Talker 25

by McCune, Joshua

  “You think I care?” I say.

  He looks at his PDA. “I know you do. That little crown on your head tells me everything you feel.”

  A bluff? I chew the inside of my lip and shrug. “Your software must be glitchy.”

  “Quite fascinating, really, isn’t it?” Simon says, running his finger along the PDA screen. “Maybe his heart will give out first.”

  James’s mouth suddenly falls open in a silent scream. His breaths come in hitching, staccato bursts. His eyes widen. His face vibrates.

  I break. “Stop it!”

  Simon cocks his head as James’s entire body seizes and shudders.

  “Stop it! Stop it! I’ll do what you want!”

  “What did you say?” Simon asks.

  “I’ll cooperate!” I yell. “Just stop it!”

  Simon waits another few seconds before relenting. James goes limp. His head bangs against the table.

  “James?” I whisper.

  He lets out a soft moan.

  “Eyes forward, Ms. Callahan.” I comply.

  “Go into close-up on her,” Simon instructs the cameramen. He reverts to his narrator voice. “Ms. Callahan, when did you find yourself having feelings for Mr. Everett?”

  “What do you want from me?” I ask.

  “The truth.”

  I snort. “The truth is I’m not a traitor. I never meant to hurt anybody. I never wanted to talk to dragons, or—”

  “You think you can talk to dragons, Ms. Callahan?”

  “She’s lost it,” James mumbles quickly. “Probably ate too much dragon meat.”

  “Mr. Everett, remain quiet until further notice or I will turn you into a drooling cripple.” Simon steps forward. “Ms. Callahan, answer the question.”

  “I never wanted to be a part of any of this. I wanted the dragons to go away, the military to go away. . . . Guess I’m screwed.”

  “So your mother never told you the truth?” Simon asks.

  James bursts from the chair, launching himself over the table at Simon. He tackles him, gets his cuffed hands around his neck for all of a second before a pair of BoDA agents are pulling him off. He snarls at Simon. “You promised to keep her out of this!”

  Simon picks up the PDA from the floor, examines it with a frown, presses a button. “Let’s see if you can play possum with this.”

  James spasms so hard that the agents lose their grip on him. He collapses to the floor, twitches once, then goes deathly still. The D-men scowl at Simon.

  Simon checks James’s pulse. “No worries, still ticking. Get him out of here and get him prepped for transport.”

  They leave.

  Simon’s eyes narrow on me. “Keep in mind that I can make sure he stops ticking.”

  I don’t know if he’s authorized to kill him, but it’s a chance I cannot afford to take, so I nod and we return to the farce.

  “Did you ever find it odd that your mother was so concerned with dragon welfare?” Simon asks. A picture appears on the screen: Mom at a protest rally. “She saw people killed every day, and while most everyone else thought they were monsters, she never did.”

  “It’s called having a heart, asshole.”

  “A heart of gold . . . or maybe Red, Green, and Blue. Just like her daughter?” he says. “You two were close, weren’t you? Similar in so many ways.”

  “I can only hope so.”

  He puts another picture up. One I’ve never seen. The coup de grace.

  Mom stands on the balcony of Shadow Mountain lookout, elbows on the railing, chin cupped in her hands. Tired, but happy. On her left is a black man who looks vaguely familiar, for some reason. James, younger, sits on the railing, legs dangled over the edge. Behind him, a handsome man holds a smiling woman. I don’t recognize him, but I saw her a week ago, dead on a gurney.

  In the background, through the trees, are six dragons. Five Reds, one Green. A part of me wonders if that’s the Green that killed her. Or maybe it’s just another fabrication.

  “Is that your mother in the picture?” Simon asks.

  I don’t answer.

  He points. “Those are dragons, right?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ms. Callahan, but it appears that those dragons are wearing harnesses.”

  Good and evil, right and wrong, all that’s gone sideways in my head, but there is one truth I will never surrender. “You can paint her however you want,” I say. “But my mother was a hero.”

