Laika tilted her head. Then, for the first time in seven years, she spoke. Not barks or growls, but a low, synthesized voice, scratchy as radio static.
And she hated Kingpouge.
In the grimy, rain-slicked underbelly of Nova Bastogne, where corporate skyscrapers pierced smog-choked clouds and the poor lived in the shadows of neon signs that promised a better tomorrow, there was a legend. Not of heroes or saints, but of a ghost. They called him . kingpouge laika
She did not move. She sat at the entrance to his private chamber, her red eye fixed on the safe.
Kingpouge fell. Laika rose. And in the underworld of Nova Bastogne, the smart ones learned: never trust a king. But never, ever break the heart of his dog. Laika tilted her head
Her name was .
"No."
He turned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his scarred face. "I said heel, girl."