《The Burden Egg》 Authors Note This particular story began life as a reply on the r/WritingPrompts corner of Reddit. The prompt itself didn''t get much attention, but when I posted it to my personal personal subreddit r/Magleby readers basically demanded more, and it grew from there, getting crossposted also to r/HFY and then here. I''ve been very grateful for the reader response and engagement on this story so far, and I hope you enjoy it.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. I''m not sure why it ended up in such a distinct style to my other work (including my other fictions posted here) with very immediate, present-tense first-person storytelling, but I''m glad I made the decision even though I don''t remember why. I''ve come to be very fond of both the protagonist and her dragon. Maybe you will too. And thank you for reading. I mean it, without you I''m just shouting nonsense into the void. Chapter One A dragon egg. They were destroyed, nearly all of them, before they could be used, before they could be properly fed. We''ve forgotten, most of us, rooting round in the scuffling shadow of a dozen rival empires and a hundred lesser states. They''re fractious, these fey, and for all their magic and mighty works that''s the reason we''ve survived this long, in the cracks, the spaces between. Humans. A whole race in eternal search for cover along the borderlands. Once, we were children of the sky. Once, our ancestors made wonders of their own. Once, there was something like harmony, or, more likely, at least a kind of coexistence without utter domination. But they discovered that their magics could overcome our wonders, properly cast, and our countermeasures came too late, and the lure of power, the sweet thought of humiliation for mighty Man, that was too much, they couldn''t resist. The dragons came too late. Only a few could be fed enough to matter, and the fey used our own weapons to bring them down. But all those weapons are long gone. I run my fingers over the sparkling shell, felt the warm lightning-life of the substance within. Hungry. Ready to be fed. "I will hatch you," I whisper in a long-forgotten tongue. My parents were scholars, some of the last. They and their parents before, and their parents before, always questing for what was left behind. And now, here, in this half-buried vault, all those generations of despairing search have...have... Well. I don''t know. We''ll have to see. Soon. It''s damned heavy, both the egg and the weight of the dead, piled up behind me in the doorway, shoving me forward with dead sacrificial hands. I ought to feel nothing but gratitude toward them, but I find part of me resents the burden of their expectation, no matter how thoroughly the brains that bore it have rotted into the dirt. Gonna be real hard to carry, all of it. But I don''t feel I have any choice, not if I want to continue to be who I am, a woman with purpose, someone whose life may make a difference beyond just not-dying, creating new people and trying to extend the not-dying into their generation. Scratching food from the ground under the groaning weight of special taxes. Bleeding out a living in some fey criminal underworld where even the lowest detritus consider themselves above you. I place the egg carefully into my pack, thinking hard about what I''ll be dealing with when I get back above ground. This vault is deep, I''ll have some time to consider. I''m going to need it. I start walking, pausing again and again to stare at some old wonder, only partially-destroyed by the collapse of the building above. A machine that once brewed and dispensed beverages, oozing ancient brown. A cracked screen that showed moving-pictures-in-depth, like some Gnome illusionist''s image. A half-buried skeleton clutching at a long-barreled weapon that once spat lines of disintegrating fire. I don''t try to pick any of it up, wouldn''t even if I weren''t already carrying as much as I reasonably could in the form of the egg and my own few supplies. All broken, and even if it weren''t, exposing it to the fey-occupied city above would destroy it in short order. But the dragons were different. I tug the straps of my pack upward, feeling that terrible, reassuring weight resettle over my shoulders and hips. Upward, upward, scrambling over jagged metals no Dwarven smith could ever reproduce. And speaking of Dwarves... I pause, listen, pull myself back behind a corner. It''s unlikely they''ll notice the entrance to the ruin, they never had before, but who knew how it all had settled and changed over the years. Maybe the way in I''d found was newly-formed by centuries of shifting metal and earth. Maybe it''s more obvious than I thought, especially to keen-eyed Dwarves. It is. Half-interested chatter comes down the twisting corridor, gruff stoneground voices, the clatter of heavy armor and sturdy weapons. I''m unarmed. We all are, by law. Oh, there are small things here and there. A knife used for utility work, a stick for walking, but nothing beyond that. Even if I had a weapon, I''d be no match for a Dwarf patrol. They''ll ask me what I''m doing down here, search me, and that will be the end of it. They''ll know what the egg is. Legends like that don''t die, not for a long, long time. I keep very still. They''re getting closer. I could run, get lucky, dodge their crossbows, if they get near enough to notice me. There are other passageways, even if I don''t know where they go, even if they''re most likely dead ends. I ready myself, breathing long and slow, muscles tight and loose in sympathy with the movement of air in and out of my lungs. Can''t let them have it, if there''s even the smallest chance you have to take it. One of the Dwarves in the patrol begins to laugh. More chatter. My Dwarven is iffy, but I understand enough. She''s found some small personal item on the corridor floor. "Look at this," she says. "Still holding on to it with bony little hands. Lot of good it did the vermin-child." I grit my teeth. Laughter. The movement toward me ceases. Then the sounds begin to move away. I force myself to count out twenty full minutes after I''m sure the patrol has departed completely, then start making my own way out. I search the floor as I go. Sure enough, right there. A small skeleton, curled-up, finger-bones forced open. A couple paces away, a small stuffed toy has been tossed aside. It''s in surprisingly good shape, or maybe not so surprising considering how durable our ancestors knew how to make some things. Or maybe it''s just luck that kept it away from moisture and mold all these years. I pick it up. It''s a Pegasus, the kind of creature the Elves use to patrol the skies above me right now, part of the treaty struck after this last great human capitol was felled by joint forces of the fey. I am burdened, but notthatburdened. I pick up the toy, turn it over in my hands, brush it off, put it in a side pouch of my pack, and continue into the slow-growing daylight of early morning. I have a long journey ahead. ~ My neck hurts. I''ve been watching the sky, watching for patrols of pegasus-riders, thinking all the time about the toy in my pack, the child who held it more than two thousand years ago, the bone-corpse fingers that held it until I''d stolen it for good a few hours ago. I''m watching the buildings, too; they may be mostly collapsed, but there are still plenty of vantage points for a really determined climber on the lookout for humans, especially humans with full packs and furtive manners. Contraband to be "confiscated." Legalized banditry, highway robbery where you''re not allowed to fight back. I don''t carry a weapon anyway, not even a walking-stick. Even the one knife on my person is a tiny folding thing as far from being a weapon as possible for any object with a sharpened edge. Except of course that I do carry a weapon, now, the most powerful ever conceived by an inventive race at the dizzying apex of its brilliance. But it''s still only an egg, still needs to be hatched and fed. Not doing anything for me now but make my back and shoulders ache from its weight. "Hey! You, vermin! What have you got there?" Gods damn it, the voice is coming from a side-street I hadn''t noticed, too busy checking upwards. Out here, a few miles away from the city center, not even the dwarves usually bother patrolling the ground. The fey either make their demands from above, or they leave the scurrying trickle of human traffic alone. I turn to look. It''s an Elf, but she''s in bad shape. Not just because of the scars on her face, or rather, that''s likely one of the root causes of her troubles, but they''ve expanded since then. An Exile, kicked down into the dirt with the humans for falling short of Elven standards of unmarred beauty. Still not human, though, not quite vermin. Not quite able to call for the aid of her former fellows, but still Elf enough that serious repercussions could come down if she were found seriously injured or killed. Exiles are held in contempt, but that didn''t mean mere humans are allowed to do them harm. She''ll expect a degree of protection from all this. Still, though, there''s never any lack of truly desperate humans, and she''s alone, so she approaches cautiously, improvised scrap-metal spear held out in front of her. Exiles are still allowed to carry weapons so long as they aren''t recognizably "Elven" in make. "Salvage," I say, truthfully enough. "Not much I can use right now, though," I add, which is also not technically a lie. "Give it here," she says, and reaches out a hand, walking closer. I sigh, and nod, and slowly unbuckle the pack from around my waist, slip one strap off my shoulder. She keeps coming, hand still held out in greed, just one on her spear. Mistake. I parry the spear aside with the bracer hidden under the ragged cloth of my sleeve, and twist my whole body so that the weight of the pack swings heavy off the fulcrum of my shoulder, hefting upward so that the egg slams right into the side of the woman''s face. I''m not worried about damaging it; if the delicate bones of an Elven cheek could do harm to a dragon egg there''d have been nothing left to salvage. She crumples. I try not to look too closely at her face. I''m breathing hard, starting to shake. Beyond a few scuffles with other humans growing up and in my travels, I''ve never really fought before. Certainly I''ve never hurt another person this badly before. Hurt? No. Even from the edge of my vision, I know she''s dead. I don''t need to see, I felt it, the sharp giving-crunch of bone, the following soft-resistance of... ...enough. I don''t have time for this, to panic or have some crisis of conscience. She''d have killed me for what was in my pack without a second thought. But now what? What kind of reprisals would fall to every human who happened to be in the area once the body was found? Can''t worry about that. Feels awful, but my mission is too important. Have to move on. I look around. No one is watching that I can see. That doesn''t mean no one saw. Just about any living human will have the kind of sharp survival instincts that say, "It''s a bad idea to be a known witness here." The side of my pack is dripping blood and gore and fragments of what are probably bone but I pretend they''re not as I scrape them off against the woman''s own clothes. I do it kind of sideways, so I don''t really have to look. I justify it, telling myself I need to keep a lookout, which isn''t wrong, I''m all alone and just got a very pointed reminder how dangerous that is. But I didn''t have anyone I could trust enough for this particular scrounging expedition. I''m not going to make it home. I''m going to have to hatch it here, in the outer city. I''m going to have to find a place to do it. My hands are still shaking. There''s blood on both of them, from putting my pack back on. It''s dripping, too. I can hear it. I need to get underground, and fast. If I''m spotted like this, by almost anyone either human or fey, I''m basically fucked. I can''t answer any of the questions they''ll ask. I look around. Nothing in view, just a lot of destroyed buildings, impossible to identify what they''d once been for. Got to move fast. Keep going down this side street. If I didn''t see the Elf coming, maybe no one will see me leave. Maybe if anyone saw me, they''ll keep to themselves. They did just see me basically assault murder a fey, after all. They might keep their distance. Please, gods, let them keep their distance. I have to go a distressing distance down the road before I find a sure prospect. But I''m not attacked, not stopped. I have an idea after a hundred paces or so, stop, take a ratty old cloak out of my pack, use it to cover up the stain on the side. I''ll look a little strange, but not strange enough in the scrounge-and-make-do culture of humans. It''s a good thing, too, because several people look my way before I see it. An old supply depot. It will have a basement. The basement would have raw materials. Ruined, for most purposes. Unsalvageable. No point. No use. Dangerous, too. Still dangerous for me. But not without use. This is perfect, if I can make it in. I circle the place. Nothing. Nothing. I''m aware of eyes on me. Just kids, playing in the street-debris, playing with the street-debris. But still eyes. Part of the above-ground building is intact. There''s a gap in a semi-collapsed wall. I slip in. An outer hallway is passable, if sagging. I follow it. There. A collapsed section of floor. A subtle glow from below. I look behind me. This is it. This is going to have to be it. No one can follow me in. They should think it fell on me. They should think I died. Happens all the time. I pull a small sphere from a hidden pocket in my pack. Precious little thing. Time to let it go. I thumb the right spot, squeeze another. Precise. Hold it. Feel it pulse in confirmation. Throw it, jump down into the gap. RUN RUN Throw myself to the floor, hands over my head. Hear the sharp pulse of explosion, feel it. Some of the ceiling falls on me. Small cut in my side, nothing I can''t treat. I stand up, shaking, look back the way I came. Hole in the ceiling is still there, the collapsed hallway floor. I walk cautious, look up into it. Rest of the hallway has collapsed. I couldn''t be followed, not that way. I let out a small bit of sigh. Can''t let all the tension out, have to keep it, keep me alive. But look. Look at these riches. Great bins of what our ancestors called "Universal Component Paste." All ruined now, useless to any but the most sophisticated of their machines. Except this one, the one I''m pulling out of my pack, caressing, smiling. This one would have food now. This one could eat. And grow. "Time to hatch, little one," I say softly, in that ancient, ancient tongue. ~ I have to rest. But first, it has to be fed. He has to be fed? She has to be fed? The dragons weren''t like the other ancient wonders, they thought and felt and spoke, after their fashion. Or was that really true? There are so many legends and so few solid answers.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. I lift the egg up into one of the bins, more gently than is probably necessary given what I used it for less than half an hour before. It shines brightly, sparks from a thousand hidden facets. It will be a she once it hatches, I decide, because I have hopes for it to be the mother of more of its kind. The first of them came into being at great cost, but never had time to fulfill the measure of their creation. The egg shudders in the bin, and heat comes off the degraded paste around it. I stand and watch a long time, but I still have to rest. It had already been a very long and wearying day when I first encountered the egg, and the journey since has piled on even more weariness, heavy and insistent. I wish I had someone else with me, to stand watch, to talk things through. But it''s just me and the egg, so I take the bedroll from my pack and spread it out on the most even patch of ruined floor I can find, near the bin where my newest hope and greatest burden shines and burns and slowly swells. I sit and treat the wound in my side. I scrub the gore from my pack. There will still be a stain, maybe a stain on me as well. Don''t want to think about that. Anyway, no fey will care about stains on ragged human things. Won''t be able to see the stain on me. Gods. I eat a few bites of dried fruit and hardtack, drink some water, lie down. Sleep comes harder than usual, but exhaustion wins out. I dream of ancient times, roaring wyverns and humming machines, lances of fire from human troops hemmed in, fading away as their weapons fail, hit by spells from afar. Some simply fail to fire. Others explode in great scintillating gouts of destructive pseudo-fire. Runestones flung from distant trebuchets hit, spread their destructive magics of ice and fire and tangleball lightning. Death and screams and despair. Then a great roar, unnatural though not in any terrible way, just not come from anything living. A thing of silver and diamond-flare bursts out, breathing white-hot flames that linger long in the air and even longer in the eye. They burn outward and consume and I feel a long lifting burst of hope and then I wake up. It hasn''t been long. I''m still tired. The egg is still sitting in the bin, luminescent, larger but unhatched. Slowly, I go back to sleep. I awake to something nudging my face. Years of surviving mean that I open my eyes very slowly, reach for and find the nearest solid thing to hand, which now is one of the solid bracers I''ve taken off to sleep. If it''s a rat, I''ll kill it. If it''s a thief, well, care has to be taken. If it''s a fey, I''m in some sort of real trouble. It''s the dragon. Of course it is. She''s hatched. She''s tiny, or at least much smaller than I would have expected given the size and weight of her egg. Perhaps the size of a feral cat. Her wings fold and unfold, almost like breathing, though she does not. Her eyes are purple-and-teal, swirling with sharpened curiosity. "Hello," I say, I breathe really, fogging some of her facets. She''s almost-lizard, with those mirror-scales. She recoils, but only a little. "Hello," I say again, this time in the ancient tongue. She nods. Actually nods. Maybe it''s working, maybe this will work. Of course I have hoped, but never dared to hope too hard. Maybe she''ll Authorized Operator Acknowledged. Orders? The words come straight into my head, making it ache. I stare. They''re cold, those words. They''re so, so cold. I knew she would be something not-quite-living. But I wasn''t expectingthisat all. Orders? I can still feel her in my head, still cold, no feeling at all, just careful logic and the stark promise of engineered death. Orders? I''m not about to send her out into battle at this size, however powerful she might be. There''s just one of her, and one of me, and gods knew how many fey boots stamping on human faces - forever, or so far back past living memory as makes no difference. "Feed," I whisper, wondering why my throat was suddenly so dry. Send her out into battle? I''ve just been in battle myself, a small, nasty, two-person war I still don''t want to think about or even remember. My dreams last night were a relief rather than a discomfort, I realize, because they were about an ancient war and not that bloody bone-jolting skirmish on the side