  “No, she was a traitor. Just like you, Ms. Callahan. Just like you.”

  He heads for the door.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

  He hesitates, turns toward me. “Because lots of us had mothers. Lots of us had sons and wives. You’re no different from any of us, except you sided with them. You deserve everything that’s going to happen to you, Ms. Callahan. May God save your soul.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  PART II

  RECONDITIONING

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  20

  A BoDA agent escorts me to an SUV. Minutes later, we arrive at a runway where a cargo plane idles. A dull silver glow comes from inside the cabin.

  Baby!

  We drive up the ramp that extends from the rear of the plane, past several rows of crates strapped to the walls, and there she is. My momentary happiness evaporates. Metal bands around her snout, back, and tail clamp her to the metal slab. The cold-restrictor collar pinches deep into her neck. Tranquilizers protrude from her body.

  “Where are you taking us?” I ask.

  “Don’t know,” the agent says as we park in front of Baby.

  I call her name several times. Her eyes remain shut, but I’d swear she brightens. I hold on to that as the agent guides me to the front of the cargo hold, where James sits shackled in a jump seat. The man positions me on the opposite side, cuffing me to a railing that runs the length of the plane. The lack of windows gives me the sense that I’m in a giant coffin, and I can’t help but wonder where they’re going to bury us.

  “I’m sorry,” James says after the agent backs out of the plane.

  “You were trying to protect my family.” The ramp closes. Engines roar to life. The plane accelerates. “Where do you think they’re taking us?”

  He glances at Baby. “A place where dragons go to die.”

  It’s my turn to apologize. “If I’d stayed in the cave, Baby would be safe.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Melissa.” He takes a deep breath. “Baby, huh?”

  I nod. “It’s kind of grown on me.”

  “Guess that’s as good a name as any until she tells us what it really is.”

  “That how it works?”

  “Yeah, usually, but who knows with her?” He frowns. “Doubt they’ll keep her around long enough for us to find out.”

  “What about the others?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know. By the time we got there, it was a mess. Our front squadrons had been decimated. Keith and Grackel ordered us to pull back. Most everybody listened, but Vestia was in a state. So was I,” he adds, so softly I barely hear. He gives a strained smile. “Anybody ever tell you that you dress up real nice?”

  “This sort of beauty doesn’t come natural, you know?” I say with a shrug. “I had a lot of help from Cosmo Kim.”

  “She was a pistol.”

  “Did they put you in the hole, too, and feed you dragon meat?” I ask.

  “Yep, got my dosage of Kissing Dragons, though I avoided the meat. There’s something in it that makes you go a bit loopy.”

  I snort. “I went two loops past a bit.”

  The cockpit door opens. A man in a flight suit retrieves a couple of plastic bottles fr
om a compartment in the bulkhead.

  “Liquid replacement meals,” he says. He gives one to James, the other to me, never once looking at us.

  “Where are you taking us?” I ask.

  “Far.” He returns to the cockpit.

  James takes a swig. “Tastes like feet.”

  Worse. “How do you know what feet taste like?”

  “A boy’s gotta have some secrets.” He arches an eyebrow, eyes my feet, laughs.

  I grin, raise my bottle. “Here’s to feet! May they taste good, be strong, and one day carry us home.”

  He raises his bottle. “To feet!”

  We chat long into the flight, avoiding topics that make us think about our friends or families or the bleak future that likely awaits us. We talk to Baby at regular intervals. Sometimes she brightens, a brief heartbeat of intensity, but that’s it. We attempt to contact his dragon acquaintances. Nothing. Either they’re dead, or the CENSIR’s blocking us. After a few moments of dreary silence, we go back to rehashing our favorite movies, foods, subjects in school. . . .

  I fight sleep, order him to tell me about his childhood. Instead he recites poetry. Somewhere in the middle of Robert Frost’s “Fire and Ice,” I drift off.

  When I wake, I’m shivering. It was nowhere near this cold before. James watches me from across the aisle, his face worn with fatigue. It doesn’t look like he’s slept.

