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—my dragon, I suppose, though I'm less sure about that come every passing moment with her—notices 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—

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—

DRAGON unit is not alive, uncomfirmed/unanswered research/development questions do not constitute—

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.

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.