street, the swing of weight, the crunch of bone, a scarred face now destroyed forever and and She''s looking at me, eyes bright, filled with diamond-lights, arching her neck up toward me with fluid grace. It''s not clear to me exactly what she''s made out of, she has joints but they''re not like machine-hinges, her created-flesh is graceful, semi-fluid, not alive but also not like any unliving thing I''ve ever seen. "Feed," I say again, getting more of my voice into it again, not that I think it matters, she''s not listening that way, she''s still in my head, cold and sharpened all along the length of her presence. She hears, lopes away from me, dives back into the bin. I stare a moment, seeing her form as just a quick flash of motion, a lingering curve of here-then-there tracing her path through space. I get up and walk over to the bin, crane my neck to look inside. Nothing, just the paste; she''s submerged herself completely in the semi-solid stuff. Small hints of movement under the surface, when I really look closely. Ah...how long will this take?I ask down into the bin. Feeding will continue until conditions are reached. Possibles: No more suitable input-substance available in immediate area Operator-ordered cessation Material integration period necessary Maximum effective size reached I ponder that for a long time before I come up with another question. What is time until next integration period? The answer is immediate. More than immediate, actually, distressingly so, cutting my sent-thought in half, knowing exactly what I''m planning to say and answering it before it seems to have fully left my head. Seven standard hours, assuming feeding is uninterrupted. Integration time will total three hours, seventeen minutes when reached. Integration time is not interruptible without damage to DRAGON unit. Okay, that raises several more questions and is gonna mean more planning on my part. Is there enough material here to reach integration period? What is accomplished by this first integration period? She pokes her head up through the paste, cocking her head at me, then comes up higher to swivel round and take in the buried room, only partly-illuminated by the shifting facet-spots shining off her body. Unknown. Inventory necessary. Requested? I grimace, wondering if she could run into any dangers down here while she''s still so small. Multiple queries given. Second query is: What does first integration accomplish. Answer is: Initial armament/defensive systems fabrication/calibration/activation. I realize suddenly that her replies aren''t in my native language, and they''re not really in the ancient one I piecemeal-understand either, they''re just sort of getting...translated by my own brain, and it''s starting to have a hard time with some of the concepts, like that last one, I have to sit and think about it. Then I understand, and I take in a deep breath, and nod. We''ll both be vulnerable until she can eat enough and then even more so while she sort of...builds herself up? I think? Inventory necessary. Requested? I start at the repeated question. "Ummm...yes," I say aloud, pulled out of my own head a moment. "You''re not...defenseless now, are you? Do you need all those new things from your first integration if we run into danger? Oh, and, uh, I don''t know about the inventory, not until I''m sure it won''t put you at risk." Something like laughter comes into my head, the closest thing to feeling I''ve gotten from her so far.Even fully-grown DRAGON unit is not invulnerable, only extremely resilient/capable. However: current state has some capability. Sufficient for: armed fey ground units, minimal magic, no support creatures. Uncertain for greater threats. Relief and apprehension, swirled together in a deep uneasy mix. "Umm, then, yes. Please take inventory." She acknowledges, just a sort of ping in my head, and again that silver-path speed, from here to there as though she''s barely a physical object at all, like a visible silvery wind. Or a spell, thrown out to tear a small child apart. I brush the memory aside, but suddenly she''s back from wherever she''s been searching, right in front of my face, looking into my eyes, shining, burning,taking in. Tactical information taken for integration.She nods, taps me gently on the knee with one clawed...foot? Hand?Thanks are given. Tactical information. That''s what she got from that. Also, she saw that. Gods. This is going to be...more than I thought. And I''m not even sure what I thought. I suppose I never really believed it could happen, and now... Gods. I send her off to continue her inventory. I''ve got thinking to do. ~ Thinking is terrible now, there''s too much washing across my mind and leaving streaks of anxious uncertainty at belligerent angles to its trails and paths. Nothing wants to flow gentle and true from end to end. I sit on the remains of an ancient machine, fallen on its--side, I think?--and listen to the distant-echo ring of metals and composites being moved around by the dragon as she performs her inventory. The dragon. I still can''t believe it, haven''t fully processed it, not the fact of her actual existence as a hatched thing now, certainly not the many many implications of the things she''s told me, the quick cold imparting of naked facts. She still doesn''t have a name, and maybe she needs one, probably she does, but I didn''t have anything for her in the rush and buzz of my thoughts, so I sit. And I wait. Query? The clean cold thought slices across every disordered layer of my own, cleaving them, stilling them, and I look up to see her diamond-shine face, long and perfectly pointed with its light-socketed gaze, cocked slightly as she waits for an answer. "Um, sure," I say, forgetting about the no-need-for-speech. "Go ahead." She nods, just the once, and bends her body through the air in a way that makes me unsure whether her legs are in actual contact with the ground, moving forward and around, settling in beside me. What are desired size/capability parameters before leaving this location? What are probable targets outside? "Ummm..." I say again, and think, hard this time, most of the chaos settling down as a layer of mental detritus I''ll have to sweep up and examine later. Okay, so size. She could probably break through walls if she got too big for any of the actual ruined exits. But do I want that? How much attention would it attract? How easily could she be hidden? I''d have to risk it, I decide. This is as good a chance to "feed" her as I''m going to get, and there aren''t many patrols in this area, and maybe... "Hey," I say, smiling at the little surge of hope that comes with my idea. "Do you have any way to camouflage yourself? Or disguise, maybe?" She nods slowly, bobbing her whole body up and down in time with her head.Capability is possible, must configure. Query desired camouflage/disguise? Can be hard to spot, or appear to be something else, not both, incompatible dermal-layer modifications. "Something else," I say, with a decisive finality that immediately puzzles me as to possible origin. "I''m...we''re...going to be under a lot of scrutiny. A hint of something strange at my side, they''ll investigate, even if it''s just a shimmer. Maybe especially then. Could be magic, something stolen, they''ll be all over that." Acknowledged.She stretches out her front legs in a way that was almost catlike, then looks over her shoulder at the nearest bin.Current location is enemy territory? That catches me off-guard. Of course she doesn''t know what the situation is, she''s a newborn with ancient imprints of knowledge at once far beyond and far behind her time, our time, the terrible place in history her birth has brought her to. "Yes," I say gently, and then before I can stop myself, wanting to get it over maybe, "Listen,everywhereis enemy territory. The war was lost. Thousands of years ago. I''m...sorry to tell you that, I guess." War is lost?She straightens up, body stiff.War is not lost. Weapon still online. Operator condition is acceptable. Imperial command chain status? "The Butlerian Empire has been gone for more than two thousand years," I say simply. "There is no command chain, just me. A few resistance groups here and there, some of them claim a kind of Imperial legitimacy, but...I''m not part of any of them. I just...found you. Sought you out. Followed the footprints of my parents'' research." She is silent for a long moment, then gives a kind of shudder and nods again.Acknowledged. Tactical/Strategic situation unfavorable, risk must be minimized/risk must still be taken or no hope of reversal. "Yeah," I say. "That''s about the long and short of it. Okay, look, there''ll be time to talk about this later, right now we need to get you fed. I need you to be about the size of a scav-donkey, so you can disguise yourself as one. An old, scrawny scav-donkey, one no one will think worth the effort of taking off me." See scav-donkey instance pass through mental imaging sent, acknowledge but do not recognize creature. Primitive beast of burden? I nod, suppressing a sigh. "Yep. We had to breed them after the Fall and the Great Machine-Ban. They can survive on very little food, even take some of their sustenance from sunlight, but they''re not very fast and can''t carry all that much, so the fey don''t have a lot of interest in taking them from us. Not practically, anyway, they still do it to punish or just because they can, like a lot of other things." Seen,she sends, which is strange. No "acknowledged," nothing formal like that. Thoughtful, maybe a sheen of something underneath the ice. I don''t know what, not yet. "Yes, and you''ll see more," I say. "Take what time you need, I don''t know all that much about how you work. It''s been a lot of years. You''re going to have to train this operator. Can you do it? Oh, and I forgot to ask. Can you have wings? All the, umm, old legends and pictures of dragons have wings." She curls herself forward and in front of me, facing me again.This can be done, null-gravity systems expensive but size asked leaves extra resources. Can reach parameters: Requested size, hard-light disguise capability, flight capability. Some resources still available. Desired weapons systems? Current request only claw/bite/tail, close range. "Yes," I say, and feel a little shiver down my spine, burning into my chest. What am I doing, where am I going, where will it end am I really sure I want to be there. "Fire. In the legends, in the pictures, they always had fire." She looks at me a long long time.Acknowledged,she said, and there''s that iciness back, not sure what''s still underneath. She flits away, all flowing-diamond and slight luminescence in the dark, to feed. I sit and watch and wonder. Fire. Gods. ~ It takes a lot less time for her to get to donkey-size than it did for her to hatch and grow to cat-size. It''s also a strange thing to watch, because you can''t actually see it happen, it''s too slow forthat.But this minute she''s noticeably larger than last minute, if you pay attention to the objects behind her, and I do, because what else is there, down in this ruined basement with his unreal creature that''s mine in a somehow even more unreal way? Plenty, actually. I should exercise, my parents were always sticklers about that and I haven''t always been. I''m planning to go to war, after all, even though I don''t like to think about that. Targets. She was asking about targets, and I told her to have fire, fire and claws, and I know we''re going to have to fight, this situation out there, it can''t continue. I remember the way my parents died. No one killed them, except they did, they kept us pressed down in the dirt like this and the filth made them sick and there was no recourse, nowhere to go for the healing they needed because they weren''t allowed, never never to rise up where help could be had. And when we set up our own help, it was smashed. No machines, no clever medicines like our ancestors, that was forbidden. No magic, because we had none, and only the favored had access to what the fey could provide, and we all cursed them because the price they paid to have that was usually taken out of us and not just them. Fucking traitors, gods-damned willing slaves. I remember the way my brother died. Nothing special. Just fought back against the abuse one day, and the dwarf he was talking to broke his kneecap then crushed his skull. One, two, just like that. I wasn''t there to see it, but I heard, and my parents didn''t let me see the body. We weren''t allowed to have a funeral anyway. I was seven. I watch her feed. Her wings are like buds, then spreading tendrils, then a fine tough film between them, silver and sparkle and graceful spread. And then she''s ready. I stand, stretching, delaying, because I''m not, not really ready, don''t think I''ll ever be. But I am aware that we need to go, aware that readiness is overrated when time pulls on the place where you''re standing. "Okaaay." I draw the word out, double-checking my pack. Not ready not ready not ready. Maybe I''m not so aware after all. Maybe all that wisdom about doing what''s needful only goes skin-deep, skull-deep, just the upper reaches of my brain where I know things but haven''t really taken them in. "We have to go," I say, part of me wanting to catch the words before they can leave my mouth, still letting them go. Readiness is nice but right now we have to go. Readiness is nice, but right now we have to go,she agrees, and I start, not realizing I''d sent that thought her way. "How much of what I think can you hear?" I ask. She cocks her head, all scale-glint and eye-lights.Only receive what is sent. Human brain sends what it wants, doesn''t always talk to itself. I reel a bit at that. "So I don''t have full conscious control of what you get?" The wings turn her shrug into a strange and elegant thing.Theory-of-mind simulations limited. Operator will have better comprehension than DRAGON system base base data allows. "They didn''t give you all the information you needed when they made you?" Those words, I really do wish I could take back. Too late, though, maybe even before I said them. Development of DRAGON system was accelerated. War contingencies. Adaptive routines used for post-constructor learning. Not entirely disadvantage: unique units hard to predict, plus current situation makes limited preconception almost necessity. I sigh. "I suppose it does at that. Look, we really do have to go." Right now. Because readiness is nice but right now has the necessity. "Yes," I say, thinking that as good a way to put it as any. "Right now has the necessity." ~ We manage to exit the ruined building''s basement without making any additional holes in the already-crumbling walls. She can''t actually make herself thinner to fit through smaller openings, like I''ve kind of been hoping, her form is fleshlike but also has a kind of skeleton and can only squish or stretch so far. But the one crack we find is enough, and it''s actually me who gets a small scrape on the back trying to wriggle through the narrowest part. There''s no one out there waiting for us. I had visions of a full patrol, just standing there patiently. Dwarves, probably, hammers and axes in hand, maybe a geomancer holding a steel runedrum. But no. It''s just us. I look up. Nothing right now, though of course there would be, the flying patrols pass often. I pat my dragon, still unnamed, and shiver a little at the strange feel of her hard-light disguise. It can''t withstand more than casual pressure, and certainly wouldn''t turn aside a blow or a really determined investigator, but the feel of dense coarse scav-donkey hair is fairly convincing against my hand, warmth and all. Maybe totally convincing; it''s hard to forget what you know when judging a thing like this. I hoped so. "Okay, donkey," I say with a small smile. "Let''s go." She brays. The sound of it is just a little off; she had to pull it along with her appearance out of my mind, which meant a lot of trial and error as she perfected the disguise. Or near-perfected it. Hopefully we''ll pass a real scav-donkey (though not too close) and she can improve it by seeing for herself. I realize suddenly that the bray is the first sound she''s made since she hatched, really made on purpose. It makes me smile, and I don''t know why. "Come on, Ms. DRAGON," I say, the smile still lingering. "It''s a long walk to the nearest settlement." Is this advisable? Use of official designation DRAGON, enemy territory?There''s almost a hint of concern there. I laugh. It''s warm and deep and genuine and cuts loose tension I wasn''t fully aware of holding in. Though I do whisper what I say next. "No one will notice, they''ll think it''s just a silly ironic nickname. There are no dragons any more, not for two thousand years and change." There are no dragons any more.Thoughtful. A touch sad? I may be reading too much in. Zero dragons, plus one, now. "Yeah," I say softly. "Zero dragons, plus one." Chapter Two The skies are empty, and it makes me nervous. I want to see that first griffon pass overhead, want it so badly, the relief that comes from seeing that everything is business-as-usual and that said business hasn''t noticed you. The dragon¡ªmy dragon, I suppose, though I''m less sure about that come every passing moment with her¡ªnotices my worry and agitation, whether because she can read my body language or because I''m sending emotion as well as thought and just don''t know it. Maybe one, maybe the other, maybe both, there''s just so much I don''t know. That makes two of us, I suppose, watching her crane her donkey-disguised neck to look around, to take in the world-above for the first time. All that knowledge distilled into her egg and how much of it is any good now, two thousand years and untold destruction on down time''s road? "I know you''re curious," I whisper, knowing I probably shouldn''t, just thinking it at her is enough, but still feels so unnatural. "But scav-donkies don''t look around that much in familiar territory, and that''s what we want them to think we''re in. Nothing unusual, nothing to be concerned with." There is no ''they'' to be concerned right now, and this has you concerned in turn, she says, not looking at me, not that I''d want her to, those illusory eyes both aren''t quite right and aren''t in the right places. Right place for a scav-donkey, sure, the disguise isn''t nearly that bad, but wrong place for a dragon, and it''s impossible for me to forget that''s what she is. I open my mouth to reply, then shut it. If I want her to exercise caution, maybe even paranoia, I''m going to have to be the example, what other has she got? What other has she got? She''s looking at me again; even under the just-that-off hard light disguise I can tell her real eyes are looking at me, all white fire set in diamond sea, I don''t have to see them to know. I concentrate on sending back rather than speaking, kind of ridiculous considering how many times I''ve already done it by accident. We need to be very careful, and if I want you to be careful I should be careful too. Set an example. She looks away from me. Yes, be careful to look the way a scav-donkey-creature looks, both appearance-wise and head/eye movement. Must not have apparent conversation with Operator. I make a sudden decision. Something about the way she