  “I think we’ve begun our descent,” he says.

  “Deeper into hell?”

  “Something like that.”

  Within minutes, we touch down. The ramp opens to a cloudless sky and an arctic world. An undulating howl of wind envelops us. It sets my teeth chattering, and in a matter of seconds my fingers and toes are numb.

  James tries to smile. “Who knew . . . hell . . . was this . . . cold?”

  Four All-Blacks in snow gear rush into the plane, surround Baby, and remove the arm-thick bolts that attach her sledge to the chassis. The scales on their helmets twinkle in the sunlight. Red and green, mostly. A spot of blue here and there. I try not to think that soon silver will be there too.

  While a tractor pulls Baby from the cabin, the soldiers bundle us in wool-lined boots, thick gloves, knit caps, and faux-fur jackets. I stop shivering, but the bite of the wind still cuts through everything.

  I stare after Baby. “Whatever you’re going to do to her, please make it quick.”

  The nearest soldier glances over his shoulder, frowns, but doesn’t respond. They load James and me into the back of a Humvee. The driver, a burly man, pulls the ski mask down to expose his mouth and regards us with eyes as frosty as the weather.

  “I’m Major Alderson. You are Talker Twenty-Five,” he says through the steel mesh that separates us. He nods at James. “You are Talker Twenty-Six. Both of you have been conscripted by the U.S. Army to help eliminate the dragon infestation. You will cooperate, or you will suffer dire consequences. Welcome to Camp George.”

  “Antarctica,” I guess, looking at the hula-girl stick-on clock mounted to the dash. 23:09. Almost midnight. The sun’s out—which must mean we’re in the southern hemisphere. Even with the car’s heater going full blast, I’m still cold. “Why bring us here?”

  “Invisibility,” James mutters.

  “Correct,” the major says. “If you somehow managed to send one of your fire-breathing friends an image of our location, they wouldn’t know where to come rescue you because everything down here in the frozen suck looks the same.”

  On that wonderful note, the major puts on his sunglasses and backs out of the plane. Dragon jets and artillery flank the runway. We pass a row of hangars, but otherwise there’s nothing around us except endless tracts of ice.

  The wind moans at us, kicks up snow devils along the runway, pushes the Humvee from side to side. We turn onto a barely visible road that leads toward green and red lights in the distance.

  “What are you doing to them?” James says through gritted teeth.

  “Research. They have amazing thermal control.”

  The lights take shape. Dragons. Collared and dying, in giant birdcages. Macabre decorations for the median. A couple of brighter ones scream at us.

  The last cage in the line contains a pair of glowless Reds huddled together. “Radio go,” the major says. “HQ, we’ve got snowkill on Dragons Forty-Seven and Forty-Eight. Please be advised.”

  I grunt and press my head to the window. Our cage may be larger, but what are the odds James and I end up like those two dead Reds?

  The patter of gunfire reaches my ears. Along the side of the road, men fire machine guns at a dimming Green strapped to a freestanding wall. It’s muzzled. Blood trickles from its wounds onto a field of snow more crimson than white.

  “Isn’t it a bit late for torture?” James says.

  The major laughs. “No rest for the weary. Gotta get in what we can while the weather’s good.”

  If that steel mesh didn’t separate us, I’m pretty sure James would strangle him. I reach for his hand, but he shakes me off. “You’re a monster,” he says. “You’re all monsters!”

  “Control yourself, Twenty-Six.”

  James tugs at the door handle, but we’re locked in. He jerks harder, kicks at the steel separator.

  The major jams the brakes. The Humvee slides to a stop. James keeps kicking. The major picks up a computer tablet, taps a couple of buttons. James convulses, flails, goes limp. His breaths come in jagged bursts as he continues to glare at the major.

  “You’re only making this harder on yourself, Twenty-Six.” The major shows us the tablet screen. CENSIR for Talker 26 (Telepathy: Disabled) is written in block letters above a 3D image of a brain. James’s name, national registration number, and biometric data occupy the top left corner. Flashing red text draws my attention to the right side of the screen. Current synaptic state: violent, dangerous to others.

