The Other Side

by Joshua McCune

  “When you’re talking to Praxus, call out your instructions aloud so I can hear,” James says. “Keep your head low. Keep your body tight. The DJ pilots are trained to aim for the riders. Don’t be a hero, okay?”

  I glance over my shoulder. He’s got both hands around the machine gun, attention focused on the enemy. A fusillade of missiles races toward Bakul as half the planes veer out of formation and come at us.

  Within seconds, we’re in the middle of a firefight. We swoop and swerve and twirl through flak clouds, sometimes chasing, sometimes being chased. Missiles shriek, bullets purr, dragons roar. Cerulean flames roll across the sky. Explosions detonate everywhere.

  I point out targets and pursuers to Praxus. James does, too. His shouted instructions sound miles away. Everything does.

  I manage to squeeze off a few rounds with my railshot while James blasts away on the machine gun. I imagine it makes for good video, but Praxus is the only one with any accuracy.

  And then it’s over. Couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes. Twenty columns of smoke rise from the earth, distant funeral pyres that are already dwindling. Bakul has a few holes in his wings and Erlik’s got a couple of broken talons, but that’s it.

  The dragons drop to the earth to feast on charred pilots. Knowing that they’ll check the feed from my vid lens later, perhaps want to use some of it, I make myself watch. Thankfully it’s quick work and we’re back in the air in a matter of minutes.

  We fly north. The clouds swell, the sky closes. Snow starts to fall. We put on our oxygen masks and rise above the storm. We turn west, deeper into the evac territories. Hook, Hawk, and Bakul patrol our perimeter in wide circles, eliminating a couple of drones along the way.

  The sun’s dipping into the clouds when the gray fluff beneath Bakul mushrooms with colors. Orange, yellow, red. Muted, but distinct. The reverberant bass of rapid-fire explosions follows close behind. The sky blackens with smoke.

  I switch on my infrared, look down, and increase magnification. Artillery dots the mountains on either side of a twisty road. A convoy of a dozen or so transport trucks wends its way west. All-Blacks are jumping out of the back of a few, taking up defensive positions.

  “Move in for the attack run,” Evelyn says. “Take out the dragon defense systems first, then—”

  “Hawk’s been hit! Shit! Shit, shit—” Hook’s words turn to a choked gurgle. Bakul swings his head around wildly. Panicking. Without his riders, he can’t see the A-Bs or their weaponry.

  Bullet tracers slice the sky around him. He wobbles into the clouds, blood streaming from his flank. A missile slams into him. When the explosion clears, he’s gone.

  “They’ve got more firepower than we anticipated,” James says. “We should fall back.”

  “Only cowards retreat,” Evelyn says. “We are dominant. Or did you forget that?”

  “I didn’t—” James begins, then stops. A moment later, he’s firing his machine gun and shouting epithets at the artillery.

  The thunder of war intensifies. Praxus tightens his wings and flips onto his side to make himself as small a target as possible. Which isn’t small at all. And his constant loud-ass roaring might as well be a sign that says SHOOT ME!

  When I explain this to him, he roars louder. James joins in.

  The artillery fire comes our way. Praxus attacks at full flame.

  “Radio on. Open my link with Praxus, Evelyn,” I say.

  “James is enough.”

  I’m half certain she wants to get us killed. “But—”

  “Stop arguing. Follow orders. Take out the west ridge. Think you can handle that?”

  “Radio off. Bitch!”

  Evelyn, Joto, and Erlik dive down and make a strafing run on the near side of the pass. We sweep across the road on our edge. As explosions rock us from side to side, I shout out targets. Praxus’s fire melts artillery into useless goo in a matter of seconds.

  James blasts away nonstop, at soldiers, vehicles, anything in his line of sight. Linked to Praxus, his accuracy is near impeccable. He laughs and curses with every takedown. “Drink that wild air, motherfu—”

  The world detonates. A hellish heat swarms us from behind. We somersault forward. Praxus’s roars become screams. Then we’re twirling sideways, downward. We tumble out of the flak. I lose breakfast into the blur.