says Operator rubs me the wrong way, drudges something peripheral out of my head. Fire. Gods. Choice-of-targets. A tall elf in armor, an arrogant sneering mask of a helmet, pointing his sword at a human baby and... "My name is Kella," I say simply. Then I realize, and sigh, and shake my head. Sorry. This way of speaking is difficult for me, but I know that is not enough excuse. A ruined fueling-station passes slowly by on our left while I walk and she does her best to move with less-than-customary grace, like a scav-donkey, and considers what I''ve said. I think. Operator Kella does not need to justify course-of-action to DRAGON unit. Unit interface/uncertain AI provided for information/quick execution/tactical options. It takes me a moment to parse that, and a moment more to realize there''s one bit I can''t. Okay, not speaking aloud this time. What is AI? I know those two ancient letters, but I don''t know their meaning put together like that. She bobs her head, just slightly, then noses at the ground, pushing a soot-streaked rag forward before tossing it aside. AI is Artificial Intelligence, Empire researchers unsure of true existence, DRAGON unit responds? thinks? maybe? maybe. No time for complete tests shortcuts taken. "Ummm..." I say. I figure it doesn''t count as talking, not like anyone listening in can glean anything from that. Kind of thing people say to themselves all the time, right? Even when walking down the street? I''m thinking so much about not looking suspicious that we probably look suspicious and we haven''t seen anyone since we left that ruined basement since this isn''t a very populated part of the city ruins and I''m avoiding really thinking about what she said, aren''t I? Why would Kella need to avoid thinking about DRAGON unit communications? I freeze, stopping dead on the shattered-moldering remains of what was once smooth paving on the side of the street. I feel absurd about it, too, why should she have such an effect on me? Why isn''t this a simple thing, a joyous thing even, I''m walking beside perhaps the greatest potential victory humanity has even been able to hope for in more than two thousand years, and she''s not giving me any trouble, she''s been perfectly cooperative. Charming even, in her way. I concentrate on keeping my thoughts inward, feeling vaguely guilty about it even though mental privacy is something I''ve taken for granted my whole life, and why shouldn''t I? It must be working, because I can feel her question even though it doesn''t have any words, just a sort of open query strung in the air between us. No impatience there, no discomfort, at least from her, but then does she even have any feelings that aren''t just projections from me? She''s a weapon, right? I catch the image as it comes center-stage in my mind, pull the curtains tight so she won''t get a glimpse. Small dwarven child clutching a doll eyes wide looking up, up, where are her parents what are those ashes¡ª Enough. I should answer, anyway. I''ve never really considered the idea that you would be as...as alive as you seem. I let the thought trickle through careful shaping as it flows toward her. Just a moment of something like surprise, if she''s capable of that. Which is part and parcel of the whole question, the whole thing, I suppose. And then¡ª DRAGON unit is not alive, uncomfirmed/unanswered research/development questions do not constitute¡ª And then a sudden stop. She spots them before I do, not a patrol, just a group of young dwarves. Low-caste, by their shaved-side heads and short simple beards. Much worse than a patrol. Maybe. She shudders. I think. Maybe she actually does move under her disguise, but I experience it as a mental thing, the kind of shudder that narrows in to a fine quiver rather than shaking out of control. Like a homing knife.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Possible targets course of action rules of engagement all requested timeframe narrow it''s all a rush in my head, just a fraction of a section to understand before the final prod readiness is nice but right now has the necessity and I make the decision, not really understanding it, part of me wanting to take it back. Hold. Wait and see. She turns to look at me again, her false-donkey eyes mild, the real ones intense beneath the obfuscating cloak if only in my mind. They are drawing weapons. Now is time for maximum range-plus-surprise, melee is difficult not for DRAGON unit but for Kella, operator is unarmed, operator is unarmored, possible to defeat all but no full surety of operator uninjured end-of-fight. She''s right, probably, even a miraculous thing like her can''t guarantee none of them will get a good hit in on me if this comes to a brawl, and they do have their weapons out but they''re all young males, they do that, want to feel powerful, and I don''t know them and don''t want to kill them just for being in my way. Because I''ve seen plenty of humans killed for just that, being in the way, and I want to be better than the people who did it. I don''t know how much of that she catches. It feels like she''s absorbing it. She doesn''t respond, not right away, but one of the dwarves speaks, the leader maybe. "Hey! Human!" It''s a good sign, the "human" instead of "vermin" or "Touchless" or a hundred other slurs. I stop, pat my "beast," and give the dwarf the bent-neck bow he''s almost certainly expecting. "Sir?" I say simply. They come near, still holding their weapons, but not really brandishing them, just holding ready. Not meant for me, I don''t think. Which is good, because the closest two are almost within swinging distance for their battle-axes. The same dwarf speaks again, from back behind that front pair. "You scav this area a lot?" The question takes me back a little, mostly because there''s no hostility in it. Not that this never happens, it does actually, all the time. We hold a low low place in the great scheme of things, but the fey don''t all just hate us for no reason. Plenty of interactions are more or less neutral, even somewhat friendly. Pleasant, even. Well, almost. No matter how cordial they are, that awareness of the background, that sense that they can demand anything of you right up to your life and there''s not much you can do, that colors everything, drains some of the joy even from small kindness. They''re looking at me expectantly. They don''t seem annoyed. Maybe I look thoughtful, like I''m considering their question at length. I rub my chin, and nod. "Been through a few times." Which is true enough, I scouted this area out carefully during my years of search for the egg. The young dwarf leader smiles. "Good! Maybe you can help us. We''re looking for a source of skysteel, we''ve heard rumors there''s an old half-buried wrecking yard nearby." They heard right, I know the place, picked-over at the peripheries but still containing some good finds under the collapsed fiberstone skyway that''s fallen on it. Skysteel''s popular with human rebel groups, or was back when there were any serious human rebel groups not made up of a few ragtag teenagers with romantic visions and poor life expectancies. It''s taken from the engines of old human flying machines; having been bathed in strange energies, it''s extremely resistant to magic. What these young dwarves want it for is anyone''s guess. Weapons and armor, most likely. Maybe they''re even more disaffected from their society than I''d expect for the low-caste. Skysteel anything is going to be seen as a grave affront to the Runemasters who stand at the top of every Dwarven nation...but weapons and armor made with the stuff can make you a nightmare to anyone relying on magic to fight. It''ll also suppress the natural magic of any fey who wore it, but low-caste also usually means low-Touch, so maybe not a serious problem for this group. Anyway. Not really any of my business and no skin off my back. Except it''s nice to remember that humans aren''t the only potential rebels around, that ours aren''t the only necks the fey aristocracy have their boots on. I smile. I''m surprised to realize it''s utterly genuine. "Sure! I know the place you''re talking about. It''s just down the road the way you''re already going, turn right at the corner with the ruined temple, continue until you see the snapped-off light pole with the intact ampoule still glowing a bit. Then take your next left and you''ll see it a little ways down as you round the curve. All the good stuff is under a collapsed skyway, you''re gonna have to do some digging through fiberstone." He smiles back, and I''m just as surprised to realize it seems genuine as well. "Thank you, human. Here," he says, and tosses me a small silver coin. I catch it, about to bow again, then realize he''s throwing something else as well, something spherical and red. I manage to catch it as well, using both hands and dropping the coin. It''s a largish stoneapple. "For your scav-donkey," the young dwarf says, and I laugh despite myself. "I''m sure she''ll appreciate it," I say, and sense a surge of amusement from my false-donkey. "Thanks, and good luck in your digging." I realize that his little entourage is scanning the skies, weapons still in hand. "And in avoiding the sky-bastards." I shouldn''t have dared say it, but it''s out, and it still seems like the right thing to say. Right-thing, shouldn''t-thing, I''m not quite clear on how the two intersect. And maybe it is the right thing, because they laugh, and one even gives me a sort of half-salute as he walks past. Another pats my not-donkey on the rump, and I suppress a wince, but he doesn''t notice anything, so we keep walking. Half a block down I have to stop and sit. I''m shaking. I''m shaking all over. Operator distress I look up at my false-donkey, and she nuzzles gently against the side of my face. It really does feel real, the fine hairs along her projected snout, the subtle warmth. "I''m okay," I whisper, even though I know that''s not true. Okay enough, maybe. I''ll be able to stand up and go on in just a few minutes. "I just...that was nerve-wracking. I wasn''t sure I made the right decision." Pointing enemy unit toward possible resource-source? Not understood. Violence averted during possible vulnerability, tactical reasoning, yes-understood. "I don''t think they''re our enemy," I say, still keeping my voice low. Dwarves have good hearing, and the ruins are quiet in the mid-morning sun. Fey carrying weapons asking about resource-source? Not understood. "Things have gotten complicated since the end of the war," I say, not knowing if that''s really true. Were they always complicated? The old stories don''t sound like they were. Maybe it''s hard to see the jagged little edges from a great distance through time. Complicated how-complicated? I sigh, steadying my limbs, breathing deep, sigh again, hoping she won''t take it as a sign of frustration but then why would she? That''s not the way she hears, not how she communicates. I glance around, keep my mouth shut this time. There are lots of different groups and sub-groups and clans and tribes and kingdoms. Most of them still treat us like the dirt under their boots, but they''re shitty to plenty of their own as well. And not all fey hate us. We cant just...go burning them all, all the time. Even if we could...we shouldn''t. There''s a small shimmer in the air as she moves to sit beside me. It''s comical, almost, knowing what''s under that scav-donkey disguise, seeing her plop down on her hindquarters, even though I''ve seen actual scav-donkeys do just that a thousand times. Maybe she pulled the detail from my head. Must have done. Shouldn''t why? She sends. I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable. I don''t want to say it, not to her, because I know what she''ll be used for, what she must be used for, which is something I don''t regret because I''m not going to leave my whole race ground down in the dirt but I''m starting to sense, really understand what that''s going to cost. And not just me, her too, and do I have that right? DRAGON unit understands purpose, does not regret it. War is sharp in memory. Current situation taking shape in world-model. Now has the necessity, not always comfortable, always there. I laugh, and it''s a good sound, even if there''s not much humor in it, some tension flowing out. I guess you''re right. I know you''re right. It will just be a good deal messier than I guess I dared contemplate. Okay. Come on, let''s get going back to the camp. There are people we need you to meet. Chapter Three It''s only about another hour''s walk to the camp, and it passes without incident and without spoken words. Not that those are necessary, not with me and her, but I don''t send anything and maybe she senses that I need time to think or maybe she''s just constructed to abide by my wishes without complaint, and that second maybe bothers me but I''m not clear why. But of course I do know, but also of course I''m not going to think about it too hard until I learn to keep my thoughts truly reigned in. The camp is carefully guarded. It''s not a resistance camp, not quite. That would get found and razed in short order, we''ve tried that before, and by "we" I mean humans, not any group I''ve ever been a part of. And by "not a resistance camp," I mean that if any of the fey were to show up at our gates, or really our pair of entrance alleyways, we''d scatter. Because the high ruined buildings surrounding our little courtyard of tarp-tents and simple workshops and hydroponics pots might look like they''re completely filled with the the aftermath of their own partial collapse, but they''re not. There''s a small maze of mostly-intact utility tunnels down there, intact because we''ve dug them out and shored them back up. Sure, whatever poor bastard was on guard duty would be willing to kill a few fey to buy time for the rest to escape, if it came to that. Hopefully it wouldn''t; there''s nothing forbidden in the camp, no real weapons, and if it doesn''t look like any inhuman visitors are there to cause serious trouble, we''d just let them in. (Killing would, if necessary, be accomplished by pushing rubble out the upper windows and letting it fall on anyone in the alley, also hopefully blocking up the passage at least temporarily.) Nothing forbidden in the camp, at least until now, because I''m going to bring a motherfucking dragon in there, and it kind of horrifies me just how much danger that puts us all into. And I''m going to do it anyway because I can''t do this alone, or even just do it with her, this strange creature plodding along behind me in a hard-light disguise that seems to confirm a dozen impossible old stories all at once. And here it is, perhaps five blocks down. The alleyway. it''s crooked, because one of the buildings sort of twisted as it collapsed, and because the other leans in on its neighbor, making contact at about the fifth of a dozen storeys. People used to live here, and not just humans, but also fey who liked the benefits of human culture and engineering and were ultimately declared Tainted-Touch by their fellows, all rounded up and killed or worse after we lost the Collapsing War. Humans, as I understand it, were allowed to continue to live in the buildings but not maintain them, not even to repair any of the war-damage they''d suffered. The fey liked the sight of their hated enemy living in what amounted to slow decay. That''s what we say now. Maybe it was just a practical thing. Maintenance and repairs are perilously close to construction and engineering, after all, and humans with those skills had been rooted out almost as ruthlessly as fey considered to be Tainted-Touch. That last statement is kind of heretical among the Not-Resistance I''m about to introduce my extraordinary new friend? find? to. It''s held as sacrosanct that no one suffered during the Collapsing War so badly as the humans, or in its aftermath, but I''ve had the privilege to read a few preserved sources and unredacted histories here and there. The Fey Alliance hated humans, sure, but hated those it perceived to be "Traitors of the True Ways" even more. Still does, to the extent that it still exists. Operator Kella sends jumbled thoughts of long-past. The words come into my head as a shock after the long silence, and I actually do jump. Yep, I send back, on purpose this time. Look, a lot has happened since the beginnings of you were put into that egg. This is a very different sort of world now.