Pushing the tent flap aside, the morning brightness shot through Lt. Weaver’s eyes to the back of her skull. She blinked a few times, adjusting her pupils and stomped out into the mud.

Whiffs of coffee and rice gruel hovered above the wet earthen smell. Weaver stood next to the D.O.G.G. unit near the end of its slud cycle. It didn’t notice her. She tapped its sphenoid plate with her muddy boot. Clicks and whirs signaled the shifting cycles. Weaver sloshed to the perimeter fence and into the refugee camp. The articulations clicked and struggled as the D.O.G.G. set for quadrupedal ambulation.

Refugees trudged through the mud, crisscrossing the midway in the low hanging morning sun. Parents, wives, husbands, daughters collecting breakfast and engaging in the black-market commerce that infiltrates any camp that’s been in place for longer than intended. Weaver stopped and whistled for the D.O.G.G. It moved slowly this morning.

Hearing the squeaking and pops of its mechanical joints, she continued along the thoroughfare as the crowd parted for her mechanical companion.

A mother knelt next to her toddler, reverently explaining the Densifying of Greenhouse Gasses and the importance of the machine to their survival. Weaver smiled and waved. Good PR was important.

The smells and sounds of the compound faded behind them until Weaver and the D.O.G.G. walked in the silence of the breeze. She missed the sounds of birds, cars, airplanes. A twig cracked to their right in the dense chaparral of the yellow and brown forest. Weaver smiled. You never know when you’re on camera.

Weaver stretched her legs apart and pushed her hips forward to the valley. Facing the sunrise, she got the kinks of tent living out of her bones. The D.O.G.G. hummed. Weaver looked down as the unit hunched, trembled and shook the carbon blocks out its rear.

She bent to gather the hard, warm carbon cubes. Weaver counted them into the cargo pocket on her pants. They’d power the camp for a few weeks if the population stayed steady. When D.O.G.G. units were ubiquitous, this individual contribution would be sufficient. Unfortunately, D.O.G.G.s were few and far between now slowing reclamation and the hopes of returning the climate. The scant production also jeopardized the survival of the camp. Fortunately, D.O.G.G.s were versatile.

Weaver braced as the rustling in the chaparral got louder. She gave into the blow and let it throw her clear of the D.O.G.G. unit. Shadows crossed her eyelids. She counted three, no, four hijackers. That should fuel the camp for four months.

When the screaming started, Weaver rolled over and headed back to camp. The D.O.G.G. would be back in its muddy bed by sundown and producing carbon fuel blocks by morning.