Talker 25 (9780062121929)

by McCune, Joshua

  “Pravik, Pravik, are you there?” I read from the script. No response. I continue, Add urgency! “My name is Sandra Bynum, a talker with the Nebraska Reds. Korm told me that you are a friend to the cause. I tried reaching him, but he’s not responding. Please, I need your help. The invisible men are after me.”

  The Red never answers. Lester inhibits me, offers pointers on inflection and emphasis. The information on my monitor switches to Kworl, a Red last seen in Idaho.

  Kworl snubs me, too. I plead harder, louder. Another three dragons ignore me.

  I’m about to ask Lester what I’m doing wrong when I notice the timer on the computer. Previously, he ended our calls and moved to the next target after a minute of silence, but we’ve been waiting on Demodek for over five minutes.

  I look over my shoulder. Lester’s sipping his coffee, chatting it up with the A-B a cube over, not paying me any attention. The tablet that controls my CENSIR is tucked beneath his arm. More importantly, I think he’s forgotten to inhibit me.

  Maybe a better opportunity will present itself down the road, maybe James will come around and decide to cooperate, maybe Baby will figure out a way to escape on her own. And maybe Santa Claus is real.

  I focus on Syren, the only dragon I can think of who knows me and might still be alive. Syren, this is Melissa—

  “Hum—” I hear her begin, then my CENSIR constricts. Blinding pain shoots through me. I crash to the floor. Screams echo everywhere. Mine?

  When I come to, it feels like somebody’s taken a hammer to my skull. My head throbs, my vision’s murky. As the world slides back into focus, I see Major Alderson hunched over me with an amused smirk. A boy stands beside him, stiff and expressionless.

  “Welcome back, Twenty-Five,” the major says. “That first one’s always a doozy. Trust me, the second one’s worse. Eleven, how many times did you try to warn the dragons?”

  Confusion fills the boy’s face. “Warn them? Why would I do that?”

  “You’ll have to forgive him. His memory’s a little spotty.” Major Alderson holds up three bony fingers. He jabs my CENSIR. “This precious piece of metal around your thick skull has several wonderful features about it.” He jabs harder. My headache accelerates, the fading spots in my vision swell and swarm to the center. “One of my favorites is that when you’re in transmit mode, it autosenses any attempt at silent communication. Doesn’t mean anything necessarily. You could be trying to talk to God, for all it knows. Thing is, God doesn’t listen. Worse for you, if you get a return signal of any sort”—he claps his hands together an inch from my eyes—“talker goes down.”

  He jerks me to my feet. “Now, Twenty-Five, what did you say?”

  I tell him.

  “No harm, no foul,” he says. “Here’s the thing, Twenty-Five. You’re a needle in a frozen haystack out here. So even if you got a message out, even if the dragons decided to put their lives on the line for a human, the chance of them finding you is . . .” He holds out his thumb and forefinger, then presses them together. “But even those odds I can’t afford. Don’t make me recondition you. You won’t like it.”

  That much we can agree on. But that’s not my main concern.

  “I’ll behave,” I whisper, thinking of Dad and Sam.

  He pats me on the head like a dog. “I know you will.”

  Over the next hour and a half, twenty more dragon names cross my computer screen. All ignore me.

  “Why aren’t they answering?” I ask Lester.

  “Because they don’t know you. Or because they know about our little operation,” he says. “It’s the ones that do want to help that we have to worry about.”

  Fifteen more dragons go by before I make contact with Najla. It has been two white moons and you are the fifth human to aggrieve me with your whines. I grow weary of all this begging. What is wrong with you humans?

  Everything she says appears on my screen in a rolling scroll of text a moment after I hear it in my head. The call frequency field updates from Unknown to 97.386 iGHz.

  I scan the script for what I’m supposed to do but can’t find anything that applies. I look to Lester with a shrug. He indicates the section near page bottom—For arrogant or annoyed dragons. “Please help me. I am weak. Without your help, the invisible men will—”

  You sound fearful, but your mind is closed, human. I do not trust you.

  Further attempts at communication go unanswered.

