7.1 km from flash curtain
I STAGGER FROM the barracks and blink owlishly at the washed-out sky.
“We live another day,” Dram says. He shoves his face shield up on his forehead, making his brown hair stick up in spikes.
“You sound surprised,” I say, pulling my own headpiece on.
“Nah, just disappointed,” he says. “I’m exhausted. Eternal sleep would have been nice.” He grins at me, and I feel lighter somehow, even though I’m dragging beneath the weight of my gear.
I thrust my sifter through my belt. “Perhaps tomorrow.” We joke about it, because fear weighs on us more than our armor and cirium suits. When you don’t have a choice about facing death, you make it less of a reaper, more of a punch line.
A few Striders patrol the fence. They wear the seal of Alara on their sleeves like us, but their external dosimeters glow yellow, and they throw glances toward the cordon like they’re expecting the flash curtain to come creeping into the camp. Between them, a woman sags on her feet, one of her appendages dangling. I search her features to see if she’s one of the Conjies I know.
“Orion,” Dram says, his voice low, “time to quit blaming yourself for the Mods.”
I drag my attention from the woman and join the rest of our squad at the turnstile. I let go of my regret, because if I don’t get hold of my focus, I’m going to lead us somewhere that gives Dram the eternal rest he’s been craving.
I sigh, loud enough that Dram turns to look at me.
“This is all temporary, Rye,” he says.
“Yes, because we’re likely to die at any moment,” I mutter.
He grins. We left Outpost Five, but we haven’t lost our Subpar humor.
* * *
We’ve been gone half the day, and stand regrouping after a flash vulture attack, when Reuder stops to pull some sort of viewing device from his pack. He holds it to his face shield and peers out over the cordon.
“Strays,” he calls. “Fifty meters, southwest. A pack.”
Our squad moves into defensive positions as three of the creatures approach.
“What are they?” I ask.
“Cordon dogs,” Reuder says. “The Congress trained dogs to scent flash dust, and these are the ones that survived and adapted. But they’re feral. Deadly.” He lifts his weapon.
“Wait,” Dram commands, sighting down his rifle. He stares down the nearest dog, finger hovering over the trigger. The stray—a wiry, short-haired thing, more bone than beast, maintains its distance, trotting back and forth, close enough for me to count its ribs.
“Shoot it!” Reuder growls.
Dram lowers his rifle and hands it to me. “Keep it in your sights, Rye.” He stoops and grabs a flash vulture carcass, holding it out to his side, knife tucked in his other hand.
“You’re insane, Berrends!” Reuder calls.
“So you’ve said.” He walks toward the dog, slowly, broken vulture carcass held like a flag of surrender. The dog bares its teeth, growls low and deep. Dram says something to it. I’m too far to hear him, but I have no problem hearing the stray’s snarling response. I’ve got the thing’s head in my crosshairs, fingertip brushing the trigger. Dram, you are insane, I think.
He slowly lowers his feathered offering to the ground and backs away, eyes trained on the snarling dog. One step, two … the dog follows, like he’s through playing and ready to show Dram he prefers the taste of human.
I take a focused breath, ready to exhale and squeeze the trigger. Another dog whines.
Four steps, five … Dram’s within reach. The dog lowers its head and sniffs the carcass. It occurs to me that it’s likely never tasted flash vulture. Looking at it more closely, I’m guessing it eats mostly scrub brush, or maybe cordon rats—though it’s probably in as much danger from those as we are.
The dog seizes the carcass, all the while locking gazes with Dram. They’re still having a conversation—one with their bodies this time. The dog turns and lopes back to its comrades, black feathers poking from its jaws. Dram turns, grinning like he’s had two mugs of outpost ale.
“Well, that’s glenting brilliant,” Reuder grumbles. “Now they’ll never leave us alone.”
“That’s the idea,” Dram answers. He gathers two more vulture bodies and hangs them so they dangle from his belt. “What do you think they’ve been eating out here? Scrub brush? They know how to kill the damned rats.” He takes his gun from me and loops it over his shoulder. “We need them.”
“We cut the wings off first,” I say, hiding my smile as I stoop to retrieve a carcass.
“What for?” Kara asks.
“Armor,” I say, sawing the cartilage with my blade.
“Fire,” Reuder curses. “You’re both glenting mad.”
* * *
The dogs make another appearance less than an hour later, keeping their distance so we just see them loping along behind us. There are five now. Apparently, Dram’s new friend invited a couple more to the flash vulture party.
Reuder looks back and curses. I’ve decided that for every five words, Reuder uses an equal number of curses. Or maybe Dram and I just bring that out in him.
The lead dog—Dram has taken to calling him Soma—breaks from the pack, treading steadily closer as the cordon winds rise and the whitish light yields to gray.
“I’ll catch up,” Dram announces. He pulls a—wingless—carcass from his belt and turns toward Soma. I can’t catch the words he calls to the dog, but whatever he says brings the animal loping. It’s hesitant, long legs crossing forward and back, forward and back, each time a little closer. Dram holds his ground, arms relaxed at his side.
Soma—I still think of it as Stray Vicious Dog—snarls and snaps its jaws. Reuder lifts his rifle. I’m wishing Dram had his knife in his free hand. The dog lowers its head, and its lips peel back, showing its teeth. Dram waits. Stray Vicious Dog whines suddenly, and it sounds like a question.
Dram drops the carcass. He doesn’t back away.
Soma barks. Whines. Steps forward. Again.
And Dram calls him that name again and again. I recognize it as a Conjie word, but I don’t know what it means.
“Brave,” Reuder says, like he’s reading my mind. “It means ‘brave one.’” And I know, now, where I’ve heard it. In the lines outside the processing tents, as women held hands for the last time. And before that, when children hunkered in burning particle snow to evade pulse trackers.
Soma. My eyes fill with unexpected tears. Dram and his Conjie heart.
The buzzer sounds. The dogs whip their heads up, and Soma snatches the bird and lopes away. Dram jogs to catch up to us, and he reminds me of that dog, wiry and strong, exhausted but unbroken. Brave.
“Soma,” I say, when he’s worked his way to the edge of my group. “I like it.”
Dram smiles. “Wait till those glenting rats come at us,” he says. “Then you’re going to love it.”