Yet when we exit from our tunnel into the mammoth cavern that signals the halfway point of the racecourse, we’re in last place. The other two dragons and their riders are already looping back toward their respective tunnels. Praxus banks hard right on an intercept path with Erlik. The smaller Green turns its head to growl at us, but stays on its line.
I yank on the reins, yell at Praxus to get back on course, but he doesn’t listen. I use the command Vincent taught me before I boarded Praxus for my dragon dash. “Shock, pulse level one!”
Tendrils of lightning shoot from the collar around his neck. Praxus spasms, his glow flickers, but he’s a stubborn bastard.
“Shock, pulse level two!”
He spasms harder, his wings hiccup, and we crash to the cavern floor.
You are craven, human. I should eat your bones.
“Bring it, Praxi, or stop wasting my time. We’re losing.”
Death is the only competition.
No wonder he’s come in last in the five races before mine, by a good margin.
He sprinted all the way here just in hopes of fighting Erlik. Now that that’s no longer a possibility, he’s gonna lie here as long as he damn well pleases. Which would be fine by me, but I’m already persona non grata and I can’t afford any more blemishes to my ravioli-stained reputation.
“The faster you are, the faster you get to kill things.”
What do I get to kill at the end of this game of yours?
“The next time you want to go actually kill something, they might send Erlik or Bakul.”
I cannot help it if your kind makes foolish decisions.
I’m so frustrated I almost shock him again but stop myself. I know what it’s like to be controlled, to be forced. I am not that person. I cannot be that person.
I go the taunting route, knowing that gets him hot under the saddle. “It’s because you’re injured, isn’t it? That’s the real reason. You couldn’t even keep up if you wanted to. It’s okay to admit weakness, Praxi—”
He rockets off the ground, hissing something guttural at me that’s definitely not English. Might just be a growl. We zip toward the end of the cavern, where a mattresslike pad is pinned to the wall. It’s got a red X on it. Makes me think of Colin and our crate training, but this time I’m the bullet.
Praxus whips his tail into the mattress. I hear an alarm bell in my CENSIR, followed by an announcement of our halfway time (six minutes and twenty-two seconds) and our time behind second place (one minute and thirty-seven seconds).
No way we’re catching up, but it’s not the other dragons I’m competing against. It’s Praxus’s other riders. I’ve gotta make up ten seconds if I don’t want to end up in last place.
“So I can hum to you. . . .” I sample the Kissing Dragons theme song. “Or you can be a brave little Green and—”
I jerk backward as he accelerates to lightning-bolt speed. I press against him, hold on tight, and enjoy the ride the best I can.
By the time we reach our cage, new riders are already mounting Erlik and Bakul. T-Clef, James, and the others from Praxus’s Posse clap as we touch down. It’s the standard response for a completed run. I’ll call that a win.
Get off.
“Good job,” I say.
Get off. With him growling and stomping about like a giant elephant throwing a temper tantrum, it takes some effort to descend the rope down his shoulder. I bang against his leg a couple of times and almost slip a couple more.
Once my feet are firmly on the ground, I look up at him. “That was fun. Thank you.”
He snorts smoke in my face, slams his foot to the ground, knocking me off my feet.
I do not like you.
I smile at him. “I do not like you either.”
I’d swear he smiles back. Or he could just be showing me how sharp his teeth are.
“Round two. T-Clef, you’re up!” Vincent calls from the middle of the walkway that separates the four dragon cages.
T-Clef saunters into the cage, gives me a curt nod, then a wink when she’s closer. “You got some heat in his beat, Missy C.”
I exit the cage. People still keep their distance, but I do get a couple tips of the chin. James ignores me, his gaze focused through the bars on Praxus, but as I pass behind him, I hear him say, “You agitated him pretty good.” Sounds like he’s grinning.
“Riders ready?” Vincent bellows as I retake my probationary position beside him.
“Ready!”
“Go!”
