The Guide stared toward the sunrise over a sea of smog just four hundred feet below his homestead. He scuffed at the ground with his boot and watched dust skitter across the clearing. Long shadows punctuated every pebble.
They were late. Why were the damned pilgrims always late? They needed an early start to reach the summit and return before dark. And there was Zoola to face at the top. It wasn’t wise to keep a dragon waiting.
He brushed hair out of his eyes—when had it gone so grey?— and shoved his hands into his pockets. He’d been guiding the annual pilgrims for thirty years now, almost half his life. Sixty pilgrims up, thirty pilgrims down. It was a nasty business, but if he didn’t do it—
The crunch of tires on gravel announced Jim’s electric pickup finally arriving. Zoola didn’t allow internal combustion on the mountain. Hard to believe people down-below still pumped that poison into the soup they tried to breathe.
The truck rolled to a stop right in front of him, and his friend waved from the driver’s seat.
Friend. That was a stretch for someone he saw one day a year for drop-off and pick-up. But he did like the man. He didn’t ask questions or express many opinions.
“Hey, Old Man. Sorry I’m late,” Jim said.
Again, he thought, but he waved it away as his friend got out. “Glad to see you’re still on the job.”
He took Jim’s offered hand and held onto it, savoring the pressure of palm against palm, the warmth of the flesh, and of the gesture.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jim said. “Sunshine and clean air one day a year. But, I envy your position, Old Man. When you gonna retire and give someone else a chance?”
“Not gonna happen.” And you’d thank me for that if you knew. He dropped the handshake and looked toward Jim’s passengers.
“So, who are our lottery winners this year?”
The pair were already out of the truck and gaping at the sky. Jim held out the dossiers, but the young woman…. His throat clenched. She was practically the image of— No, he wasn’t going there.
She wore grey homespun shirt, pants, and jacket and a wide grin. A single braid, black as the dragon’s heart, hung nearly to her waist. Dark eyes were crinkled with smile lines. So like—
“Old Man?”
“Sorry, Jim.” He took the documents.
The young woman was Nadie Charlie from Polson. Twenty-five. A scholar of the collapse and the rise of the dragons. He hadn’t realized there was still a settlement up on the big lake. Or scholars anywhere.
The man was Frederick Vider, a fifty-one-year-old merchant from Missoula who apparently owned a good portion of the city. He looked just as he imagined one of Missoula’s wealthy jerk-offs would. Baked on frown, thinning brown hair, stout but reasonably fit. His clothing appeared manufactured. Probably had it imported from Kansas City or some such outlandish place. Probably ate imported real food, too. And lived in a climate-controlled home while his neighbors struggled to keep air scrubbers working and choked down vat-grown algae.
He already knew who he was rooting for. But he also knew Zoola’s preferences. This was going to be a hard one.
“Odd pair,” he said. “But that’s the lottery. I get why folks would enter for the chance of a day in the sun. But why anyone would want to upload into that bastard of a dragon is beyond me.”
“You don’t live in the down-below,” Jim said. “It’s bad and worse every year. If I didn’t get my annual dose of fresh air, I might enter myself.”
“Are you about done, Gentlemen?” Vider said. “I’m here to see a dragon. Shouldn’t we be getting on with it?”
He knew he wouldn’t like this guy. “Hold your horses, Buddy. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
“That’s Mr. Vider to you.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the truck.
“Right,” the Guide said. “Come on, Jim. Let’s get you unloaded. We don’t want to keep Mr. Vider waiting.”
Jim dropped the truck’s tailgate and flipped off the tarp. There, behind the uninspiring crates of compressed algae, was the Guide’s yearly splurge. A keg of Missoula’s best beer.
He grew much of his own food in his greenhouse, but the algae packs would round out his needs. Most folk down-below, the algae was all they got.
Jim hefted a crate and carried it to the storeroom. Before the Guide could grab the next one, the young woman was beside him, pulling it out.
“That’s not necessary, Ms. Charlie.”
“Let me help. And please call me Nadie.”
He let her take it and watched her walk away.
“A bit young for you, isn’t she?” Vider said.
The Guide shot him a look, then lifted the next crate. Jim took the next and Nadie the next, and they had the algae unloaded and stowed in a few minutes. Vider watched, like a man used to watching others work, as Jim and the Guide wrestled the keg into the spring house. The Guide ran a hand over the cool metal. Tonight.
Back at the truck, he shook Jim’s hand again. “See you later for pickup.”
“If you’re still alive, Old Man.”
Jim waved out the window as he turned a circle in the clearing, then headed back down the road.
“Hey, Old Man. Let’s get going,” Vider said.
“That’s Guide to you, Mr. Vider.”
“Whatever. Just do your job.” He already had his City-of-Missoula-issued pack on his back.
But Nadie…She stood in the center of the clearing, smile gone, pack dangling from one hand. She faced the trail, but her focus was miles beyond.
“Nadie?”
She shook her head and turned toward him, her smile back in place. “It’s so beautiful here. I mean, I knew it would be, but…It makes me feel hollowed out. And present, as if I’ve just stepped out of a dream.”
Vider snorted, and the Guide ignored him. He supposed he’d be doing a lot of that today. He scanned his homestead one last time, then shouldered his pack. “All right—”
A shadow swept the clearing.
All three looked up as a sixty-foot-long silhouette circled back. The dragon soared on motionless wings, neck outstretched, and serpentine tail trailing. They banked and rose, turned a higher circle, then flew off to the south.
Vider had backed up under a big pine. Nadie stood with her head tilted skyward, her mouth open in a silent oh.
“All right, Pilgrims. Let’s head out.”
“About damn time,” Vider said and took off up the trail.
Nadie followed, adjusting her pack straps, and the Guide brought up the rear. It was best to keep an eye on the pilgrims, keep them moving and on the trail.
The grade eased after a short, steep stretch, and Nadie fell back to walk beside him. “Is that chittering sound off in the woods a bird?”
“Squirrel.”
“Oh. I’ve seen pictures. Do you think we’ll see one up close?”
“Likely, we will.”
“I’ve never been above the smog before. It must be wonderful, living up here under the sun.”
He glanced at her. “There are trade-offs, but yes, it’s pretty nice.”
“Trade-offs?”
She was a chatty one. This was going to be a long day.