67 DOGS AND DRONES

67

DOGS AND DRONES

Noble and incapable of deceit, the dogs lead with enthusiasm, as if the names Two Moon and Sun Spirit, whom they met but twice, mean as much to them as any words in their vocabulary, as if they have made this long trek countless times in their dreams and know the way as surely as they know anything. They are Sam's firmest friends, always ready to welcome and defend, true kin to the dog that was the first of all animals to attend the babe in the manger millennia ago, what every human would be if humans were all humane. Since he was a boy, dogs have taught him how to be a good man, how to give without expecting to receive, how to live with joy in the moment, how to be stoic in suffering. Now, Sherlock and Whimsey and Marple weave among pines and hemlocks that stand like Druids of old, through mountains silent in primeval sleep. They follow ridgelines where sunlight transforms the straw-colored portion of their coats into shining gold. They descend into wooded valleys where lingering fog conceals all but their black backs and renders them as ambulant shadows in the thick mist. Sam is overcome by the strange conviction that, in the context of this journey, the dogs are something more than dogs. They are also known as Alsatians, but no breed name is sufficient to define them. They seem both to be his dogs and not his, gentle beasts born of myth.

The woman with him, Vida, is the force that changes the forest by her passage through it. Her presence awakens Sam to an awareness that these mountains he thought he knew intimately are in fact full of mysteries previously unsuspected and perhaps forever beyond his grasp. Some ineffable quality about her convinces him that she is more than he knows or can ever understand, and mile by mile, he's brought to the realization that there are depths and dimensions to himself of which he's not previously been aware. Since Afghanistan, he's thought of himself as nothing more than a creature born to live, hope, struggle—and die. He's seen no special meaning to his presence in the world, but this woman has somehow conjured in him a sense that he has a destiny worth pursuing and fulfilling.

Eventually the quiet of the forest is disturbed by a sound other than those made by Sam, Vida, and the dogs. The waspy buzz of common quad-rotor drones issues from multiple directions, swelling and fading and swelling, sometimes passing directly overhead. The search for Vida has resumed. Boschvark possesses an impressive squadron, more than needed to survey the Grand Plateau on which his project will be developed. During the hike, Vida suggested that the billionaire appears no less paranoid than he is ruthless; if a large swath of the mountains is being monitored this heavily, Boschvark is indeed a demon for surveillance.

Because Sam's attention is focused on avoiding the infalls of sunshine where he and Vida might be revealed to a drone hovering over a gap in the forest canopy, he is alerted to a new threat only when his three dogs abruptly halt. Out of shadows and into a shaft of light comes a wolf of daunting size and power. An inner radiance seems to shine forth from its gray eyes.

"Lupo," Vida says. "Good Lupo."

When the wolf responds to the name by sweeping his tail back and forth, Sam realizes that he is a crossbreed, part wolf and part Alsatian. Perhaps that is why Sherlock, Whimsey, and Marple neither cower from him nor greet him as they would another dog, but regard him with what might be perplexity or wonder or both.

"Lupo and I are friends," Vida says. "He visits me with the entire pack he leads. I once gave them several quarts of sweet wild blackberries. They didn't forget."

Sam has more questions than the circumstances allow.

"I'll explain later," she says. "We have a lot of ground to cover before nightfall."

As she speaks, the rest of the pack—five full-blooded wolves, no half-breeds—appears behind their leader as if materializing from another dimension.

When Vida, Sam, and the dogs continue up the current slope, Lupo and the pack parallel them at a distance of about twenty feet, respecting the dogs' territory even though they are not likely to fear them.

"They're here for more than a visit," Vida says, as if she and the wolves can mind meld. "I think they intend to accompany us all the way." She hesitates. Then: "Maybe somehow ... I called them."

"Called them?" Sam says. "How?"

"I have no idea."

By the time they reach the point where the trees give way to an ascending stretch of open grassland, it is apparent that a drone is patrolling the perimeter of the meadow, which is an oval as long as a football field but not as wide. The vehicle is circling less than six feet above the ground, clearly peering into the trees, perhaps with both traditional cameras and a special unit that searches for heat signatures in the infrared spectrum.

"We'll have to backtrack and find another way," Sam advises.

Vida says, "Unless . . ."

As she speaks, Lupo and the five turn toward her, heads raised, ears pricked, eyes bright in the forest gloom. Abruptly, as one, they pivot from Vida, lope out of the trees, race into the meadow.

"In a room or the back of a van somewhere," she says, "there's someone sitting in front of a screen, monitoring the feed from this drone's cameras."

"So?"

"He might be trained in surveillance, but he's getting bored. And he's human, which means he has a weakness for spectacle."

The pack runs toward the drone, passes under it, and arcs toward the center of the meadow.

The drone turns from its sentinel circuit and moves toward the gamboling wolves. At play, they lope and twist, leap and tumble among one another, all the while leading the little aircraft away from Vida and toward the far end of the meadow.

"Come on, fast as you can," she says, and she breaks from cover.

Sam glances toward the capering pack as two wolves rise onto their hind feet, facing each other in a dance, forepaws combing the air between them, while the others chase on four feet, play biting one another's ears, licking, nuzzling, tumbling.

By the grace of such distraction, Vida leads the dogs and the dogs lead Sam across the meadow, out of the late-morning sunshine, into the piney shade, away into the wildwood. The roup of the drone fades, but the buzz of others rises from points across the compass, some distant and some nearer, as if a robot army from the future is encamped in the wilderness and preparing for war.