I woke on my back, cold sand beneath me, cold water on my face, the Knife's dripping hand above my eyes, shading the brownish, lightening sky. My ears were ringing, a strange, distant tone.

  "We have to move," the Knife said. "One of the goats walked into an electro-field."

  Not ears ringing. A distant siren.

  "Crud," I said. Only a croak made it past my lips.

  "Walk," the Knife said, hauling on my arm.

  I walked, stumbled down the gully, away from the field of electrified barbs. The wind and the smell of burnt flesh pursued me, the hunger making my mouth water, making me wish to go back and liberate a piece of dead goat.

  The first gunshots stopped my wishing.

  Semi-automatic fire, the crack of bullets whizzing by over our heads. A goat fell down into the gully. They had been climbing along the edges, some inside, protected, some out in the open.

  The sound and blood frenzied them, sent them scurrying in all directions, running like crazed, furry lightnings.

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  As they crested the ridge, a heavy machine gun opened up. Single barrel, high caliber. Twelve millimeter or more, its thud-thud-thud coming closer.

  Vehicle-mounted. The crudmucking syndics were tearing up the range, shooting down the goats. The critters hadn't done them anything.

  Another goat fell, this one ripped in half and still bleating, its blood pumping, its intestines falling out.

  I stumbled up to it, pulled my flameblade to put it out of its misery. The Knife grabbed my arm.

  "Don't," he barked. "They'll see the wound, know we were here."

  I knew he was right, but my tired mind didn't want to register it. The goat kept meeping and mewling, its plight tearing at my gut. I saw the hatchling in its place, black scales stained with blood. Crudmunging Syndicates.

  My rifle was light in my hand, warm, inviting. I raised it, started climbing up the edge of the gully, toward the machine gun.

  The Knife pulled me down, tumbling us both into the sand. Above us, a long trail of smoke marked the path of the descending hauler. Looked like the entire port engine cluster had burst, maybe been blown completely off. Served the crudmuckers right. I started climbing again.

  "What are you doing?" the Knife said. "Run."

  He pulled, I pulled back, yanking my arm free of his grip, my mind full of ice and hate and murder.

  He grabbed me again.

  "Don't," he shouted, "the ship is coming down. We get killed and everyone in the Gash will die."

  That got through my rage and I stopped, let him haul me onward into the gully. After a moment, I started running next to him.

  He fell back, sweeping sand over my footsteps. Covering up.

  We passed another dead goat, this one still, and I kept running. Behind us, the machine gun died away. Out of ammo, or targets.

  The gully stretched on, an endless canyon of sand and pain.