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The not-donkey nods her head, then lightly nudges me with it. That fur still feels so real, as does the warmth. Maybe it is real? The warmth, I mean? I suddenly realize I''ve never touched her, not once since she was hatched, not the real her under this disguise, not felt her since that one time she nudged me when newly-hatched. Had her snout been cold? DRAGON unit is kept at optimal operating temperature slightly above human-internal. Heat is energy therefore useful therefore permitted to escape as little as possible when not used for purpose, therefore DRAGON unit is not warm to the touch, but not cold, no heat absorption into hotter place of unit-internals. "Okay," I say aloud, and laugh. "Good to know." And I kind of want to touch her, now, and of course she''d let me, why would she not? I''m pretty sure she''d...well, do anything, and that I keep tightly chained-back in my head. But maybe I still should ask. Maybe that''s a better way, even if it isn''t necessary. The not-donkey cocks her head, sends nothing solid but I know what she means. Just trying to sort it all out, I reply to the unasked question of what''s-in-your-head. I don''t want to overwhelm you with my thoughts, or send you half-formed ones I don''t really mean. We''re coming up close on the alley opening, and I raise my arm to give the agreed-upon sign. Maybe a bit much, since I''m obviously human and almost certainly someone the guards peeking out of high windows will know personally, but still. Can''t be too careful, not now, not for a thousand years. The not-donkey exhales sharply through her fictional nostrils, or at least produces a pretty convincing facsimile of that sound. What is meant by half-formed-not-meant? How can thought be not meant, thought is thought thought cannot lie. Humans have to be very careful with intentions, just because we think it doesn''t mean we mean it. We scorn those who do not think before they speak, and this...communication with you is basically like speaking, for me. I don''t want to confuse you or waste time with thoughts I''m no sure I mean or not. I feel a very un-donkey-like flutter disturb the air, like the flutter of wings, and along with a strange almost-scent I''m getting from her direction, I wonder if this conversation is somehow causing her distress, and also thinking we''re too close to be dealing with it. Humans are weird, I send, we don''t even always understand ourselves, don''t let it worry you if you can''t either all the time. Maybe a sense of relief, now? A calming, a slow stilling? This is not fully understood but Operator Kella is trusted, intent is difficult as concept, concepts are not meant for deep-probing by DRAGON unit beyond improved-heuristics. I''d say pushing deep with your thinking is generally a good thing I want to encourage, but now is not the time, we''re almost to the entrance. Please follow my lead, I just don''t know how this is going to go. Now has the necessity, she sends back, and I squeeze into the alley ahead of her, wishing we could fit side-by-side, understanding why the narrowness is such a good thing for us, for our possibilities-of-survival. "You go out trading?" It''s a familiar voice, up ahead. Kether, my uncle, my dad''s adopted brother, really the only family I have left since all my blood is gone. "How''d you manage to buy a scav-donkey? For that matter, why? I thought you didn''t like them, said you had to squeeze into smaller spaces? Thought they brought too much attention when loaded up? And for even more matter, how? You come on some kind of sudden wealth instead of more ancient history for cramming into your head?" I laugh, and there''s no relief in it, here, every one of these questions is needling at the well-sprung ball of tension wrapped round my core, so I decide to cut right through. "It''s not a scav-donkey," I say flatly, and then correct myself as she comes into the cracked-fiberstone courtyard behind me. "She''s not a scav-donkey." I take a deep breath as she ambles up to my side. At least a dozen people are watching, now, pausing tasks, looking up from conversations. Might as well just cut the whole thing open at once. "She''s a dragon." Kether laughs, but there must be something in my voice because it''s short and harsh and staring. "Not a good time to joke, Kella, not when you''re already doing something so unexpected." "Not joking," I say, and breathe in deep. Go ahead, it''s time to drop the disguise. She does. The not-donkey is gone, instantly, no fade, and she stands glorious and mirrored in the near-midday sun, throwing tiny shards of sunlight against ancient dull metal walls. Someone lets out a tiny scream of disbelief. My dragon bows, and for the first time since she was hatched, produces audible words. Greetings. It is honor to serve, it is sorrow to see your plight. Kether looks at her for all of the ensuing silence, then turns to me. "Good gods and foul, Kella, what. Have. You. Done?" Chapter Four What have I done? Kether stands there looking at me like he expects an answer, green eyes flashing in his pale freckled face. The dragon...my dragon? our dragon, now, ours as in our little group, ours as in all of humanity...she''s folded her wings and she stands there waiting with that strange maybe-bottomless patience of hers. "I''ve finally found what I''ve been looking for, Kether. What my parents were looking for, all those years. What dad was looking for." He winces and I know it''s unfair, that I''ve twisted a knife of special unkindness, but it''s the only one I can find right now and it''s a delicate moment, I don''t feel I should go into it unarmed. Kether and I aren''t blood, but he and my father were good as brothers. Better than most, really. I step forward and hold out my hand. "Listen," I say, "I know the risks, who better? Mom and Dad taught me everything they could, and you know damn well just how much that was. Yeah, sure, there''s serious danger. But there''s also serious hope, Kether, the first we''ve had in a long, long time. Since before I was born, probably, right?" Kether takes in a deep breath, and lets it out in slow irregular huffs. He doesn''t look at the dragon, though of course she''s right there in the peripheral of his sight, like he''s sure seeing her directly would be too much for his decision-making faculties. And maybe it would. He looks at my hand, instead, then walks forward and takes it in his own, huge almost-white palm and fingers just about engulfing my smaller near-black ones. And he pulls me in for a quick hug, slapping me roughly on the back the way he always does, and as usual the smell and feel of him is comforting and a little sad, old memories of being held when I was smaller and Dad''s death was still fresh. I slap his broad back in return and step back, then step back again so I can look him in the eye without having to crane my neck too much. I''m not an especially short woman, about average, but he''s a giant of a man, and even though some of his bulk no longer comes from just muscle most of the muscle is still there. Dad says¡ªused to say¡ªthat he''d seen Kether do some exceptional things, the kind of exceptional he never wanted to see again, back when they were more hotheaded and foolish and willing to take the fight directly to the fey. "I haven''t named her yet." I don''t know why these are the first words to come to my mind and escape my lips, but they are and I glance over at her, but she''s still waiting, patient as living polished stone. "She?" Kether says, but he''s interrupted by a little girl, creeping out along the walls to stand just next to the dragon, small brown hand outstretched, caution warring curiosity in her dirty, delicate features. "Can I touch her?" the girl asks. I don''t know her name, I''m away from home too frequently and for too long to keep track of all the children who live here, I couldn''t really even tell you how many of them there are, I think there are something like three hundred of us in total? "Sure," I say, the decision made in an instant and I''m not entirely sure just how momentous it might be, it feels like it is even though it''s just one child touching an ancient machine with no reason at all to harm her and why should that matter so much? But it does, and I know it. We all know it, looking on. Child is curious? Physical contact is no problem will do no harm to DRAGON unit, DRAGON unit does not harm human children by intention, this is absolute baseline instruction. Dragon does not harm human children. That gives me a small shudder. Maybe the part about intention should too, but I know enough about war to know that it doesn''t bound its horrors, the best of intentions can lead to the greatest of horrors and there''s nothing to do but go on, and maybe learn if you''re really lucky. So, okay, but...human children? We''re going to have to have a talk, she and I, after she''s named, after she''s introduced. The little girl is still looking back and forth between me and the dragon, maybe because Kether has stepped forward as though ready to intervene. I give her a little nod. A small hand rests gently on the scintillating skin of a graceful neck. "She''s so pretty," the girl whispers, then jumps back. "She talked to me! In my head!"If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. "Yes," I say, and my voice seems like it''s coming from somewhere far away, from someone else maybe. "That''s how she talks, usually." Apologies, comes the strange metallic voice for the second time. DRAGON unit did not mean to startle. Child is welcome. Kether is staring, now, eyes wide, one of the few times I''ve ever seen him at a loss what to say or do. "It speaks telepathically? Like an Elf Mage-Commander to her troops?" "She," I correct him, without even thinking about it. "Yes. I was a little surprised to hear her say something out loud just now." Audible sound not difficult. Vibrations in air at correct frequencies. Linguistic corrections more difficult. Have observed Operator Kella word-patterns, reconstructing local dialect with temporal drift. Kether laughs, soft and low. "So you''re ''Operator Kella'' now? Does she see you as her owner, then?" The dragon ruffles her unfeathered wings, showing tiny scales that rise and smooth out on their surface instead. Ownership is difficult concept, originally military weapon, military defunct Butlerian Empire fallen, Operator Kella recognized for initiative in seeking out DRAGON unit. Knowledge of old Empire plus DRAGON unit very high for new Dark Age. DRAGON unit is satisfied with arrangement does not wish to revise. I''m touched, honestly, absurdly so, and I think this is the first time I''ve heard her actually express any sort of emotion or desire of her own, at least directly like that. "Satisfied with arrangement." I suppose there are more eloquent ways to express that kind of sentiment¡ªbut I''ll take it just the same. "Thanks," I say, loudly enough for everyone listening to hear, and I''m suddenly aware of the wider scope to this little drama, all the other faces gathered round, watching, remembering. This is a legend, I think, someday parents will tell this story to their children, even if we fail people will remember this. I''m not sure if that makes me feel motivated or terrified. Probably plenty of both. Operator Kella will do well, she sends back, and I suppose I should have realized she would catch all of that, I''m not exactly in a guarded moment. I send another thanks to her, silently this time, because I''ve also got to say something now, it''s expected, it''s right for the moment, and I''m not ready but readiness is nice but now has the necessity and I breathe in deep and let my gaze scan the little crowd, gathering larger every moment. "I''m no good at speeches, I''m just a scavver really," I say. "Speeches were Dad''s thing. Some of you knew him, a few others knew the kind of thing he and Mom were always looking for. Well, now I''ve found it. Found her. She still needs a name, but like I told Kether just a few moments ago, she''s the best hope we''ve had in a long, long time. We need to meet and talk about going forward. This place is fine for now but soon enough she''ll outgrow it, and we won''t evade fey notice for too long." I close my eyes, knowing I shouldn''t, I should project confidence in front of this crowd, this should be a legendary speech for a legendary beginning, but humanity gets what it gets, it gets me, I''ll just do my best and that''s all they can ask, all I can ask of myself. That is all but best can improve, all can be added to, Operator Kella will have help grow with DRAGON unit not larger but other ways. Gods damn it all I''m sending again, but that''s alright, I send warmth back to her because that''s what the words give me and I don''t have time to process them right now even though they''re what I needed and I reach out, set my hand gently on the base of her neck, feeling what the little girl felt, surprisingly warm, dry and smooth-scaled. Everyone is still looking at me, not seeming to mind the pause. The moment overspills with possibility and I reach for one. It''s the only one, it''s an awful one, maybe no one left alive now knows how awful, we know the grind of oppression but this is a different kind of milling-stone I''m about to set in motion. "We can no longer just do what we can from the shadows, we will still need secrecy and guile on our side but now, we are going to become something else, now we are going to have to do something else." I let my words sink in for a pause, purposeful this time, then stand up straight, fingers tightening on the base of her long neck, feeling that slight give, almost-living. "Now, we go to war." Kether''s eyes widen; I don''t have authority to declare anything like this, I don''t really have any authority at all. But I''ve said it, and people are listening, and I suppose that''s the only authority that really matters sometimes, and Kether''s about to speak but it''s cut off utterly. The dragon roars. My first thought, living here so long, is that it will attract the fey oh gods what are we going to do. But it won''t. No one knows what a dragon roar sounds like. Echoing down the streets, it could be one of their own half-tamed beasts making the noise. Certainly nothing human. Nothing to be concerned about. Well, they''ll know the sound soon enough. It''s an extraordinary one, somehow metallic, only that''s not quite right. Crystalline. Ringing through the air with little hints of inner fire. And the people roar back. That surprises me more. They roar their approval. They''re ready, maybe always have been, I don''t blame them, but I don''t think they know, I don''t think any of us do, just what''s coming, what it will mean. War. Chapter Five War. We all stand there like that, looking at each other, me and Kether and the dragon and all the people arrayed in a ragged arc round the mouth of the alley. I realize the little girl who touched those mirrored scales just a few moments ago has crept close again, mouth wide in awe. From the roar, maybe, or just the sort of thing children remember and we sometimes forget. "War." Kether''s voice makes the word slap down flat in the air between us all. I just nod. "Okay, Kella, do you have a plan?" I''m about to shake my head, but I can''t do that, that would be terrible, no matter how much honesty it might show, I''ve just given a gods-damned speech and talked like I know what I''m doing, what needs to be done. So I hold out my hand, palm-up, the way I used to see my father do when he was talking with someone and wanted to...I don''t know, invite them in to his ideas? Ask them to contribute something to what''s being said? It feels fake, because I''m not my father, feels like I''m taking this thing from him to help sway Kether, sway everyone. But it isn''t, because I do need his thoughts, I need them bad. "I have a start," I say, and don''t realize it''s true until I''ve said it. "We need to take down a stockpile if we''re going to have any chance at all. And then we need to hold it long enough to make use of it. And then we need to manage the backlash against any nearby human camps, because it''s going to be massive." Silence at that. War is one thing, as a word it doesn''t really mean much to any of us, maybe more to me because I know a lot of the old stories, I''ve even seen some of them in flickering displays found deep during my searching but still, I''ve never lived them. War still happens, war is always, so far as I know, but we don''t take part. We are ground down, and sometimes we rebel, but we don''t make war, because they''ve made sure of that, all the fey, even as they indulge in plenty of war themselves, against each other, amongst themselves. War is one thing, shaped-out vague in the murkier reaches of understanding, but "backlash," that''s understood, that''s right here, right now, that''s got scars on the back that still ache when the wind changes. I have a few myself, on my face, in my head, all those weighted-down spaces somewhere deep where friends and family used to be, especially parents and brother and the man and woman who are the two reasons I don''t do relationships anymore, not the romantic kind. I can still see the way the blood trickled down her face, because I refuse to remember the rest, it''s obscene. "Yeah, backlash," I say, soft but it carries, surprised at the confidence and feeling behind my own voice, because I hear her voice too, not my dead girlfriend but my new very strange one, I have her there behind me, and maybe that shouldn''t be a surprise because of course we''re hanging all this on her, a huge burden on a creature that was only an egg just a day before. "This is going to be hard. This is going to be bloody. But our lives are hard and bloody already, each of you knows that, deeply, personally. And it''s going to move faster than you might imagine, because it has to. She won''t stay secret forever, we can''t count on that, there''s no time for waiting." Kether sighs. It''s not exasperation, it''s not unserious like that, not dismissive. Just resignation, the recognition of a long road ahead. Because he knows, he''s not stupid. He knows I''m right. Maybe we''ll fight some on the how and where and when but there will be action taken and it will be taken as close to the now as we can wrangle it. "Okay. I''ll gather the small council. You''ve made your point, we should get your...our...new dragon friend out of sight. We don''t get a lot of air patrols here and we see them coming way off when we do, they''d only be able to see her in the courtyard looking straight down, but still. I won''t say we can''t afford to take chances, because really we can''t afford not to, this whole thing is going to be one chance after another, we''re not in a position to take no risks. But we should choose those risks carefully, from here on out. What one does affects us all, we discuss them when that''s possible, okay?" I nod, and I follow him into one of the buildings, thinking. Because of course I took a huge risk, all by myself, just bringing her here, just hatching her, feeding her, even finding her. If I''d been caught before I was ready, before we were ready, it would have been... ...I don''t know what it would have been. There''s no precedent for it, not in living memory. Once in a while some group here and there will cobble together some half-cocked device from our ancestor''s scraps and use it. Explosives, crude cannons, lightning-traps, the occasional very old very dangerous power core, goaded into instability and hurled in hope. That last one just happened once that I''m aware of, they used a trebuchet and got lucky, it obliterated the whole front entrance of a Dwarven mine instead of detonating the moment their siege machine started to fling it. They took four fingers from each of my grandparents in retaliation for that one, just like they did from every other human within their reach, along with the expected death by torture for the attackers themselves. Rumor had it at least a hundred miners had been killed and the mine didn''t reopen for a couple decades. I''m not sure how I feel about that. The miners were just miners, right? But their ore didn''t just make Dwarven crafts and carts and cutlery, it was used for armor. And weapons. Like the ones that had cut off all those fingers so they could be left to rot in neat rows on display in every human camp. The dwarves would make sure of it, if you didn''t have your fingers in a prominent place, they''d take more. Creative cruelty. Only after all the people who had lost the digits had died were we finally allowed to throw them away, or rather hand them over to be tossed into forge-fires so we couldn''t bury them. Burying the dead is not allowed, not even just fingers. The dwarves love their elaborate tombs, they believe preservation of the body, at least a piece of it, anchors the soul for a comfortable journey into the next world. But humans don''t deserve a comfortable afterlife. My thoughts are interrupted by the sight of the council table, old and made of partly sawed and partly scavenged wood, skewed but solid. Solemn all around, looking at me, looking at her, seeming so much larger in this smallish half-ruined space.