  Praxus rights himself. His left wing’s got a massive hole in it. He flaps it at full speed but struggles to maintain altitude. Glow dimming, growls mixing with groans, he veers into a gap between the mountains and settles on an outcropping that affords us a concealed view of the pass. Scorched trucks, artillery fragments, and charred bodies are strewn everywhere. I hear artillery and gunfire in the distance, but I think we’re safe.

  I remember to breathe. “Okay back there?”

  “Outstanding. Let’s take it to these bastards,” James says. He grabs a missile from the quiver attached to the saddle and slips it into a rocket launcher mounted on the other side. He lifts it and aims down the road, at a truck swerving its way through the carnage.

  “James, no!”

  He fires. The truck explodes into the air, crashes down, and tips over onto its side. A couple of All-Blacks crawl out the back.

  “For Mark and Steven and Grynax . . .” James grabs the machine gun and doesn’t stop firing until he’s out of bullets, shouting names the entire time, some dragon, some human.

  The artillery explosions dwindle to silence over the next few minutes; the gunfire ceases. I hear a couple of screams here and there, some women crying, but I’m pretty sure that’s my imagination.

  “Where are you, Twenty-Five?” Evelyn asks.

  “Radio on. Praxus is injured. Got shot in the wing.”

  “Can he fly?”

  I ask him.

  He looks over his shoulder and snorts smoke at me.

  “Yes, he can fly. Probably not too far . . .”

  “He doesn’t need to fly you too far. It’s showtime.”

  “Payback,” James says, singsongy.

  We glide from our hiding spot. Evelyn, Joto, and Erlik hover a few dozen feet above the carnage that litters the road. The Green’s got a couple of bodies clutched in his talons. I notice one of them squirming.

  His screams are real. And then they’re crushed.

  As the dragon shoves the soldier into his mouth, Evelyn points down the road. “We let a couple of the trucks make it through. The next artillery entrenchment isn’t for a few miles. Stay low. And don’t open fire until I tell you. Understand, Twenty-Five?”

  I grit my teeth. “Yes, ma’am. But you might want to take James off the hook. He’s a bit rabid.”

  “He’s been disconnected for a while. He’s got attachment issues,” Evelyn says, clearly annoyed. “Follow on our left flank.”

  Erlik eats the other soldier, spins around, and flies off.

  I will not follow that slave, Praxus says when I relay the plans.

  There is a feast on the other end.

  There is a feast here.

  He drops to the ground, sniffs the air, swipes wildly in front of him. His talons slice open the canopy of a crashed transport truck. Two All-Blacks lie slumped against the sidewall. I don’t look away, but can’t help flinching at the crunch of teeth through bone.

  “You wanted this, Melissa,” James says, almost spitting my name. “You can’t be weak. You’ll get us all killed.”

  I flip him off over my shoulder. We don’t have time for this, Praxus. There is a better feast ahead.

  Then go get it yourself, human.

  “Where are you, Twenty-Five?”

  Praxus, the slave’s rider thinks you can’t keep up with the slave. I’m inclined to agree.

  That does it. He launches himself, bellowing away. His balance is off, so we wobble some, but he makes sure we don’t fall behind. Via the magnification of my goggles, I see Joto give me a thumbs-up. He turns over his shoulder and leans toward Evelyn.

  “Get Praxus quiet, Twenty-Five. We
want this to look good.”

  Praxus balks at my request until I remind him that the fear scent on the humans will be much greater if we surprise them.

  We swerve around a bend, and the two transport trucks come into view. The pass narrows. Praxus pulls in his wings a few feet so they don’t scrape the sides. The trucks putter up a switchback and disappear from sight.

  “Approach from behind on their level,” Evelyn says. “Get up close. Keep it quiet. And quiet your glow.”

  Erlik banks up.

  We continue to fly low. Snow melts in our wake. Praxus heeds my reminders for silence and dimness, though as we round the switchback, his glow starts pulsing. Like a heartbeat. It accelerates, brightens. Evelyn chides me. I tell Praxus to calm down. He listens for about a second, then he’s pulsing again.