The dragons disappear into the chutes. The cavern darkens. Still enough light from the crank lamps around the perimeter to show Vincent’s scowl. “Next time, do better.”
My heart sinks.
Then he shows me his phone.
Second place.
34
Two mornings later, T-Clef wakes me up by yanking out my earplugs and yelling, “Vincent says you’re better!” She jerks me up and lets me out of my handcuffs. “We’ll see!”
She punches me hard in the face. She’d warned me about it the night before—said it would have to be real, enough to draw blood—but it’s still an effort to apologize as she stands there over me, celebrating her performance for everybody in the barracks.
“What was that? I didn’t hear you!”
I lick blood from my lips like I’m supposed to. “I’m sorry.”
She helps me to my feet and gives me a hug. “We’re on the level now, Missy C.”
I get some nods and handshakes from the others. James, sitting cross-legged on his cot, reading The Art of War by Sun Tzu, seems oblivious. Except for a few cursory hellos and a not-a-big-deal shrug when I thanked him for the earplugs, he’s acted like I don’t exist.
I don’t understand him.
In the arena, I’m given a railshot and allowed to shred mannequins with the others. It’s soothing, except when Vincent’s giving me tips. He doesn’t sound or look a thing like Colin, but it doesn’t matter. . . . It takes a little longer each time to look at the mannequin at the end of my gun and not see him.
I try to contact Grackel, but she remains unresponsive. “Kill emotion,” I remind myself, and fire off my next shot.
Kill shot.
Today, we pair up on our dragons for what Vincent calls blitz runs, where the gunner shoots at targets affixed to stalactites and outcroppings with a machine gun armed with digital tracers. Scores are based on accuracy and flight time.
Since there’s a new element in Praxus’s Posse—me—Vincent mixes us in and out to find the best combination.
I’m hoping for T-Clef, but we both are good fliers and not so good at shooting shit on the fly. I do better with Grizzly B, though he shouts percussion beats between gunfire riffs that annoy both Praxus and me.
On my fifth round, I’m paired with our fastest flier and most accurate shooter.
James gives me the token high-five he gives everybody. “Let’s do this, Callahan.”
Callahan? That’s a new twist. “Fast,” I say, striding into the cage.
I fly. He shoots. For once, I refrain from taunting Praxus, from encouraging him at all to make haste. Vincent insists that we do all our training unlinked—practicing blindfolded, he calls it—but even though Praxus can’t read my thoughts, he must somehow sense them, because that vengeful fucker goes warp speed the entire way.
Good job, Praxus says to me, glowing with delight as James and I swap seats. For our second run, I shoot at everything but the targets. Worst score of the day. Doesn’t matter. Our previous one set an arena record.
That night, my earplugs in but unable to sleep, something occurs to me. In our first run, knowing that we’d be paired if things went well, James didn’t miss a single target.
We more or less repeat the same routine every day. Breakfast, shoot, fly, lunch, tactical training, workout, dinner. The tactical stuff involves games of laser tag in the arena or skulking through darkened prayer centers to take out lurking dummies. The workouts—running down the understate or carrying/dr
agging mannequins around the arena between sets of push-ups and lunges and bear crawls—suck in the best possible way.
It’s all an addictive roller coaster of adrenaline and exhaustion that kills emotion better than alcohol ever did. Except when I get off and look around, I’m in the same goddamn place I’ve always been.
Lost.
Fucked.
After dinner, we return to our respective barracks. Most play games, a few read. I stick to the card group, because they’re the most talkative. Even though it’s mostly banter, bragging, and flirtation, I have picked up some information along the way: it’s been more than two months since they’ve gone on an op, Klyv’s riders are still down south because they’re “bonding” with a new dragon, O.J.’s struggling with detox. . . .
Nothing about Allie, but I keep playing because it’s better than the quiet.
Tonight Fattie’s in a foul mood, in part because I just put him in the basement in our hearts game by shooting the moon. Also shot him dead a couple of times in our laser-tag elimination match this afternoon.