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. "Kella," one older woman says, face all lines and care and hard-fought wisdom. Maybe some bitterness, too. "Daughter of Ralley and Marda. Ancient of clan." This is all very formal, and I''m suddenly nervous. Humans have no family names, no clan names. Taken, long ago, like so much else. Legend says we clung a long time to them in secret, over centuries and centuries, but not long enough. Now, we just remember that we had them, once. Ancient of clan. She senses my apprehension, the council woman; but she catches it also, the dragon, drawing in close to my side. What is sudden worry? This small after-Empire government, it will do something to you? Operator Kella is deserving of no punishment by duly constituted authority, this council of doubtful authority, DRAGON unit will not allow... I hope not, now hush, I send back, gently as I can. Her concern, maybe even a hint of her outrage, is touching but at this moment I need to concentrate, need to hear just the one voice. "Tell us your story," the woman says. "All of it, omitting nothing that might be of interest to this council. Tell us how you found this weapon, and everything you did between then and your arrival here." There''s a hint of decision in her voice already. Not condemnation, that''s a relief, but something else too I don''t quite like. I take a deep breath, though, because they do deserve the story, and as I breathe out I tell it to them. It takes long enough that somewhere in the middle I am invited to sit, and anxious eyes form a web of thinking-glances across the rough table surface, meeting each other, lingering on me, positively pulled in by the mirror-scale creature-construct sat nearly motionless by my side. "Thank you, Kella, Daughter of Ralley and Marda, ancient of clan." The old woman''s words come soft but dismissing as I finally wrap up the tale. I know what their undercurrent means, and begin to show myself out. It is time for the council to deliberate, and I am not a member. "You should leave the dragon here," says a hunched-forward man with white-wisp hair and faded green eyes. I suppose this is a reasonable request, but it sends long branching spikes of anxiety down my throat and into my chest. I don''t have time to reply, though. No. DRAGON unit will follow Operator Kella in leaving room, proper hierarchy-of-orders uncertain but operator fitness well within satisfactory bounds, Operator safeguard part of standard duty-set. Silence. "We will discuss this later," the council woman says, and there''s a careful note of lightness in her voice, pure artifice. I don''t like it. "Meanwhile, you may both wait in the common room. The common room is not too far from the council chamber, but far enough to make eavesdropping a near-impossible proposition. I make the walk, dragon at my side, silent, thinking. I do not eavesdrop, she sends, something near to primness in her mental tone. I almost laugh. But hearing is passive function for surface-mind sendings. Woman at head of table who did most of speaking sent thought, Kella young/not warrior/not leader should not bear burden of responsibility, wish to appropriate DRAGON unit. I feel a chill, even as some small part of my brain asks, is that the first time I''ve ever heard her say "I," assert identity that way? Maybe. "I got a little of that impression too, yeah," I say. "I can''t hear thoughts except the ones you send, and I''m no genius with people, but she''s not that hard to read." She cocks her head, and bumps my elbow gently with her snout. Operator Kella has latent talent for people/leading, unmistakable, DRAGON unit designed to recognize these traits very important in operations, full collapse scenario anticipated by some DRAGON operators meant as possible leader-fallbacks. "No I don''t," I say, but feel a flush I hope she can''t see in the interior gloom under the dark brown of my skin. Then I realize that''s foolish, she doesn''t recognize emotion that way, she can probably read it just fine directly. Denial is minor obstacle so long as proper decision is taken. I blink. There''s a lot to pick out in there, all kinds of meaning behind the pseudo-words streaming into my head. But I don''t have time, because there are running feet down the corridors, and yells, and I run too, unthinking, habits grooved carefully in since I had even the smallest understanding of my tribe''s necessary ways. Because I can make out some of the words. Escape. Rearguard battle stations. Normally I''m one of the rearguard. I''m no great warrior, but I have no children and no partner and so I am part of the escape militia basically by default. I''m running to my station, only that''s stupid, I''m not going to throw rocks down and then fight them off as long as I can with whatever comes to hand. I have a dragon. I don''t need to say anything to her, out loud or otherwise, not directly. She knows. We dart down stairs, one flight, two, skittering right out into the corridor, then I let her go past me because of course I do, why would I be at the forefront? Burst out into sunlight, kicking an ancient stubborn door. It''s elves. They''ve already killed two of the rearguard. Everyone else has already fled for the tunnels. One of them sees me, raises her bow. Screams. I''ve seen people burn to death before. It''s a favored punishment for humans who attempt to buy or steal or otherwise use any kind of magic, since we can''t cast spells ourselves but can make use of enchanted things, sometimes. This is both better and worse. It''s much, much faster. She doesn''t suffer long. But her scream is nothing apart from agony, her last moments will be utterly shorn of anything else. Her last moments come almost immediately. The stream of fire is not red, like part of me had imagined even though I should know better. White-hot, almost silver, in a furious light-distorting burst from the dragon''s mouth. The elf falls. No blood, only steam. The only liquid is silvery streams from whatever bits of metal she had on her. Jewelry. Buckles on her hide armor. I look away, partly in horror, partly because the afterimage is so, so strong. The others are attacking. There are maybe six of them, here in the courtyard, but I can hear more clamoring outside the alley''s narrow way. When I look up there are only elf-shaped cinders and the smell, burnt air, burnt everything, almost too clean for what has happened, as if the sheer intensity-of-heat has scythed every organic scent away. "Gods." It''s my voice, far away. The dragon leaps into the alley. More fire, more screams. Now, though, I see blood splatter up over the walls, though I cannot see the fighting itself. She is using her claws. Maybe her teeth. It doesn''t last long before she runs back into the courtyard and leaps into the air, wings spread. I look up. Circling griffins. Of course. Can''t let them get away to report. She rises faster than her wings could possibly explain, but of course she does, she is a pinnacle of human engineering, gravity is a thing that can be tossed aside for her. My mouth is hanging open. One griffin-rider attacks. Arrogant. Dead. Broken feathery neck, falling rider. Oh, shit. She might fall right on top of me. I step back, into the alley with its leaning overhang. The rider hits the ground right in front of me. Spray of blood, then a seeping pool. The sound of so much broken I can''t count. He or she yells on the way down. Not a scream. Defiant, suddenly stopped. I pant, look up. Dragon is coming back. No sign of the other griffin. She lands, all light grace. Nothing like the rider, nothing at all. All enemy forces neutralized. Scouts will not report back. "Gods," I say again. I shudder. Something occurs to me. I can feel the shock, everywhere in my veins through all my nerves pounding in my head. I push it aside. "Burn the bodies, please," I say. "All the ones not already burnt. Ours too. Then the whole courtyard. More will come when this force doesn''t report back. We can''t let them find anything." She does. I don''t watch. I''m thinking, thinking. It''s started, too soon. It always would have been too soon. I am not ready. It doesn''t matter. She looks at me, nods. Nothing needful to be said, not right now. I nod back. We flee for the tunnels. Chapter Six The escape tunnels are crowded by human bodies and scav-donkeys and dogs and small carried pets like cats and salamanders. The passageway stinks of vermin and sweat and fear and the combined-waste scent of the small slow underground river that carried everything unwanted away from our little settlement. It''s awful and it''s sudden and I hate it. "Move move move! Move along move along!" Kether cries out from the entrance where he''s ushering people in. Everyone is crowded except around me because the dragon and I are given plenty of space. She smells of burning air, strongly enough to ride rough over all the other awful smells. Her scent''s not awful in itself, but it is a reminder. We come around a turn in the tunnels and one of the council members is standing there, holding something. Small green glass orb hanging down on the end of a string. I can feel the queasy violation-of-norms coming off it in waves. Magic. Extremely forbidden. Something kept around at great risk, therefore likely something extremely useful. It hangs motionless as I begin to pass by, but the moment the dragon approaches behind me it bends away from her, string nearly level with the tunnel ground. "Well," the woman says. "Now that is interesting." It''s not, thank the gods, the old woman who questioned me from the head of the table. Younger, friendlier. I search for her name in my battered brain, finally find it. "Paunea. What are you doing with that? If they''d...was that why...?" "Please stay here a few moments, Kella," she says calmly. "No, there''s almost no way this little trinket is why they came. It''s actually quite difficult to find with any of their methods. It''s a magic-detecting bauble. An unusual but rather minor one, meant to amuse little Elven lordlings so far as I''ve been able to tell." She gestures me and the dragon over into a sort of small tunnel alcove across from her. We both go. The orb goes back to hanging straight down. "Okay," I say. "I guess it does work, I''ll give you that, or it wouldn''t have been pushed away from the dragon like that." Still sounds wrong, in my head, just "the dragon." She needs a name, she really does. Soon, soon. Other things, right now, gods know that and so do I. "So what are you..." and then I understand, just like that. "Oh," I say quietly. She just nods. People stream past. They glance at Paunea, down at the little glass sphere hanging down from her hand. Some of them look at me, at the dragon. A few stare, but only for a moment, because no one wants to linger. Except maybe someone does, because one man comes around the corner and sees Paunea and her bauble and backs up almost immediately. And it''s too late, because the string twitches and the orb moves toward him, string pointing his way attracted by some bit of magic on his person and he sees that too, tries to smile, then tries to run, run right past us, ready to shove his way to unlikely salvation. The dragon reaches out and snatches him by the neck. I gape. It''s not a surprise, not exactly. I would have tried to stop him, too, I don''t have much sympathy for an obvious spy. None at all, in fact. Except that isn''t true, I''ve been through a lot and there''s plenty of scab and callous on my heart but part of me still winces, seeing his eyes bulge like that, seeing him hung helpless, kicking and scrabbling at mirrored scales to exactly zero effect. And he''s human. Part of me thought before, for no real good reason now that I think back, that a dragon would be forbidden from harming a human in any way. Because they were the ultimate human weapon, a possible salvation, even though that salvation hadn''t actually worked out at the time because it was already too late, lots of reasons for that, no time to think about it now, but still, still, I thought, well, she''d always be on a human''s side. Except humans aren''t always on a human''s side. Often we have a hundred different sides, even if they''re small ones and we can cooperate when needed, even then. She can''t be on all the sides, can she? Did I think she''d spare traitors? What did I think she would do, faced with some fighting force that included human traitors among its ranks? Would she be on their side? Of course not. The man''s eyes bulge. I''ve been looking at that for a while now, and the dragon has been looking at me. She has sent nothing, just silent, but I think she''s heard plenty. Paunea looks on too, with an odd sort of interest. Waiting to see what I''ll do. Because of course she knows what it is I have to do, we can''t take prisoners or have a trial or whatever, not right now, and even if we did the result would be the same, this is how it would have to end. "Put him down," I say, and fight off the sudden urge to add a "please" on the end. She looks at me, just a moment, those white-fire eyes showing something like a touch of color beneath, or maybe just a hint of turmoil, or maybe that''s not it at all, maybe I''m just catching something like thought or emotion passing straight through to my mind and I''m imagining something like a human response on her mirrored impassive face.Stolen story; please report. She does, but doesn''t let him go, doesn''t even let up her grip on his neck. He seems almost limp on his feet. "Let him breathe," I say. Detained subject has sufficient airflow to survive but insufficient for any effective resistance, she sends, but releases her grip anyway, enough for him to take one huge whooping breath, tears running down his ashy-brown face. I get a good look at him for the first time now that the immediate crisis is suspended, albeit suspended over him like a slowly-falling axe. He''s mostly unremarkable, ragged patchwork clothes just like the rest of us, improvised pack on his back. Medium height, medium build, medium skin tone. Black hair, brown eyes. Youngish, maybe thirty. I don''t know his name. I should know more people''s names. Especially now. "What are you carrying?" I ask him. I don''t know why it''s me doing this, should be Paunea, right? She''s an actual member of the council, a real leader, but I know somehow this is expected of me now, that my place has completely changed, and I can say I don''t want that but I remember the sheer galvanic power of the feelings that hit me when I thought they might try to take the dragon away from me, to maybe wash my hands of responsibility for everything that followed from finding and hatching her. He doesn''t say anything, and the dragon noses herself forward, prods him right in the chest. He tries to jump back, but Paunea gives him a casual shove back forward. Operator Kella has asked you a question. What is it you are carrying? He stares at her, still silent. Buying time, internal panic, who knows. It is under his shirt, right against his lower back. His pack hides the shape-pressed-in-cloth. "Give it to me," I say, and the softness in my own voice surprises me. He reaches down and behind, under his back. Hesitates. "You''re going to kill me anyway," he says. "And it''s not like you have time to torture any information out of me." "I don''t torture people," I say, and decide immediately that I''m telling the truth. I''ve seen enough of that shit from the fey. And heard about if not seen it among humans. I''m not going to, I''m just not. He glances back at Paunea, past the people still streaming past, slowing only a little interest. The drama''s not worth a delay, to them, not now. They''ll get the story later. Paunea just gives him a carefully blank expression. He shakes his head. "Might not be up to you." "It will be," I say. Can I back that up? I''ll have to. "What''s your name?" He hesitates, then maybe realizes how stupid that is. "Jens. My name is Jens." I give a slow nod. "Okay Jens. We don''t have much time, so you''ll have to decide quickly. You want to die after helping your people the best you can, even after betraying them? Or do you just want to die as a loathsome memory? Any interest at all in a tiny touch of redemption? Doesn''t matter if you''re not ready to decide." I pat the dragon lightly on her shoulder, giving her a small mental smile. "Readiness is nice, but right now has the necessity." It''s a nice little speech, I guess, but it doesn''t seem enough to sway him. At least not until there''s a sharp intake of air from the dragon, and then a very warm exhale that briefly raises the dank tunnel temperature a few degrees and tousles the man''s short black hair. He closes his eyes, pulls something sloped and circular out from under his pack. He holds it out toward Paunea first, and her hanging orb is immediately pulled in the object''s direction. She just nods, and the man tosses the thing at my feet. It''s small, perhaps a little larger than my own palm, and ugly, like something sculpted by a not-very-talented child, but without any of the misshapen charm. The bottom seems to be flat, resting on the uneven tunnel brickwork, the edges slightly crinkled, the top rising up at the center round a small flattish green stone. Some kind of communication charm. Has to be. Gods damn him, damn the whole thing I¡ª The man looks me in the eye as he speaks, and I don''t like it. Something petulant there, maybe even spiteful. "A young Elven woman approached me something like six months ago. She seduced me and¡ª" Lies. The dragon''s voice booms through the tunnel, loud enough I worry it may be audible on the streets above. She seems to realize this too, ducks her head and sends an apology, but doesn''t take her burning stare off the man. Anger flares in the man''s face, and the ugliness is definite there now, all the spite I thought I''d seen before, uncovered along with a whole trove of hoarded resentments. "Fuck your ancient machine, it doesn''t know¡ª" "Kill him quickly," I bark. and she does, and I know it''s a mercy but immediately I understand that this image will haunt my dreams, the first death I''ve ever ordered directly, and it''s true I''ve killed once before with my own hands, bludgeoning that elf with the dragon''s own egg but that was defending myself, this man is human, he is supposed to be one of my own. The dragon rears up, grabbing the man''s head, claws sinking in deep as though his skull was no harder than old leather. He goes slack immediately, suspended by her claws like a puppet, and there''s very little blood until she lets go and then it''s pouring out the holes and I look away. "Good," Paunea says. She''s looking me over. It''s appraising, and I''m not sure if I want it to be approving, but I also think that yeah, it is. "We''ll have to leave the body here." She gestures toward the small magic device still on the ground, then addresses the dragon. "Can you destroy that? He was no doubt using it to contact the fey and it may still be tracking his location." The dragon cocks her head at the device. Yes. Anti-magic is one of DRAGON unit''s primary functions, but destruction not advisable, could create warning, best to just leave here? Unsure, cannot analyze reality-rule-violating object from within own dampening field. We all look down at the thing. I try not to see the sheer quantity of blood still oozing out nearby, or too far into the holes in the man''s¡ªin the corpse''s¡ªhead. Then the green stone gem in the center of the magic item he dropped begins to gently glow. I look up, shocked. Paunea is backing up, face pale. "Oh shit," I say quietly. Yes, I hear in my head. A hint of resignation, a rush of determination coming behind. This is an Oh Shit. We are seen. We must hurry. Now has the urgency, Operator Kella. There will be little time. Chapter Seven We''ve been seen, we''ve been seen, they''re coming for us, coming again, gods know how many this time they are coming they are coming It goes through my head, over and over and over again, while we stare at the little bauble and its small horrible green light. Sweat and panic and a sort of weariness, enough has already happened today, why must there be more? I can''t take more, can I? Can I must I does it matter? The dragon nudges me hard, sleek