  Ten silent dragons later, I get my first Green. Bryzmon has just one known dragon association, registered dead. Lester hands me a different call script. A single page with two paragraphs of text. One for introduction, one for rebuttal. Only one fill-in-the-blank (my alias) and one handwritten note (Growl as you speak).

  “Bryzmon, my name is Christina Grace, I am a member of the Diocletians,” I say, adding a throaty rumble to my words. “Join us or die.”

  The Green responds immediately in a guttural voice that spikes a shiver through me. I will enjoy sucking the skin from your roasted body, human. His call frequency updates to 98.667 iGHz.

  The rebuttal section—When the dragon threatens to devour you—is simple. “Join us and you can eat well every day without fear of—”

  I am not afraid, but you should be, human. You sound delicious.

  That’s the end of that conversation.

  “Be more assertive with the Greens,” Lester says, and we move on.

  Over the next couple of hours, a dozen more dragons answer my calls (thanks in large part to hungry Greens) and I learn a thing or two about my telepathy curse. If a dragon’s on the line, you hear a subtle ringing noise, imperceptible unless you concentrate. Though I can initiate the conversation, only a dragon or Lester seems to be able to end it.

  Despite my improved contact rate, I have yet to get a mark on the board. The responding Reds don’t trust me, and the Greens want to eat me. Lester, who seems unconcerned with my lack of results, assures me that success will come, then promptly tells me to try harder.

  But I can’t. I’m already putting everything I have into it. I growl assertively at Greens, pretend I’m scared for Reds. Except it’s not pretend anymore. Not even close. I’m so worried failure will result in punishment that my urgent pleas have turned real.

  I’m near tears, desperate not to disappoint, when I make contact with Eck, a Red from Colorado whose known associations are all dead. Immediately I know he’s different by the sadness in his voice. Without much prompting, he tells me about his friends, how they were killed by the invisible monsters, how he’s alone and scared.

  I scan the script, choke up when I find the appropriate response. “I’m afraid, too, Eck. But together we can be less afraid.”

  An image of a snowy mountain range pops into my head. May the wind be at your back, Eck says in farewell.

  The CENSIR tightens. Lester shows me the tablet, which displays a picture identical to the one Eck sent me. “Twenty-Five, you just bagged your first dragon,” he announces. A couple of soldiers clap as Major Alderson puts a red mark next to my number.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” I ask.

  “We’ll sync the image to the military database. They’ll bring him in or dispose of him.”

  My gaze returns to the mountain in which Eck hides, and memories of gunships and that headless dragon flood my mind. Maybe there’s a girl near Eck’s cave—wrong place, wrong time—who they’ll capture and stick in a hole before sending her to this frozen hell. And it’ll be my fault.

  “He’s not dangerous,” I say. “He won’t hurt anybody. You don’t need to kill him.”

  Lester scowls. “Maybe he is some decrepit recluse content to live out his days in the evac territories. But he’s just as likely a clan leader or elder trying to play us. Look, Twenty-Five, you don’t have to like what you do, but it’s your job now, so you better do it well. Remember, actions have consequences.”

  As the afternoon wears on, I get better at suppressing the guilt, better at deceiving dragons. Whene
ver I locate one, Lester congratulates me with kind words or a warm smile. I tell myself the momentary satisfaction I experience comes from the knowledge I’m protecting my brother and father.

  By the time Major Alderson calls an end to the day, I’ve located three more Reds, all of them seemingly old. I’m in last place, but I gained a spot on Fourteen since sitting down at my cubicle.

  Alderson dismisses the boys first. They line up in ascending order against the wall adjacent to my cube.

  “The next time you see James—” I start whispering to Three.

  “Who?” he says as the line starts to move.

  “Twenty-Six.”

  “Shh,” Four says.

  “I don’t think he’s coming back,” Three says.

  My CENSIR jolts me. “No fraternization, Twenty-Five,” Lester says. “Move along, boys.”

  The major stops the line at Eleven, offers him a Kit Kat. “For a job well done.”

  The boy shakes his head. “It was a privilege, sir.”

  Fourteen, chewing at a fingernail, glances at the candy bar, then to his feet. The major pockets the Kit Kat, claps him on the shoulder. Fourteen stiffens. “You barely reached the minimum standard today, Fourteen. Your performance continues to lag. Remember, weak links break chains.”