Doesn’t help that T-Clef keeps reminding him. “How’s it feel to be in last, Burly B . . . again? Better pick up the pace, or you gonna be running janitor on the halls while the rest of us are lighting the fires.”
“Imaginary fires,” Grizzly B says, thrumming his cards against the table.
“Waiting for the storm to die down,” Skinny says. He looks over his shoulder. “Appear weak when you’re strong, right, bro?”
James doesn’t look up from his book, but gives a thumbs-up. I focus on my cards.
“Come over here so I can whoop your ass,” T-Clef says.
“Maybe next time,” James says, which is what he says every time.
“He wants you to ask,” she says to me.
I kick her under the table. “Maybe next time.”
Skinny passes me three cards, gives me a wink. Even before I look at them, I know one is the queen of spades. It used to be a barb, but now we’re an alliance against T-Clef and Grizzly B. Tonight, however, I’m playing for me.
“I miss the sky flies,” Fattie says, playing the two of clubs.
“The acoustics in the tunnels are kickin’,” Grizzly B says.
Fattie flips him off. “Don’t give me your silver-lining horseshit.”
“Missy C ruined it for the rest of us.” T-Clef stands up, hips on her fists, head turned sideways in a superhero pose. “I’m Missy C. My first flight out, I’m going to attack an entire squadron of dragon jets. Because I am awesome.”
I laugh. “It wasn’t my idea.”
Skinny rolls his eyes. “That’s right. Blame Praxus.”
Fattie frowns. “Praxus just wanted to get his shine up for a pretty girl.”
T-Clef mimes sweeping the floor. “Can’t blame a brother for good taste.”
“O.J. would let us out there,” Fattie says.
“O.J. gets things got,” T-Clef says.
“Technically, it was Dragon Slayer over here who got Klyv,” Grizzly B says. I flip him off.
Fattie leads with the ace of diamonds. “I’m not here to play laser tag.”
T-Clef dumps a king of hearts on Fattie’s ace. “You’re here to pick up the cards, Burly B.”
“If Vincent thinks he can distract us with some stupid games—dammit, Missy C!” he says as I throw my queen of spades on the pile.
“That’s gonna put you out.” I grin at his scowl. “You owe me a picture.”
“Right now,” T-Clef says. She stands on her chair. “Hey, posse, we’re gonna add a plus one.”
Most everybody bounds from their beds or leaps up from their chairs and files out the door.
“You coming, flyboy?” T-Clef says.
James gives a slight shake of his head to her, then a slight nod to me. “Good job, Callahan.”
“Thanks, Everett,” I say.
“When you guys gonna stop being awkward?” T-Clef says, pulling me out the door.
“When you gonna stop asking?”
“You like him, right?”
I shrug.
“What would your CENSIR say?” she asks.
It doesn’t matter. We fly well together, we make a good team whenever we’re in the same tactical group, but the rare pleasantries we exchange come at a distance.
I need to keep my distance.
We join the others outside the prayer center, where Fattie’s already at work. He sucks at cards, he’s a middling flier on his best days, but he’s a wizard with the spray cans. People shout out suggestions for poses and expressions.
My graffiti self ends up crouching besides Graffiti Fattie, my head right at his waist level in a somewhat provocative manner; otherwise, Graffiti Melissa is rather badass. Arms folded across my chest, a stylized oxygen mask covering the lower half of my face, a miniature dragon jet cradled in one hand, a railshot with Klyv inscribed on the barrel (T-Clef’s suggestion) in the other.
Fattie is adding in shading around my face to make me look extra menacing when the dragon sirens mounted to the understate ceiling blare to life.
The only thing louder is the cheers erupting all around me. A quarter mile down, Erlik’s Eviscerists are pouring out of their prayer center. SUVs come blazing by from the other direction—Bakul’s Banshees—honking and flashing their lights.
We’re going to war.