solid head colliding with my hip. I stumble sideways, and she looks at me, taps the green-glowing terror-source with one claw, then flicks the bauble up into the air and catches it between her jaws. Crunch. Swallow. Exhale, a long wafting stream of greenish fumes. And that''s all. It''s gone. Initial assessment revised: destruction of object best strategic choice, she sends. Enemy will not have seen anything beyond initial report from traitor-human. Near-presence of DRAGON unit suppresses necessary suspension/warping of physical laws for item functioning, enchantment not particularly strong, suppression/consumption not difficult proposition. I realize I''m gaping, and that no one around me will have any idea why. But they''re not paying any attention to me, no one except maybe for Paunea, they only have eyes for the dragon and even then only a glance can be spared as they move through the tunnels quick as feet can safely carry them. You can just...eat magic? DRAGON unit meant as magic-immune combat construct, primary purpose for existence, each cell of DRAGON unit body designed to project Tetherdown field, resulting harmonic effect is very strong. However, Operator Kella should understand process: item not simply disenchanted, item consumed by extreme heat, residual magic forced into decoherence by Tetherdown field, unable to communicate as per design. Regrets given that Operator Kella could not be consulted before action taken, device appeared to be active, enemy information minimization high priority for insurgent forces e.g. current human situation. I''ve stopped gaping, but I''m still rooted to the wet filthy floor while my mind processes the flood of concepts she''s just poured into it. Apologies to Operator Kella, timing-of-now is suboptimal, last of civilian population moving past, we must move also with them. Discussion necessary en route re: where is next place? "Yeah," I say, and I can feel the shakes trying to push through my upper body, and I push them back down, have to move, have to move. Her head tilts as she looks at me, swaying from side to side on that long neck. "There''s a place," I say, and I close my eyes, and I send very hard, because I''m standing next to a body, still, bleeding on the floor, and I won''t look at it don''t want any more of that image in my head but I''m become suddenly very aware of my own mortality and I don''t want any of the things I know to die with me, if I do. When I do. She nudges me again. Operator Kella''s death less likely than any other human in group. Protection of Operator very high DRAGON unit priority. Mental health of Operator also of paramount importance. Future uncertain, worry not useful, concern belongs here, now, time/place of maximum effectiveness. Think/talk on this while moving? I open my eyes. The last of the stragglers have moved past us. Yeah, let''s go. There''s not really room in the narrowest parts of the tunnels for us to walk side by side, so I go ahead with her following, and in the wider spots we squeeze past people who, shocked and sad and determined and excited and unsure, still have enough feeling left to turn on the dragon in the form of awe. A pictured-place appears in my head, hazy and full of more meaning than actual image, like something half-imagined. This is the place? DRAGON unit could not absorb full information-set, too much too fast. Discussion still needed. Sorry about that, I send back. I was hoping I could kind of...dump everything I know, I suppose, into your mind. Wherever exactly it was she keeps that. I want to assume it''s in her head, but she''s not an actual living thing, there''s no actual reason for her designers to have put it there. Just...just in case.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. I can''t see her shake her head, but I know she''s doing it, and I wonder why. Isn''t sending the meaning of the gesture enough? But maybe physicality has something like the same kind of connection to meaning for her as it does for humans. I have a moment to ponder this before she sends: Information bandwidth limited on multiple fronts. Some aspects more effective/efficient than human vocal communication, especially pure visual/spatial information. Others more limited, such as emotional/cultural conceptualization. Improvement in these areas anticipated as DRAGON unit exercises self-improvement processes. I frown, thinking, while the full concept of "bandwidth" tries to unpack itself at the back of my brain. So...you''re saying you need to mature, you''re not hatched fully-formed, uh, mentally speaking? I can sense the way she rustles her wings, back behind me, same way I knew she''d shaken her head. All thinking creatures must mature, this is wisdom integrated deep into DRAGON unit indoctrination-routines, doubly necessary due to near-prototype status. The smell of the tunnels starts to really hit me now, for no reason I can tell except maybe that I''ve started to calm down substantially from the attack and the traitor and everything and gods now my heart''s going again but the smell''s still there and maybe it wasn''t me calming down at all, maybe this is just a particularly stinky stretch of corridor I mean don''t terrible things like smells always seem worse at terrible times? And I can smell the ashes too, the human ashes only they weren''t human they were Elven but it all smells the same, the screams aren''t any different only they didn''t have time to scream, did they? And maybe I''m imagining that but Kella, comes my own name into my own head, no Operator this time, no title. Kella, you need to rest. It''s amazingly gentle, her voice, even carried straight into my own thoughts it enters mild but not soft, touches my mind like a steadying hand on the shoulder. I keep going forward. Of course I need to rest. How many times have I needed that, and kept going forward anyway? And I send as much, though maybe I don''t need to, I don''t think much of my interior tumult is hidden from her now. Yes now has the necessity but now will not be forever, priority must be given to processing-times, important for all minds, again assert Operator mental health of paramount importance. Emotional/cognitive recovery necessary, well-earned besides. I take in a deep breath. I''ll find time to rest as soon as I can spare it. She shakes her head, sharp and quick, I can feel it, clearly as I can see the hint of daylight ahead. Time not a thing to be spared, rest instead a thing to be prioritized. Take time not wait until it is given. I laugh, in spite of myself, in spite of everything, and while there''s still a bitter edge to the sound of it moving up through my throat, in the way it starts down in my belly and spreads above, still a bitter edge, yes, but still good anyway. Still good. Gods, my good Lady Dragon, I send, and the warm wash of amusement I can feel in my own thoughts is even better than my laugh, did they toss in an entire philosophy text when they planned out your mind? Well, she sends back, DRAGON unit imprinted with much useful knowledge in egg phase, retrieved as becomes useful/necessary, DRAGON unit has needed to utilize more esoteric insights than expected. Operator Kella has been in philosophical flux. There''s a hint of near-prim, near-impish laughter accompanying that last statement, and I actually turn to look at her. Are you fucking with me? No. Almost certainly untrue. Definitely not completely. Unknowable at this time. I laugh again, and this time it feels entirely good, and besides, there''s the sun, shining down the ancient stairs. I take them carefully, watching for spots that have crumbled away, and step out into the calm air of the ruined city that''s been my home as long as I can remember. It seems different, somehow. I''ve always known that any peace it might portray is at best a temporary lie, but now...but now I''m not sure. I can''t put a finger on it. I''ll have to think on it. And anyway there are other things to consider, because they''re all standing there on the wide cracked space that was once entirely cracked, where our ancestors long long ago gathered to ride the wire-trains high above the streets, or at least that''s what the old pictures and stories seem to say. Now they''ve gathered to look at me, and the dragon. Someone is trying to talk to them all, tell them what to do, but her voice drowns in indifference. It''s the woman from the council, the one who wanted to take the dragon away. They''re all looking at me. I don''t know why I''m in charge now, if that''s what this is. Because all those Elves died by fire and claw? I suppose that''s it. I suppose it''s something primal, for times and places like now. I don''t know how I feel about it, and I don''t think I can know, not for a while. The dragon is right, I need rest. But for now¡ª "Listen," I say, and wince a bit inside at the word, it''s unnecessary, they''re already listening too damn intently. "I know where we need to go. It''s going to be dangerous. You don''t have to come, but I¡ª we¡ª could use your help. We''ll lead the way. Follow if you want to. Follow if you can." I turn to the dragon, and she looks up into the air, above the crowd, there were the trains used to rush past on borrowed galvanic charge. No wires now, no trains either, but white-fire eyes project their illumination outward, and there it is, the facility, half-buried, fully sinister, untouched by anyone, even the fey at their most adventurous. Especially the fey. They know better than anyone what things they''d summoned to guard that place, and how terribly it had gone wrong. "No," someone whispers, but I nod my head. "Yes," I say. "We can get past them. We can remove them." "No one''s managed that in more than two thousand years!" someone shouts. "That''s true," I reply. "And how long has it been since anyone had a dragon?" Chapter Eight They want to argue. I can see it in their faces, the council members, some of them anyway. Not Paunea and a few others, she just looks at me and nods when I catch her eye, and the ones who are, I don''t know, on her side I suppose, they all do the same. But the rest, they''ve collected themselves together into a small knot of Very Importance. The council chairwoman, unseated, I think; she stands there looking at me, arms folded over a lovely if much-repaired coat. I still can''t remember her name. Is she even the chairwoman? She certainly acts like it. Shouldn''t I know that for sure? I''m not very good at this. Fuck it. I don''t need to be very good at this, not right now anyway, because we are not doing things this way right now, we don''t have time. "Kella," the woman begins, "we need to discuss this before deciding¡ª" "No," I say, cutting her off. "You didn''t hear me. You weren''t listening. I''ve decided where I''m going. People will come with me if they want to." "Kella," she says again, and the condescension in her voice has a wavering foundation now, though it''s still plenty infuriating. "Kella, I''m¡ªwe''re¡ªresponsible for these people they belong to our¡ª" But I''m already walking past. "They belong to themselves," I say over my shoulder, "and they''re not listening to you right now, any more than you''re listening to me." That was well-said, Operator Kella. She''s right beside me, keeping easy pace. This is a long walk, is it not? Yes, I send back. We''ve passed through most of the crowd. People have begun to follow. How many, I don''t know right now, won''t know until we''ve gotten a ways away from this place, have a clear separation between who is coming and who has stayed. It will be a couple days of walking. Don''t worry, we''ll start looking for a place to rest and recover as soon as we''ve gone a few miles from the old homestead. The old homestead. Gods. Best not to think about that right now. All these people uprooted, and how much of it is because of m¡ª No. Deceased traitor proximate cause of fey raid, raid inevitable for next reportable violation of imposed rules. Maybe. But he wouldn''t have been able to report that we had a fucking dragon. That''s all on me. More people following, now. Most, I think. The chairwoman and all her Very Important friends seem torn. If they don''t come, what happens to all their power and status? Those all depend on having people to govern right? No, she sends again. Not all on you. What was plan, wander city ruins alone forever? Had to tell someone. Needed allies. Still do, always will. Humans not solitary species, born helpless, all great accomplishments build on earlier work, rely on outside help. Contact was necessary, inevitable, no way to know of spy, therefore raid inevitable, therefore not worth recrimination. Measures to prevent recurrence, yes. Past cannot be acted on, only time for doing is now. So now we what, search everyone? Interrogate them? No. Already checked entire group for magic, already killed spy, time to ponder security measures later, right now priority is: find place to rest. Not just Kella, all small-tribe members suffering psychological shock, lost home, saw death. We''ve all seen worse, I send, and it''s true. None of us grew up there, in the little block of slowly-collapsing towers; we were all refugees from elsewhere. Like the whole human race, now, eternal refugees from here to there. Resilience not in question, she concedes, then shakes her head. But psychological untouchability utter myth, not possible, not even for very toughest. Recuperation necessary. Scarring inevitable. Different severity in different cases but always present. A lot of this is not entirely familiar to me, and we walk in silence for a time as I let the ancient knowledge soak in. I do know some of it, how life scars and changes people, I know we''re all walking wounded one way or the other, but I''ve never heard it put quite this way. I suppose this is how ancient scholars thought and spoke about these things. I''ve never studied it. Technology has always been my priority when seeking out old wisdom. So, I venture after what feels like a few hundred steps, you''re designed to be a sort of counselor-chaplain as well as a philosopher? Operator well-being very high priority, as previously stated, she replies. Is there maybe a hint of mild exasperation there? Difficult to stay, even now I''m still getting used to this way of communicating, it''s hard to separate thought from thought and source from source when it''s all playing out inside my own head. Human cognitive efficiency highly reliant on regular/sufficient sleep/rest cycles. I guess so, I send. And what about you? I suppose you don''t really need to eat or sleep or any of that? DRAGON unit is highly complex cellular/nanite system, includes neural net functionality, requires maintenance like all complex machinery. Will rest also. I glance aside at her. She''s looking around, behind, at me, at the following crowd, at the moldering buildings and mostly-vacant lots on either side of the street. I wonder, so I ask. Is that how you think of yourself? Just a very complicated machine? Of course, she sends, and she sounds surprised but not offended. This is correct conceptualization, for Operator Kella also. High complexity, subject to many unknowns/chaotic mathematical contingencies, still physical system. And what about the soul? The gods? The afterlife? I don''t know why I''m asking these questions, they''re not something I''ve spent a lot of time in my life worrying about. My parents barely even paid lip service to the gods, though I do remember my father once remarking that they were probably assholes, given the evidence of our lives.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. Unknown. Perhaps unknowable. Culturally significant, knowledge of beliefs important, not factored into other aspects of internal world-model. They didn''t design you to believe in the gods? A pause. What would be the purpose of this? Not relevant to current-moment decision making at any known point in time. Influence of deities not known quantity/highly controversial/no good data. I don''t quite know what to say to that, not at first, not until I''ve sorted through some of the fragments that make up my knowledge of the Butlerian Empire. I remember an old image, with text accompanying I didn''t fully understand. But the words for "Priest" and "Emperor," those were unmistakable. I turn to look at the dragon. The Empire had an official religion, though, right? A rustle of wings, a moment''s silence. Yes/no unclear/complicated also controversial, Empire in heavy flux even at height, even more true at time of collapse/time of DRAGON until design/manufacture. Scientists most closely associated with DRAGON project not known for piety/some dissenters, religion official but conformity not enforced except through social/political norms, discussion very complicated no time/not priority at present moment. Yeah, I send, and sigh. You''re probably right. And we''re both tired...but speaking of rest... I nod toward an only partly-collapsed building up ahead. That''s an old primary school. It''ll be cramped, but there should be some intact rooms where we can rest, and the hallway system is likely to be defensible. Primary schools generally highly fortified against attack, child-safety high Imperial priority, she sends in agreement. Guess that''d explain why they''re usually some of the more intact buildings around, I reply. And why they''re supposed to be off-limits for human occupation, but it''s not like we need to care about that right now. Not quite true. Still risk, DRAGON until can be concealed, may not be clear to all fey patrols that this is group being searched for. I shake my head. We''re going to be suspicious enough to attract serious attention whether they know you''re with us enough. You''re right, there is still risk, but I think it''s worth it. Agreed. Risk not possible to eliminate only manage. I turn and announce that we''ll be using the primary school as a rest spot, and no one really protests. I see that the hostile council members are still with us and still pulled together in their little knot. Part of me wishes they''d stayed behind¡ª but that''s another thing I don''t have the time or energy to think through right now. We lead the way into the school''s front door, or at least the right side of the door not blocked by debris. The dragon goes first, and as I follow I see the remnants of a sign above the threshold. "School" is all that remains, the last word of a much longer title. I wonder what this place was called. I wonder who was here and what they learned and then part of me thinks, how many very small skeletons might we find and I shove that aside, I''ve seen plenty of those in my time. And I really do need to rest. We all do. It''s a mess inside, I mean it always is. I don''t think I''ve ever actually seen the inside of a fully intact building. Humans are technically allowed to build new structures, so long as they don''t use machinery to do it, but in practice anything we try to put up will be swiftly knocked down, and why bother with that when we''ve got our ancestor''s leftovers, all around us ready to be used? So we content ourselves with shittiness, I guess, because it''s easier. Or not. Fuck if I know. I find a clear spot in a mostly-ruined classroom where I could sleep away from everyone else, then I remember the dragon and I want her with me and don''t know what to