engage in. All too soon we parted at the local space dock from which my agent could return to her people.

As I left the spaceport heading home, I wondered about the role of the Fi’one in the dark doings on Quay Nine. Had they used my cultist readers in their war? Had they moved them to a place where they could help exterminate their canine enemies? What tools had they provided to aid in the sacrificial rites? And, more disturbing even then the other questions, what was my responsibility as a writer? Should I have sided with the Fi’one in their ancient war? I asked myself these questions till I reached Mom’s door.

* * *

“What were you doing?” Mom asked. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

“A little literary exercise,” I replied.

“But, son,” Mom said, “you need to keep in touch; when I can’t reach you, I worry. Besides, I just found something on the Universe Wide Web you should see,” She pushed another pamphlet onto my phone.

“Brides from Albania,” the banner said in huge livid type. “Obedient women who will do whatever you want,” the subtitle read in type almost as large.

“You really ought to give this consideration son,” Mom said. “Then she said something that made me want to yelp.

“Or you might want to court that fine Yip person, the one who writes the Dog Boy books. I’d think that since you both write that space schlock that you’d have a lot in common. She might even teach you to love dogs,” she continued, warming to the idea. “If you want, I can set you up.”

“I’m sure that would be nice,” I lied as I searched Spacenet for shuttle launches, “but she’s taken, a fine husband, military you know,” I continued hoping that this was still true. The mere thought of her was enough to give me a pounding headache.

“Now Mom, I really need to rest. Ms. Yip’s writing prompt has left me dog-tired.”

* * *

So, here I am awaiting the space shuttle having been run off of Earth for the second time by canines. I guess that planetary life is not for me.

“At least I can write,” I say to myself as I sit in the departure lounge planning what I think will be the best work of my life. Ms. Yip was right about one thing; my books had not featured a lot of suffering. But that will change. It’s my turn to bring the serious pain.

I’ve learned that the only way to get Ms. Yip’s folk to stop dogging my heels is to bring peace to her people and the Fi’one. Maybe I can hasten the peace process by forcing some empathy between the two peoples by rubbing their noses in the true horror of their war.

I’m going to write a true blood-and-guts war story. By the time my readers finish the book, they will understand that war is a bitch.