T-Clef drives us to Dragon Shelter U5-2127, where dozens of SUVs are already parked. Several have logos painted on them. Inside, dozens of Diocletians are gathering at tables. Place cards tell everybody where to sit. Signs in the middle of the tables match some of the logos on the SUVs. At the front of the room, Vincent preps a projection screen.
I’m looking for my name when T-Clef lets out a loud squeal beside me.
“Joto!” She pushes her way forward. The crowd parts enough for me to see him. He’s at a table for six near the back of the room. The sign in the middle has a black-and-white silhouette of a dragon and a soldier kissing. Behind it, surveying the room with a slight smirk, sits Evelyn.
I don’t think she sees me. I start to turn around.
“Twenty-Five, you’re with us.” Her voice is saccharine and evil.
Of course I am. I turn back around. We exchange frozen smiles. The fates must hate me.
Which is why James is in our group, too. He shows up after almost everybody else has found their places, taking a seat between Grizzly B and T-Clef. He says a few perfunctorily pleasant things to them and Joto, then exchanges a curt “hey” with Evelyn that makes his nod of acknowledgment for me seem jubilant.
Vincent activates the projector. The room goes silent. Oren appears on the screen. He’s in some cave that shines a bright green from all the dragons behind him.
“Hello, brothers and sisters,” he says. “The time has come.”
A boisterous cry goes up.
“. . . sacrificed a lot to get here,” he’s saying when the shouts die down enough for me to hear him again. “I appreciate all that you’ve given. . . .”
The screen shifts to a news clip labeled “Victory in Tahoe” that shows snippets of a massive battle, ending with the aftermath of a broken and burned forest littered with dead Greens. All-Blacks escort a handful of smoke-stained Diocletians into prison trucks.
“They kicked our ass,” Joto says as calls for retribution ring out.
The screen returns to Oren. “We lost many of our bravest brothers and sisters in this attack, soldiers and dragons who understood that their sacrifice will ensure our victory.”
Vincent and several other Diocletians pass out tablets to each table as Oren continues to speak. “The government believes this last attack has crippled us.” He waves at the dragons behind him and grins. “It is time for us to rise from the shadows and unleash hell. Sic semper tyrannis!”
The video cuts to black.
Everybody in the room rises to their feet with shouts of “Sic semper tyrannis!”
Mine’s a half beat late, but except for a sidelong glance
from Evelyn, I don’t think anybody noticed.
“Your instructions are on your tablets,” Vincent says. “You will find—”
“These are just coordinates with a time stamp!” somebody yells.
“Enter them into your GPS,” Vincent says. “You will be given further instructions once you’re under way. Make sure you arrive within the allotted time. All the gear you need should be in your vehicles. Be swift.”
Once we’ve all packed into the SUV with the logo of the soldier and the dragon kissing, Evelyn fires up the nav system. I take a peek as she punches in the coordinates from the tablet. I was right. We’re somewhere beneath the Rockies.
“Saint Louis,” she says.
“How much time we got?” Grizzly B asks.
“Ten hours.”
“Are we flying?” Joto says, incredulous.
Evelyn starts the car. The tablet screen goes white. She sets it on the dash so everybody can see, then hits the play button. A slideshow starts.
It’s titled Kissing Humans.
35
T-Clef’s singing again.
I peek through my eyelids. It’s 3:17, according to the clock in the SUV dash. The understate shifted from paved highway several hours ago. The headlights show the edges of a smooth rock tunnel and an infinite stretch of blackness ahead of us. We’re headed straight to hell. No signs, no markers. But that’s where we’re headed. As fast as we can get there.
We speed by another offshoot.
I’m reminded of ants. How far does the Diocletian colony extend?
“Come on, slackers, I’m tired of going solo,” T-Clef says. “We’re a team.”
She sings louder.
Evelyn grunts something unintelligible from the driver’s seat. Joto, riding in the back with our gear, joins in but doesn’t know the words. James is immersed in a military history book, which he’s reading by penlight. Grizzly B, little more than a shadow next to me, air-drums halfheartedly for a couple of lines, then fades away.
The Other Side Page 22