think about that either, too tired now to process anything well, so I find another spot and ask her if she''ll be okay "sleeping" next to me or whatever exactly it is she does. Sleep is a reasonable analogue for internal maintenance processes, some designed with biological equivalents in mind. DRAGON unit does not ever lose full awareness, some heuristics/processing always online, but not at conscious level. I give a slow nod as I settle myself into my little nest of blankets. I thought dragon sentience was kind of an open question for your creators? She shrugs as she sort of curls herself around me. She''s not really big enough to do it fully, instead forming a sort of silver semicircle between me and the crooked doorway. DRAGON unit is aware of own thoughts. Cannot speak of predecessors. Was not a question of primary importance, war of desperation, effectiveness top priority. Guess that makes sense, I send back. I feel something this weighty deserves more than that, but I''m already drifting off. I come to a long time later. Much longer than I''m used to sleeping uninterrupted, especially out in the field like this. I realize no one tried to come get me for guard duty, that no one even discussed it with me. I suppose they may have sent someone but what they saw looking in was mostly sleeping dragon and then rethought the whole idea. I''m grateful for the rest and gods know I needed it, despite the heavy soreness still radiating out from my spine into seemingly every tiny twitching muscle fiber¡ªbut I don''t want people thinking I think I''m too good to do my part now. For that matter, I don''t want to fail to do my part. Operator Kella is DRAGON unit operator, I hear in my head, and realize she''s awake too, wonder for how long. This is part enough, this is more than part enough. Also leadership responsibilities are being acquired, understand this is a matter for ambivalent feelings, also believe it inevitable. She turns her head to look me right in the eye as I stretch. You are a symbol now, there is no avoiding that. Symbols are in other heads, cannot be removed, status will remain only question is full import of meaning attached. I groan. Mostly from the soreness, but then maybe not. That''s a lot to drop on a person right after waking up, I send. Apologies. Knowing is necessary despite associated stress. Time for knowing is now, ramifications ongoing, will not wait for schedules of rest and convenience. "Yeah," I say aloud, and stand. Then I look down at her, remembering something I''ve been saying for a while now, half-remembering something from my deep-sleep scattered dreams. "I still need to give you a name." She cocks her head. Oh? Is all she says, then waits. "Yeah," I say again, and stretch my legs. "And I have it now. ''Hope.'' It can only be Hope. Naming people after virtues isn''t really popular these days, but it''s not unheard of either." Hope, she sends, and cocks her head the other way, giving her wings a gentle flutter. She sounds thoughtful, not quite decided. Naming people? Operator Kella considers DRAGON unit a ''person?'' "Of course I do," I say, and I''m surprised by the gentleness in my own voice. It breaks a little, even, and I think, I don''t have time for this. But I have to make time for this, and I know that too. She stands too, up on all fours, and looks at me for what feels like a very long time. DRAGON unit is grateful, she sends, then spreads her wings, like she''s stretching as well though I don''t think she actually needs to. Name is accepted. So Hope is grateful. I am grateful. Thank you, Operator Kella. A hint of smile, on her face even, I didn''t know she could even do that. Also I am pleased to see that you do seem to understand something about people being symbols as well. "Yeah, I guess I do," I say, and then hug her round the neck. She ducks her head, sort of bends it round behind my back, and gently pats my calf with one clawed foot before drawing back. I am grateful, she says again, and also again there''s that small smile. Now, there is much to do. "Yes. Now has the necessity, as you say. Also, we should tell everyone you have a name now." Good, she sends, and leaves it at that. I gather up my things and lead her out to the others, to the necessity of a new day. Chapter Nine We filter out into the dawning sunlight, all of us, me first with the dragon, with Hope, and I know we''ve all rested but weariness still sits on my bones, swinging its legs, and I also know it would take a lot more than one night to really recover from all I''ve seen and done, absorb all the lessons. But there isn''t time, and I can''t foresee when there might be, and so it''s better for me to push it aside, push on through, I''ve done all I can, I still will. It''s good, that determination, it feels good, like sure one night of rest wasn''t nearly enough but it wasn''t nothing either, not even close. It''s good, and it''s needed, because I know a place and that image flits through my head now, and beside me Hope cranes her neck to look at me. This will be dangerous, she sends. For all of us. For you too? I do know she''s not invincible, you don''t end up as the last of the dragons if you come from immortal stock. And I know that using her for her intended purposes will never be without risk¡ªand I kind of hate that idea, of "using her" but of course we all have our uses, have to think that way sometimes especially in a hopeless war of generations like this one. But¡ª Operator Kella is correct, also Operator Kella is sending. There''s a touch of gentle amusement there. DRAGON unit does not take offense at purpose-of-construction. Said before: risk not possible to eliminate only manage. She pauses, stands up on her hind legs to look out over the gathering crowd. Should continue conversation while travelling toward objective. After Kella-speech. Um. I stand on tiptoes myself, looking over as much of the crowd as I can. I''m a tall woman, but some of the men in the crowd are taller, and Hope stands much higher stretched upward like she is. Um. Kella-speech? She comes back down onto all fours and nods, once. Of course Kella-speech, Operator Kella has given them before. About to go into danger, about to travel while hoping for non-detection by fey forces, people have decided to follow despite opposition from previous leadership, speech must be given, must occur. I take in a deep breath. Everyone is looking at me, at the dragon standing beside me. The little council coterie is knotted-up as usual, the ringleader with her arms crossed, jaw set. Hope''s wing brushes against the side of my knee, surprisingly warm even through the thick fabric of my patched-over pants. Kella. You can do this. Breathe. Embrace the right-now of need. I breathe, and I feel the weight of the moment and I do my best to brush it aside even though it''s too heavy, push past, face the crowd and open my mouth, hoping my words won''t carry too far beyond this street, this ruined front garden with its green tangling up from the ground to slowly consume the past. No choice, no space inside left large enough to address more than a handful of people at once, and there''s no time for piecemeal communications. "You all know where we''re going," I say, surprised and also still worried at how well my voice carries, "and you''ve all had a night to sleep on your decision to go with us. You know the dangers, but maybe not all the possible rewards for the risk. There''s good reason the fey were desperate enough to resort to Othermancy when they attacked the facility all those centuries ago. They''re mostly the same reasons we need to go there now." "The place is still Torn!" someone shouts from the crowd; I''m not looking that direction and I don''t recognize the voice. It doesn''t really matter. "It is," I reply, and I''m proud of how much calm I manage to keep buckled round my words. "And that''s part of what dragons are for. That''s part of why they were created. Maybe the biggest reason." Operator Kella is correct, Hope says. Her voice makes nearly every member of the crowd start, that deep powerful inhuman sound, coming from a mirror-scaled creature that hasn''t even opened her mouth. Elimination of Otherwhere-derived entities top priority due to inherent protections of dampening field, also Tear-patch capabilities. Repair of reality-fabric once secondary function, other devices in use for this purpose during war. Believe none survive. Magic and DRAGON unit only remaining tools for closures. "So why haven''t the fey fixed it already? Cleaned up after themselves?" That voice, I know, even if I don''t see the person speak. It''s the woman from the council, someone whose name I really should have figured out by now, but, you know, priorities and attacks and desperate escapes. Whatever. She''s a self-important power hungry ass who probably already knows the answer, I don''t have time for her bullshit, and I let all this seep into my answer. "Clean up for themselves? Why would they? Their forces already paid the prices for their Othermancer''s mistakes centuries ago. Leaving the Extrusions there to kill anything that gets too close is easier than guarding it themselves. More effective too." Certainly more frightening, I think/send, only half-aware of it. Hope nudges my knee, sending over a rush of reassuring warmth, then rears up before speaking again. DRAGON unit will deal with Extrusions and repair utilized Tears. This will be done quickly. Human tribe-members will be needed for afterward clean-up, all Otherwhere material dangerous even when broken down by fire, not true ash, must be carefully dispersed to winds, will fade back into quantum foam when not at critical mass. Silence at that. Hope cocks her head, comes back down onto her front claws. Understand this is not glamorous job. Still must be done, still dangerous, still heroic. Also some smaller/less dangerous almost-organisms may be in area, must be dealt with, improvised hand weapons should suffice. I think they''re just confused as to what "quantum foam" and "critical mass" might mean, and concerned they might be important, I tell her. Isn''t there any way to...I don''t know, sort of push the concepts into their heads, like you do with me? No, she replies. Reasons complicated. Long explanation, not for present. Out loud, she says, Apologies, DRAGON unit still making adjustments for language/culture, much change over many centuries. More practical explanation: After burning of Extrusions, remains must be scattered, hazardous when gathered in quantity, should fade from this world if properly dispersed. Care must be taken.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Murmurs from the crowd. I hesitate a moment. I''m going to be with Hope, won''t be there to organize clean-up. Maybe throw a concession to the council woman, ask if she''ll do it? Gain an ally? No. Maybe once I would have done that. I don''t want this responsibility. I want peace, humans have enough problems that come from outside without generating our own. And here that would be the easy way out, I know that now, maybe I''ve always known it, Gods know I''ve read enough history I should be able to distill some lessons. Maybe it''s just about finally steeling myself to do it. "Paunea," I say. "Would you please organize the cleanup? I''ll need to stay with the dragon." After her help in the tunnels, I figure she''ll be a good choice. This causes murmurs from the little knot-of-opposition, and it looks like they''re about to attempt some serious shit-stirring. So I keep going. "And speaking of the dragon," I say, "I''ve...no, we''ve...decided on a name for her. Hope. I''m no poet, and I guess it''s not exactly a subtle thing. But I also think it''s a true one." Hope bows her head, sort of opens her wings in a strangely elegant gesture, like a sort of draconic curtsy. "Hope!" someone yells, and then several more, and then what seems like most of the crowd, utterly washing over whatever that the little council-coterie was hoping to start. "Welcome to the fight!" someone else hollers, and Hope spreads her wings completely, and I hold up my hands. "Thank you!" I say. Then again, because not everyone has heard me. "Thank you! We''ve made enough noise and been in one place for long enough, it''s time to go." And I walk of without waiting for a response, Hope walking beside me. They''ll follow, or they won''t. Maybe it would be luck if some of them stayed behind, ones who aren''t sure, ones who are afraid, ones who worry about their place and power being usurped. But those first two are unfair, I know that, only a fool is ever completely sure, and everyone is afraid. And the last one...I don''t know. Could make trouble if they come, maybe make more if they stay behind. I tell Hope about my worries as we walk. Leading is hard, she tells me. Always it has been, never had any easy answers, only easy answers come from fools/people wanting to fool others. Not going to have any all-good options, only some that are better, less bad. Will be here to help. Good that Operator Kella not overconfident, also warn that overthinking possible, often not-perfect action done now infinitely better than optimal thing done too late. Must do best accept consequences move forward, not easy but still necessary and also, most important, can be done. Can be done. YOU are capable of doing it. Have seen, very sure of this. Thank you, Hope, I reply. I''ll think on that. And I do, for the rest of the long walk. The sun goes from early morning warmth at our backs to bright noontime light overhead to early afternoon in our eyes. I am grateful for my ancient pair of sunglasses, something I wear only when I really need them, because although they''re not really machines, they''re still Butlerian artifacts and could easily be confiscated by an overzealous fey patrol. Now, though, if we run into a patrol we''re going to have much bigger problems than borderline contraband. And so will they. But we don''t. No sign of the fey at all in this part of the city, which isn''t a surprise, because the buildings surrounding us as we walk aren''t really, and haven''t been for a long time. Aren''t really buildings, I mean, although you can see a small piece of wall or a section of collapsed roof here and there. This was an military-industrial zone. When the war was lost, nothing at all was spared, little for even the most determined of scavvers to find under the rubble. Except for the facility. I don''t know if it ever had a name. It must have, right? From everything I''ve read, the military always has a name for things, even if it''s squirreled away somewhere deep within a carefully-secured databank. Now we just call it "the facility," not even really a title, wouldn''t spell it out with capital letters, because it doesn''t need a name like that. Not a lot of "facilities" around anymore, after all, and if you do need to distinguish some other ruined compound that could be called a "facility" you just say, "You know. The facility, the one that''s Torn," and you''ll be understood. And now here it is, too soon and not soon enough all at once, I''m tired of thinking and tired of walking and tired most of all from the anticipation but we can see it up ahead, and people gasp and I have to clench my jaw to keep from saying anything because yes, that has to be it, and there they are, moving around the perimeter, there''s the strange sickening shimmer over the whole place as it comes into view past the rise in the road. There they are, pushing themselves out as far as they...can? dare? want to? from the rents in the fabric of our world that they drag around with them, like a snail whose shell mostly exists somewhere else, Otherwhere, only they''re not snails, nothing like them really as they''re not soft and their slime drips and sizzles and disappears and Gods only know what in those masses of long hundred-jointed limb-things and mandibles and pulsing flesh might pass for eyes or eyestalks and I look away because my eyes aren''t doing my mind any favors, we all know not to stare too long at an Extrusion even if it seems like a relatively harmless one. Everyone draws back behind me, and Hope pulls me forward with her, sans touch, just the gravity of necessity and whatever strange mental space we share. and now I''m running behind her, and she''s close to one of them, so close as it pulls itself toward us, latching onto the ground, pulling reality itself along, how much of it is still back behind there? and she says Target? and inside I scream at the thing coming toward us and she sends along something like a nod and now it''s all fire and tangling limbs, but the fire comes first so that the limbs have no real strength and the thing is being torn apart, pushed back, pushed inward and now there''s just the Tear, like a slightly diagonal downward slash in the air, pulled slim without anything forcing its way through and closing up as the dragon draws one white-burning claw down from start to finish of the Tear, and that''s it, closed, stitched-up somehow though it still hangs ragged in the air, and she breathes on it, no fire this time, something else like a warm red mist that slowly drains its color into that ragged slash, making it shrink, making it lessen to just a hint of afterimage and I want to stand and gape but we''re running again, again to do it again again again and by the end I''m tired, so tired, leaning on her, because my mind has been with hers, helping direct, and it''s so much, too much to take in although I must, but it''s also a relief because it''s done done and I''m aware of the small clean-up crews working in our wake, aware of teenagers beating otherworldly vermin to death with sticks and staves and gardening tools Rest now, I tell Hope. Rest again, just for a moment. She doesn''t disagree, I get the feeling she would be panting, if she breathed. And I still am, panting I mean. Rest a moment, she sends back. Still much to do, danger not past. But yes. Rest a moment. I sit down, heavy on the cracked and barren asphalt of the facility compound, letting the air pound in an out of my lungs, slower, slower, closing my eyes just a moment, opening them to see Hope looking out over the buildings of the place, mostly intact. It will take time for them to notice, she sends. A few weeks, perhaps, before it affects the calculations of their sages and wizards, is seen by any Othermancers they may still possess. But they will notice. We must prepare, and we must decide. Decide what? She snakes her head around to look me in the face with those white-fire eyes. Many, many things. Rest, Kella. That is the task at hand, a moment of rest. I close my eyes again, nodding. A moment of rest. It comes, it passes, and I open my eyes again, get up on my feet. "Okay," I say aloud. "Let''s have a look inside." Chapter Ten The facility is huge, that''s something I know but don''t fully realize until we walk through the cloudcrystal doors and see the corridors stretching on, on, on. Should have realized it after walking/sometimes running nearly all the way around this building, following Hope in her relentless cleansing. But my mind was otherwise occupied then. It''s occupied now, too, thinking about what lay behind all those doors, even though it''s probably just offices and dormitories because the really good stuff will all be in the basement and