  Their flesh is ripe. He quivers, does that purring thing Greens do.

  The trucks struggle up the incline. Erlik hovers fifty or so feet above them. Chest angled up, wings flapping a slow beat, he flies backward at their lethargic pace.

  Tell the slave’s rider to turn on my fire, human, Praxus says as we close within flaming distance.

  Evelyn wants us closer. “Gotta to see the flames in their eyes,” she says. Those are our orders. Close enough for video from James’s and my vid lenses to capture the terror on the faces of the soldiers before we kill them.

  Murder them.

  I must be Green. For Allie.

  I remind Praxus that their flesh will be riper the more afraid they are. He happily glides into position over the rear truck.

  “Now!” Evelyn says.

  Praxus drops from the sky with a furious roar, talons extended. He digs into the canvas ceiling and peels it off. Two dozen soldiers sit packed together on benches that line either side. Out of the corner of my vision, I see James aim his machine gun at them, his body coiled with rage. The soldiers raise their hands in surrender.

  They’re all young, their faces more suited for prom tuxedos than dragon camos. I close my eyes and try very hard not to think of Sam.

  Their flesh is ripe!

  Praxus’s glow goes blinding behind my eyelids.

  “Open your eyes, Twenty-Five. Your fire’s active. Kill them!”

  “They’d do the same to us, Melissa,” James growls behind me, again spewing my name as if it’s a curse.

  I open my eyes. And all I can see is Sam.

  No! These are not warriors, Praxus.

  They are all warriors. The heat swells in his throat.

  These are children!

  They are all warriors.

  They are not even fighting back!

  “Hurry up, Twenty-Five.”

  They are not worthy of your fire!

  No, but they shall taste it anyway. He opens his mouth. Flames curl forth.

  This is slave’s work!

  Praxus roars at me, then at Erlik, and veers off, his azure fire blasting into the mountainside.

  “What are you doing?!” Evelyn says. Then: “You deserve this, Twenty-Five.”

  She says something else, but it is irrelevant. The sweet stench of terror fills us. The sounds of it, too. The coward warriors weep and whisper pleas for their pitiful lives to their pitiful God.

  We whirl back around. The urine scent intensifies. Pathetic. They are not worthy. But their flesh is ripe. We land in front of them. One stands on trembling feet and raises a trembling gun at us.

  We purse our lips together and shoot a dagger of hell into his chest. He ignites. The others scream. We press a finger to our lips. They hush. We snatch the melting one and eat him in front of his craven brethren.

  A couple jump out and run for the embankment. We crush one in our claw, send the other one flying with our tail. The rest sit there, quivering or paralyzed. They are fully ripe now. We brighten.

  “How many must die before you leave us alone?” James shouts behind us.

  “Finish them, Twenty-Five,” Evelyn says.

  Twenty-Five? No, we are Praxus. We are alpha. We will enjoy our meal without the words of slaves infesting us. We shout our annoyance at them. “We will do this our way!”

  As the slaves roar back at us, we grab the nearest coward warrior and pull him close so that we can see him. He wets himself. His brimming eyes go wide, his body slack. The last vestiges of adolescence slip from his face and he is naked in front of us, a baby.

  Powerless, defenseless.

  He is not worthy.

  No, he does not deserve this.

  This is wrong.

  This is wrong!

  Praxus drops the All-Black and recoils with a doleful wail.

  As he lifts off, a flash of movement catches my eye. On the ridge above, a soldier aims his rocket launcher at Erlik. I squeeze off two quick bursts from my railshot. The second catches the A-B in the shoulder, knocks him backward. The rocket launcher fires its missile skyward; the soldier liquefies.

  I vomit, Praxus dims.

  What did you do, human? What did you do to me?

  It’s the first time I’ve ever heard a Green unsure of itself.

  No, not unsure.

  Scared.

  The crackle of dragon fire echoes through my CENSIR radio. I glance back. Both the trucks are in flames. Too far away to see the faces of the dying, but I always see the faces.

  37

  Reds celebrate their dead with stories of the departed’s feats, followed by a ritual burning.

  Greens eat theirs.