  Eleven glares at him.

  Fourteen nods rapidly. “I’ll do better tomorrow, sir.”

  “You’ve had plenty of chances. You will resume your duties in the ER.”

  Fourteen blanches. “Please, sir. I’m not—”

  “Enough. Fourteen, you are dismissed.”

  Then it’s the girls’ turn. I get behind Twenty-One, who bobs her head from side to side. “Kill the dragons, yes, yes. Chocolate for me. Burn, burn, burn.”

  “Hush now, child,” the major says, extending a Kit Kat. She snatches it from him and sticks it into her waistband. Alderson frowns. “What do you say?”

  “More, more!”

  His frown deepens. “Not today.”

  “Burn, burn, burn,” she says, and skips after the other girls. I try to follow her, but Alderson blocks my path.

  I expect another lecture for my behavior, but instead he says, “I heard about what you did for Twenty-Six. Trying to persuade him to our cause. I appreciate that. Unfortunately, some are too stubborn to break by conventional methods. . . . I’m glad you have seen the error in your ways.”

  I want to slap that smug smile off his—

  My CENSIR jolts me.

  Chuckling, the major steps aside. “We’ll work it out of you, don’t you worry. Have a good dinner, Twenty-Five.”

  As I climb the steps onto the bus, I glance toward the Smurf pens. Empty.

  I join Twenty-One in the front seat behind the driver. She clings to the steel grating with one hand; the other’s clutched around the dragon brooch I gave her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mumbles to it. She notices me, follows my gaze to the Smurf pens. “Crawl, crawl, crawl. Burn, burn, burn.”

  Her knuckles go white around the brooch. She sniffles and looks back to me. “They’re always talking, always talking. We can’t get rid of them.” Her eyes widen with expectation. “You’ll help us get rid of them, won’t you?”

  I stare out the window, at the empty cages shrinking from view. What choice do I have?

  23

  When we return from dinner, the barracks are frigid. I check the screen, worried I’ll see my interview on display, but it’s just episode fifty-two, “Kissing Viridescia.” Lorena, who wasn’t at dinner, sits on her bed, shivering in her blanket.

  “Weak links break chains,” Evelyn says. Her girls repeat the phrase in hushed whispers while the soldiers collect our jackets, gloves, and hats. Once they’re gone, the whispering ceases and everyone makes for the warmth of their beds.

  I wrap a blanket around myself and join Lorena. “You okay?”

  “Just a bad day. Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “It’s my fault it’s cold in here.”

  “Weak links break chains,” I mutter.

  “Yep. Another reason to do what you’re told. Check that. Do what you’re told and be happy about it.”

  “If it makes you feel better, it might be my fault.” I tell her about my attempt to contact Syren.

  “Nah, it’s not your fault.” Her upper lip curls into a sneer. “Almost everybody tries to call out at some point. They expect it. I think they like it. They want to break you. We’re nothing but animals. . . .” She stops talking, takes a deep breath.

  “You should roar,” I say, thinking of Myra’s funeral. “Let it out. I’ll roar with you. Bet Twenty-One would, too.” The girl, counting fingers on the floor beside us, raises her head and howls at the ceiling.

  “No!” Reconditioned Claire screams. She leaps from the bed closest to the screen and lumbers toward Twenty-One, murder in her eyes.

  “Stop them!” Lorena says to the camera in the ceiling corner. She steps in front of Claire. “It’s all right, Claire. She’s not a real dragon, she’s a hu—”

  Claire plows through her. Lorena falls hard. I lunge for Twenty-One, intending to pull her out of Claire’s path, but she springs up too fast. She darts away from Claire’s bull rush, sucks in a lungful of air, and releases a louder roar. Claire wheels around.

  Twenty-One flaps her arms, circles the larger girl. “I’m a dragon, I’m a dragon. Burn, burn, burn!”

  Claire’s face goes crimson. Her nostrils flare. Her bandaged hands lock into fists. She swings out, misses. Again. Twenty-One circles her, roaring and taunting.

  “Kill the dragon, Claire! Kill it!” Evelyn shouts from her bed. Her minions take up the chant. Some of them laugh.

