Clay looked out the porthole in the airlock door and wished for a dust suit. He remembered the comforting wet, sweaty smell of his old suit. The scratches on the glass of its helmet made it feel like home.

But the suit was gone — shredded on the claws of some storm-critter he never even saw — and Clay had work to do.

The door hissed. Clay stepped out into dust. The brownish-red powder covered everything: the ancient skimmer that had been hobbling on its last legs for the past year, the power transformer, and every crevice and crack in the outpost itself.

He made his way in the direction the transformer. Without thinking about it, he took small, light steps that kept the dust he kicked up to a minimum. After working here so long, the “Osiris shuffle” was second nature.

Clay carried an old assault rifle and kept an eye on the horizon. Before the storms, he’d laughed at the settlers who talked about being watched at night. He thought they were paranoid when they refused to leave their compounds unarmed. But that was before the storms…

The transformer was silent and unlit.

Clay cursed, then crouched down to dig through the dust on the ground for the cables. The outpost was as self-sustaining as the company could make it, but its primary power still came from the generator station ten clicks towards the mountains. When something went wrong with the juice, it was usually a problem in the cables between here and there.

“Hello, Clay.”

Someone was standing above him, then a boot was in his face. Everything was white and red and ringing. He was on his back and blinded with dust. Where was the gun? He groped for it, but found nothing but dust. The knife, then. He slipped it from its sheath.

The assault rifle gave an ominous “click.” He forced his eyes to focus on the figure above him.

“Dawkins?” he whispered.

He barely recognized his old partner. Dawkins’ eyes were wide and lidless, his body gaunt and hard and dry. Like stone, thought Clay. Or like dust compressed to stone.

“Why?” rasped Dawkins. Even his voice had grit in it. “Why did you abandon me?”

“I… I didn’t have a choice,” said Clay.

“Liar,” said Dawkins. He pointed the rifle at Clay.

“What do you want me to say?” said Clay. “That I was a coward? That I was afraid what would happen if I opened door?

“Because that’s true. I was scared. I’m scared now. When we’re scared, we’re not always at our most noble.”

Dawkins’ cracked face and fleshless lips turned into a sneer.

“You still had a choice, Clay. I’m one of them now because of you, but even I have a choice… for a little while.”

“What do you want, Dawkins? I could probably smuggle you into the med-center if you –”

“Too late,” Dawkins said with violent shake of his head.

“I came to warn you they’re coming. They’re all coming.”

“The shields will –” started Clay.

“The shields are useless without power. You think they don’t know that? That’s why they hit the generator station first.”

“So the cables…

“The cables are fine. But I knew you’d be out here checking them, just like old times. So I made the choice to come warn you.”

Clay slumped. Without the shields, they were helpless. They’d have to evacuate.

“How much time do we have?” he asked.

“Half a day. Maybe less. You might be able to reach to Delta station.”

“Why… Why are you telling me this? If you’re one of them now, don’t you…” Clay couldn’t finish the thought.

“I’m doing it for Carol and the kids. And for your wife. And — though I hate myself for it — I’m doing it for you.

“But you’re right. I’m fading fast. Even now I hear their voices in my head. And Clay, they are beautiful. But I needed to do this, as one last act of a free man.”

Clay didn’t have the words to thank him. He nodded.

“I need something from you,” said Dawkins. “Something in return.”

“Name it.”

Dawkins handed Clay the assault rifle.

“Do it,” he said. “Let me die a free man. You owe me that much.”