  Well, Erlik does.

  Praxus is too depressed to eat, I think. After dumping James and me, he wobbled his way up to the peak that overlooks the valley where we found Bakul’s remains. He hunkers there, his glow a low smolder. Sometimes he lifts his head to the heavens and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and I imagine him a wolf who’s lost his howl.

  “You’re jacking us up good, sister,” Joto says, his words barely audible over the sounds of rending flesh and crunching bone. He sits on a nearby boulder, machine gun laid on his lap, jaw clenched, Erlik’s green glow cast across half his face. He glances at me and shakes his head.

  A couple minutes later, he’s looking at me again. Staring. Harder. Angrier. I pretend not to notice, wonder if he’ll snap before James and Evelyn return from their search for Hawk. He grunts and turns away.

  He does this a few more times, and then I guess he can’t hold it in anymore. “T-Clef told me if I put a bullet in your head, she’d never forgive me, but sister, you are a disease that needs curing.”

  I look back to Praxus, suspect he’s thinking the same thing.

  “Aren’t you gonna say something?” Joto says.

  “What do you want me to say?” I squint at him. His grip has tightened on the gun. “You want me to apologize?”

  “You killed Klyv. Bakul’s dead because of you. And what about . . . ?” He points the machine gun at Hook’s broken body, which lies beside me.

  “If it’s easier to blame me—”

  He aims the gun at me. “It’s your fault.”

  “If you say so.”

  He hops off his boulder and presses the barrel to my temple, jams my head sideways. “How many dragons have you killed?”

  “Dozens at least. One of every color.”

  “You think this is funny?” He jams harder. With my hands bound behind me with tie wraps, I can’t keep my balance. I tip over onto Hook. His body’s still warm. The faint aroma of roses still clings to him.

  “Will killing me make you feel better?”

  “Maybe.”

  I close my eyes. “Then what’s stopping you?”

  “We got orders.” He pokes me with the gun barrel. “But what if I was to say you tried to run? Can’t let danger bait like you get away.”

  “You’d only be doing your job.” I roll onto my stomach. “You’ll want to make sure to hit me in the back so your story holds up.”

  I hear him retreat a couple steps. “Why are you so damn calm?”

  “How many dragons have you killed, Jot
o?”

  “What? None. Why would I do that?”

  I open my eyes. “How many humans?”

  He taps the stickers on his helmet. “Jets count?”

  They all count. “How many have you looked in the eye, right in the moment before they die?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve killed people, but have you seen anybody die? Because those are the things that stick with you. You don’t need any memories of me haunting you, so if you’re going to put me down, I’ll try to make it easy for you.”

  “Fuck you. You’re not better than me. Who the—”

  “Marion, we need your help!” Evelyn calls from somewhere beyond Erlik.

  He pokes me with his gun. “Don’t move, or I will kill you. Close up, too.”

  I’ve managed to right myself by the time James, Evelyn, and Joto return with Hawk’s mangled body. They dump him beside Hook. Evelyn retrieves binoculars from her pack and climbs the boulder. James slumps against it, legs pulled into his chest, head resting on one shoulder. Looks like he’s mumbling to himself . . .

  No. Singing. To Praxus, I assume.

  Joto nudges me with his machine gun. “You moved.”

  “Shoot me.”

  He laughs. “Nah. Too easy.” He pulls a strip of beef jerky from his bandanna, chews on it. He offers me half.

  I ignore him.

  “Anything?” James asks Evelyn.

  She shakes her head.

  “What’s taking them so long?” Joto says. He checks his watch. “The extraction team was supposed to be here an hour ago.”

  “Maybe they ran into trouble,” Evelyn says. She doesn’t sound worried.

  “You tried contacting them?” James says.

  “We’re out of radio range.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Our orders are for a communication blackout.”

  “That’ll do us a whole lot of good if we get a squadron of DJs on us.” Joto sneers at me. “We only got one good dragon left.”

  “We already let them know our status,” Evelyn says. “I’m not risking a talker intercept because you’re getting brittle. Take Erlik and head for checkpoint alpha. You, too, James.”