subbasement and even lower for a place like this, although maybe not, later in the war the dwarves got really good at tunneling in if you built too deep, and anyway it''s a three-story building, would they worry too much about airborne assault or¡ª I can feel Hope looking at me, she doesn''t need to send anything, and I''m aware now of the profound silence behind me as I lead all these people down the hall. Letting thoughts get away from me. I corral them, has to be done, and I''m surprised how quickly they coalesce into something I''m saying. "We need to split up. No groups smaller than five or larger than nine. This is just going to be a preliminary survey, give us an idea of where I should take Hope first. She''s going to be a better authority on what is and isn''t useful or a high priority than any of us, me included." I miss my parents. I mean, of course I do, easy reasons for that, but also they would know what to look for better even than I would. Maybe better than Hope in some ways, they''d lived in this world for all those decades and all of the dragon''s knowledge came from another one, a better one. That is not true, Operator Kella. The thought lands gentle in my head, even as someone in the crowd asks a question. "Any ideas what sort of things we should be looking for?" "Um," I say, and stand up straighter, turning to address the young man. I don''t know his name. I need to know more names, and there''s been no time for it. "Yes, actually. Universal Component Paste." I glance at Hope. "I''m not optimistic about finding any, this place had been under active attack for some time when the Othermancy incident occurred. Any reserves of the stuff would probably have been used for repairs and the like...but you never know." I pause, frowning. Most of these people are barely literate in the modern Capital Common script, let alone the old printed block-letters used in Old Butlerian. Scavengers learn to recognize certain labels, but Universal Component Paste is useless, ancient and degraded. Or it was. DRAGON unit has reached sufficient size and sophistication that UPC is no longer necessary, Hope sends. If growth is desired, need only time plus sufficient elemental materials. She pauses. Not elemental like magical paradigm earth/air/water/fire, base elements of matter. Also not current priority, common elements trivial to find, rare elements must be found by DRAGON unit until sufficient tools/education acquired. I send the mental equivalent of a nod. I''m getting better at this. I also hold up a hand while looking up at the ceiling, letting everyone know I''m considering the question without, I hope, being too obvious about my internal conversation with the dragon standing beside me. People don''t like being left out of talk going on right in front of them. But if you...lay?...any new eggs, they''ll need the paste, right? I realize just then that I''ve always pictured a dragon laying eggs the way a duck or chicken would, but that seems absurd somehow, given the creature I''ve actually come to know. She hesitates. Yes...but that will be some time in future. Must be, DRAGON unit must reach full size, develop full reproductive capability. Other considerations, humans waiting for answer. If UCP present here, still useful to know. Meanwhile, should begin search. Priorities in flux until more information available. Okay. Thank you. "Apologies," I tell the young man. "I had to think about that for a moment. Definitely keep an eye out for Universal Component Paste, I''ll have Hope project examples of what the labeling would look like. Meanwhile, though, just look for common-sense things, intact artifacts, machinery that looks like it could be repairable, and anything at all out of the ordinary. We''ll have a better idea of what''s important after we get a feel for the place."This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. The young man throws me an informal salute and motions to a few people behind him, all close to his age apart from one older man I assume to be his father or an uncle, and I really do need to get to know these people better, now that I won''t be out all the time scavenging useful things or hunting down unlikely artifacts on some sort of hopeless quest, though the last one of those turned out not to be. Everyone is grouping up, finding their fellows, except that hardened little knot that stays behind. Older people, mostly. And mostly with carrying an air of importance with them, including the woman from the council, the one who wanted to take Hope away. They''re all looking at me, then they all look at one of their own, a grandmotherly woman with an overhoneyed smile I don''t like at all. She comes forward, some kind of emissary. Paunea has stayed back also, standing by a half-ruined pillar with her arms folded across her chest, watching us. Her husband is there too, watching her, tall and gnarled and slightly bent, he is the kind of silent you would expect from a tree that''s managed to grow big and old in unfriendly soil. Haverseh, that''s his name. I do know a few of them. The emissary-woman stands in front of me like she is expecting words. I don''t give her any. "Kella, dear," she says finally. "Might we have a word?" I gesture at, well, everything I can see. "Sure, but it will have to be brief. There''s a lot to do." "Kella," she says, and I find the repetition of my name to be twistingly abrasive. "We need to have a talk about the council." "Okay," I say, and wait again. The woman stares at me. "We know you''ve spent most of your time as a young adult going out scavenging, so perhaps you''re not as familiar with how things are done as you could be." "I''m twenty-seven," I say mildly. "Maybe not old, but I finished growing taller more than a decade ago." "Be that as it may," she says, and her smile sweetens to frankly repellent levels. "The way we do things back home is..." "...not relevant," I finish for her. She stares. "The old block is gone. We can never go back there. Now we''re here, and maybe we''ll stay, maybe not. This is war now, it''s not just sneaking around plotting and doing a little damage here, a little there. Not just resistance anymore." She draws herself up a little straighter, and sharpens her voice. "War or not, decisions have always been made by the council. We''re the ones the people have chosen. We..." I sigh. Part of me is trembling, I can feel it in my hands, threatening to invade my voice, unaccustomed to confrontation like this. But another part is angry, and draws from the same reserves that kept me out there all those years hunting for the things we need to survive, hoping for something that could let us do more than just that. I stand up straighter myself, adjust the straps of my pack, pulling angry on the old leather. "The people follow who they choose," I snap. "That''s all that actually matters in the end. We''re not some ancient province where the governor could give orders and the people had to obey." "I think you''ll find that we are still respected in this community," she responds, and there''s ice in her voice but fear also. "I didn''t say you''re not respected," I say softly. "I''ll be asking you all for advice, and often." Except of course that''s a lie, and I feel my gaze flick toward Paunea. I''ll be asking some of them for advice. "But we don''t have time to govern by council right now. War''s begun whether we like it or not. Someone has to make decisions in the moment." She puts her hands over one collarbone. "And you think that''s going to be you?" Her eyes are wide, angry, unbelieving. The little group behind her glares as well, but stay silent, clearly they''ve agreed to let her be the one to speak. Not sure how much longer that will last, though. "It has been so far, hasn''t it?" I say softly. "Listen. Hope stays with me. Right now she''s more valuable than all of us put together, and until that changes, I''ll be making the decisions. It''s not what I wanted. But it is how things worked out. You might think that reality is unfair, but it''s the one you''re living in." "Young lady, this is not acceptable," she says. "Come with me. We''re going to have a discussion." It''s impressive the way she sets the words down, heavy with authority. It''s a good last try. But I don''t care. "No. I have things to do, and more to the point, Hope has things to do. We''re going to go do them. You can help, or you can leave and find some other ruin to lord over while we fight for something like a future. Those are your choices. I''m not forcing anyone to do anything." I lean forward and look her dead in the eye. "Which makes me different to you in one very important way. If you could force me, you would. And you know it." She has nothing to say to that. Not out loud. Her face, the way rage and frustration and fear all quarrel just beneath, that says plenty. But I wasn''t lying. I really don''t have time for this right now. "Come on, Hope," I say. "Let''s see what we can find in this place." Paunea and her husband smile at me as we leave, and behind me I can hear low but intense voices once we''re out of proper earshot. You did well, Operator Kella, Hope sends. They may still be trouble in future, but not all trouble can be attended to right away. I sigh, a little shocked at how much tension my breath carries out with it, and lean over against her. Thank you. She just nods. A thought strikes me, a recent memory. Listen, back there you I said you''d be the best authority on what is and isn''t useful, and you told me that''s not true, what did you mean by that? I didn''t have time to ask with everything else going on. She ruffles her wings. That is a long answer, Operator Kella. Let us start our search, and I will give it to you. Chapter Eleven The place really is immense, and mostly it''s immense underground, which is just as well given how many up the upper hallways and rooms are at least partially collapsed. And of course our ancestors knew that might be the case, it was one of the things we learned from the Dwarves, from every time we had to root them out during the wars. And we''d learned other things, from every time they''d mined their way into the middle of some well-defended position, burst up from the ground or into a subbasement. Used their own techniques against them, here and there, but in the end our drilling machines just weren''t as quiet or fast as Geomancy, and by the time we learned what materials to clad our underground construction in it was too little, too late. There was been a great deal of that, from what I''ve pieced together of the Empire''s final years. A lot of too little, a long order of too late. That is interesting information, Operator Kella, Hope sends from my side. I start slightly, realizing I''ve been scanning the shelves of this rock-dusted storage room without really seeing any of the ancient objects sitting on them. Guilt. I look everything back over. Nothing immediately useful. Maybe a few things that could be cannibalized. Wait, I say, realizing, I''m not saying anything you don''t already know, am I? I should be asking you questions about the Butlerian Empire, instead of accidentally lecturing you. I mean they made you, they filled your head with knowledge. Yes/no/is complicated, she sends back. DRAGON unit is not all-expert, not even part-expert except for priority duties, also mental-matrix packaging created of necessity some time in advance of egg creation. Knowledge of increasing desperation in war, yes, though suspect imported information was blunted by optimism for sake of unit morale. Still coming to many understandings. I pull a small power unit off the shelf and frown at it. Honeycomb array variety, might be able to extract one cell in every dozen with great care. Maybe worth it, maybe not, depends what else we find down here. So how far back do you have knowledge? She taps something against the fibercrete floor, and I glance over to see that she''s pulled a number of objects off the shelf and is sorting them. I realize for the first time that she has a sort of opposable thumb, not like a primate hand, a human''s or an Elf''s or a Dwarf''s or even like one of the many varieties of monkey that plague the capital ruins. There''s still so much I don''t know about you, I send, not thinking about whether the words should leave my head until they already have. She turns, long languid flow of semi-liquid silver, whole body moving so she''s facing me fully with her white-fire eyes fixed on mine. I will help with this as much as I can, Operator Kella, she sends back. Posited question before, summary was: why is DRAGON unit not prime authority on potential usefulness of Empire-artifacts? Answer complicated, now is appropriate time. I just nod, watching her, feeling the heft of the object in my hand, which I really should just put down because it''s not even anything useful for more than raw materials, just a bottle filled with something murky-green that''s degraded into gods-know-what and been that way gods-know-how-long. The power unit I was looking at before is back on the shelf. I don''t remember putting it there. I''m holding this bottle instead. "I don''t know where to go except forward," I say aloud, and it startles me, my own voice spreading out, unnecessary in the ancient dusty room with this impossibility-from-legends sorting through a pile of the same kind of mundane junk I''ve been scavenging all my life, ever since I was old enough to recognize certain things as maybe useful. No other direction as realistic option, she sends back. Time/progression/entropy only one direction. World moves, takes everything on/in with it, Operator Kella not excepted. I set the bottle back on the shelf, resisting an absurd urge to unscrew the cap and empty the contents all over the dust-padded floor. "Yeah, it does, I guess I just wish it would pause from time to time, give me time to think. Or learn a bit more before I have to make all these decisions."This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. This is why Operator Kella is avoiding the answer to previous question? The voice in my head is surprisingly gentle. Crux of problem is maybe: existence of authority-with-knowledge desired, could answer questions, avoid troubling necessity of decision-leaps resulting in ambiguous outcomes. Actual situation carved in hard-reality: no such authority is extant. Understand this often times appears overwhelming. Must be dealt with anyway. I sigh, leaning back against the cracked metal cladding of the wall, sliding down until my ass makes contact with the carpet of dry powdered filth. The buckles of my pack make little clacking protest sounds as they briefly snag on rusted fissures. So you can''t help us prioritize what to look for at all? The laughter-sensation echoing round my skull is every bit as gentle as the voice. Did not say that. DRAGON unit not without substantial information relevant to resource-operations. But not apex authority. World of Operator Kella and fellow-humans not undreamt-of by DRAGON unit creators, but not fully anticipated either. This strange future lends expertise to those who have lived in it. "Like me," I say, and I hope my voice sounds pensive rather than resentful or resigned. Yes. DRAGON unit has much to offer, but largely offered from deep-past. Now is only real-time, must be dealt with, past can be glimpsed but still: mostly irretrievable/wholly untouchable. Here to answer questions, as always. Will inform if any item/substance of probable worth detected. I have to think on that for a while, a while I''m not sure I have. Times occur when overthinking unhelpful/catastrophic, now not one of those times, she sends, and I think I can glimpse a small sardonic thread there beside all the reassurance. "So...you can''t tell us how to build anything we''ve lost out of all this stuff? Or, I don''t know, eat some of it and sort of...lay parts? The way you''re supposed to be able to lay eggs of your own when you''re big enough?" Yes, not quite, and DRAGON unit reproduction more complicated than simple matter of size. First priority is not re-starting of Butlerian-era industry, recommend only small allocation of resources/human-hours until more pressing matters addressed. I frown. More pressing matters? Like what? Fey will come, this is agreed truth, matter of when-not-if. DRAGON unit will be of assistance, but is only single entity, one place/one time. Compound is large, defensible but defenses must be in place. I sigh, and look down at the ground in front of me. I''ve already got quite a few items sorted: this old power cell can be patched and partially re-charged, this degraded conduit can be heated, stripped, and stretched for lower-throughput but reliable energy transmission, that module''s original purpose is not really well understood, but can be used as a high-yield small-area hand grenade. Was originally emergency chemical-conversion supercapacitor for supplying energy to crucial high-demand components. Clever secondary use, technicians always warned not to activate conversion accidentally, catastrophic consequences if safety mechanisms fail. *"*Yeah, that makes sense." I heft the module. "They''re pretty harmless so long as you don''t break this piece off, then press this small button with one finger while bridging that gap with a small T-conduit, and you have to have pried this panel off in advance even to do that. It''s also the reason we''re not allowed to make or carry that kind of T-conduit. We didn''t even keep them around the old compound, too risky and they''re quick enough to make if you know what you''re doing." Hope smiles. It''s a thing mostly just in my head, but her mouth does actually turn up, and I think that of course she can smile, she was made to interact with humans, why wouldn''t she be able to? You see? She sends. Operator Kella full of immediately-useful knowledge. DRAGON unit knowledge usefulness will increase with time/sophistication of tribe/size of tribe. I sigh. "Yeah, we will have to start thinking about recruitment at some point." Yes, will have to think about many things. Also: true that DRAGON unit designed to interact with humans, but main reason for smile-capability is: original dragons could also smile. "Wait, what?" I ask, dropping one end of the crate I''ve been sliding off a shelf and barely managing to catch it again before the contents spill out. "Original dragons? What original dragons?" Extinct. For centuries before rise of Butlerian empire. Approximately twenty-five centuries. Hunted down by fey. I blink. "Why have I never heard of this?" Unsure. Surprised. Thought you would know. Possibly legends of DRAGON unit overshadowed knowledge of ancient creature. More relevant. Also, ancient dragons heavily disliked by fey. Powerful anti-magic capabilities. Reason for modern...ah...Butlerian-era DRAGON unit form factor. Powerful symbol. Psychological weapon against fey. Possibly backfired. Perhaps better to have been underestimated? Sentient psychology tangled-complex, hindsight difficult even with good information, near-impossible after fact given defeat/fog of war. "Gods," I breathe. "Do the fey still remember them? The dragons, I mean? The ancient ones?" She laughs. It''s a silent thing, but her head tilts back, her mouth opens, and the mirth is unmistakable in my head. Hells, Kella, if you don''t know, how could I?