  Lorena, back on her feet, scowls at Evelyn, then directs her anger back at the camera. “Dammit, Jim. Stop them!”

  Twenty-One glances at Lorena. “No, no, I’ll be good, yes, yes!” She pantomimes locking her lips, makes a choked roaring sound.

  Claire pounces from behind. She whips Twenty-One around, clobbers her with a blow to the forehead that sends her crashing to the floor. The dragon brooch tumbles from her hand.

  “Stop her!” Lorena begs the camera. She grabs for Claire, gets elbowed in the jaw, staggers backward. I side kick Claire in the flank. It should debilitate her, or at least slow her, but she barely flinches. She snarls, whips around, drills me in the sternum. I fall to my knees.

  As I gasp for air, she straddles Twenty-One, hits her once, twice, then rears back with a banshee wail that turns into a terrible sob. Her shoulders slump, her eyes widen. She looks around frantically before her gaze lands on Twenty-One. Squinting, she grabs her by the shoulders, shakes her. “Wake up! Wake up, Twenty-One! Wake up!”

  Lorena, massaging her cheek, puts a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Let her sleep, Claire. She’s tired.”

  “Nobody wake her then!” Claire says with a glare at the other girls. They all nod with deference, though Evelyn can’t keep from smiling. Claire returns to her bed, where she crosses her legs beneath her, rests her chin on her hands, and resumes watching Kissing Dragons.

  I grimace. “She safe?”

  “For now,” Lorena says, checking Twenty-One’s pulse. “It’s a damn game to them.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. . . .”

  “A party every night around here.” She scoops Twenty-One into her arms and carries her to bed.

  I’m retrieving the brooch from the floor when a soldier enters the barracks. He’s portly with shaggy hair. Definitely not your typical All-Black.

  Lorena emerges from the bathroom with a wet rag and a bottle of painkillers. She sees the soldier, freezes. “Asshole.”

  He taps his tablet and she spasms. “Watch it, Lorena. I have my orders.”

  “They’re not guinea pigs, Jim. You knew very well what would happen. You should have incapacitated them.”

  “Too dangerous. We almost killed Eleven the other night. Major A thinks the reconditioned are more susceptible.”

  “
Or maybe you just like watching too much. You sick—”

  She spasms.

  “Don’t push it. I did try to shock Claire several times. She didn’t feel it.” He waves a hand. “Whatever, Twenty-One’s fine. I am, of course, going to have to report this.”

  She frowns. “What’s the situation on Big Bro?”

  “I’m the only one monitoring you ladies tonight.”

  “Shocking.” She rolls her eyes. “What’s it gonna cost?”

  Jim nods at Twenty-One. “She’s already on the shortlist. Major Alderson will likely want to give her another dose of reconditioning if he discovers she instigated another fight.”

  Her eyes narrow. “What’s it gonna cost?”

  “Whiskey’s running low. Three freebs.”

  “Two, and I want some minis. I know you’ve got them.”

  “Three and I’ll bring you six.”

  “Turn up the heat and you have a deal.”

  “See you after lights out, princess.” He tips his cap and leaves.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Lorena shrugs, sits beside Allie, presses the rag to her reddened face. “Forget about it. I needed to resupply anyway.”

  The heater ramps up.

  Evelyn’s voice rises from the opposite end of the room. “Strike another deal, Two? Seems like Twenty-Five should be the one paying the toll.”

  I clench my fists, step toward her. Five and Seven close ranks. I sneer. “Good dogs.”

  A loud beep echoes through the room. A bed over, Sixteen ducks beneath her blankets, the playing cards from her game of solitaire scattering across the floor. Everybody else turns toward the screen, which switches from the hunt for No-Tail Nelly to news. An anchorman and a congresswoman from New York discuss a newly passed bill that authorizes the extermination of all dragons, regardless of color, age, or location. The congresswoman, who formerly opposed the idea, cites “the recent tragedies in the Midwest” as the reason for her change of heart.

  The program shifts to silent aerial footage of Mason-Kline, post-stampede. I recognize the high school in the distance, but the rest of the town’s been churned into an undulating landscape of fractured ground, crumpled houses, and trampled corn.