  He thumbs the bottom of the tablet. Two columns appear beside the brain. The first has five buttons: off, record, transmit, inhibit, and incapacitate. The inhibit one is depressed. The other contains a rainbow-colored slider and adjacent button labeled Shock. The slider is set to green.

  “It can be much worse. Are we clear?” The major adjusts the slider to maximum red, lets his finger hover above the Shock button until James nods.

  A couple minutes later, we drive through a pair of dragon skeletons held together by wires and rods. Their wings connect in an arch, from which hangs a wooden sign. WELCOME TO GEORGETOWN. Beneath it, in smaller, knife-scratched letters: A NO-FLY ZONE.

  Ahead, artillery and missile launchers split the road in two. Buildings press in on either side, rising up from the ice on concrete stilts. Slanted roofs, black, windowless, they are indistinguishable except for their size.

  And the trophies. They’re everywhere. Smaller bones formed into military insignia on doors and walls. Wings along the longer edifices. A scale pelt here, a mosaic of fangs there.

  “That’s the cafeteria,” the major says. Talons dangle from the eaves. He points across the road at a gargantuan building that spans an entire block and is at least four stories high. Dragon skulls ring the top, hollow eyes looking down on us. “ER . . . Examination and Research. We do some of our most important work in there.”

  We pull up to a nondescript building. Alderson lets me out, but closes the door in James’s face.

  “These are the female barracks,” he says. “You feel that cold, Twenty-Five?”

  I nod.

  He walks up the steps, enters a code on the numeric keypad. The door unlocks. He doesn’t open it. After a long minute of frigid silence, he says, “The closest place that might welcome a stranger is more than three hundred miles from here. That’s assuming you head in the right direction and the weather cooperates.”

  If not for my teeth chattering, I might laugh. He thinks I’d actually try to escape on foot.

  He ducks his head against the wind and ushers me into a room that resembles a small movie theater with a center aisle and beds in
stead of chairs. The only light comes from a massive thinscreen on the far wall.

  I almost scream. Kissing Dragons, episode forty-three. Several girls, all wearing CENSIRs and black scrubs, sit on the beds nearest the screen, seemingly enthralled by the hunt for Killzilla, the Terror of Tokyo. Everybody else appear to be asleep.

  Major Alderson removes my handcuffs. “Give me your jacket, boots, cap, and gloves.”

  My heart sinks. It’s warm in the room—nobody seems uncomfortable in their short sleeves—but without proper attire, my fairy-tale vision of breaking out, releasing Baby, and flying off into the sunset with James seems even more implausible.

  Once I’m down to my white dress, the major leaves. The moment the door shuts, a statuesque blonde claps her hands.

  “Wakey, wakey, everyone. Our newest sister is here,” she says. I cringe as she checks me out, a smirk spreading across her face.

  Lit by the screen behind them, the other girls remind me of ghosts as they rise from their beds. Most of them look my age, though a couple who lurk at the edges are definitely younger.

  The blonde positions herself front and center.

  “I’m Evelyn, Talker One,” she says, emphasizing the title more than her name. She introduces the half-dozen pale girls clustered around her, giving their names, then numbers, which is unnecessary since they’re stenciled on their uniforms. They smile at me like I’ve shown up at summer camp a day late, but don’t you worry, we’re gonna have lots of fun.

  A light-skinned black girl pantomimes turning a dial. “Let’s ratchet the freak down a little bit, girls. She’s got plenty of scary ahead of her without the Stepford routine.”

  “Says the drunken whore,” Evelyn says, smile never faltering. “We must get you changed.” She snaps her fingers. Five scurries off.

  “This drunken whore’s name is Lorena,” the black girl whispers to me. “I will respond to Drunken Whore, but only on Wednesdays.” She runs a hand beneath the number stenciled on her scrubs. “Or Talker Two, if you’d prefer.”