Orm was one of these. His mouth twisted in sadness. The first dogrider, first to train a nanodog, and he’d been so proud of that. Toother hadn’t stopped looking puzzled at how Orm no longer moved, and even now he was poking the wrapped bundle with his nose.
“We’ll have to think what to do with Toother.” What if he ran wild?
Tom nodded. “Yeah. He’s a good boy, though.” He reached up and scratched the creature under the ear.
“We need another beaster like Orm. Someone who wants him too.” Without that empathy Orm had, he doubted Toother would respond to them or obey.
They’d made plans to have a funeral ceremony later.
Though the dead, their gnawed or partly mummified skeletons, were found in every hall, every second room, every shopping mall and street, this hit hard. They hadn’t lost anyone for more than a year. Two was a high percentage of the tribe.
He sighed and looked aside. Dwelling on death was a fast track to depression.
Little Mo, he realized, had vanished. Which didn’t say much for them keeping an eye on him. He prayed nobody would spot the AI and blow it away.
“We haven’t brought much to trade.”
Tom shrugged. “The idea is good, as long as we have something the Worshippers can’t get easily.”
“Yeah. If nothing else, we can talk, do strategy stuff. The Ghoul Lords aren’t leaving in a hurry. Least if they are, I missed getting the bloody memo.”
“Me too!” Tom punched his shoulder. “I’m going to see what fun they have here. An unattached female would be nice. There’s a Worshipper guy called Locke looking for you. There he is. There.”
The nod led Vargr to see the beaster in question.
“You go do that, Tom. And keep an eye on Maura!”
He didn’t like the man’s chances. Not in all this lot. Any nubile females would have partners. Even for Maura not to have a mate surprised him. He’d been deliberately celibate, but there were more males than females. Course, some of the beasters preferred men or other beasters. Not that anyone was getting pregnant. It was all in the name of lust and love, unless they figured out how to restore fertility.
Babies, now babies in this new world would be both wonderful and terrible.
Bad things happened way too often.
“He has a punching room?”
“What?” He realized Cyn had been watching Rutger lumber down those stairs. “Shit. Forget him. We got our own business. He can go punch all the rooms he wants to. Here. Him.”
He took her hand, clasped it to point at Locke, the Worshipper beaster.
A weaponsmith type from the looks of him—all short and broad, like someone had tried whacking him into the ground with a big hammer. Blue ran in long squiggles down his biceps and forearms, wayward stripes of inkiness. His sandy hair and starter-pack beard were thick, same as Thad’s.
“Hi there.” Locke pulled at his beard and looked thoughtful. “Cyn and Vargr? Follow me. I’m to intro you to Willow.”
They followed, weaving past the curious who gathered about the nanodog. He’d forgotten how strange it would be to see a tame one. Lucky they’d not shot him.
All in all, this camp was familiar. Or the beasters were, by type if not by actual name. Only this extreme openness gave him a panicked feeling in the stomach. There were seats, park benches on the bright green arti-grass, gazebos, pots with fake flowers, and there were real trees, scrabbling roots over the soil.
They’d brought dirt up here just for this.
He supposed he must’ve read about this place, once, but had forgotten. The Mercantor Quarter had nothing similar. Glass as thick as his leg lowered from above in a huge visor shape that spanned the rectangular opening. He estimated the opening to be… Vargr screwed up his forehead. A quarter of a mile in breadth?
“Fuckin’ big,” he muttered.
“It is.” Cyn sucked in air, her hand still in his. “Impressive.”
He decided he liked how she was hanging onto him.
Moonlight shone over a range of hills. Out there was a wildlife preserve. No buildings, just air and a drop to the ground, and those distant hills.
