Joshua McCune - Talker 25

The grind of metal biting into scales echoes from the far end of the ER, a dragattoir bigger than the Air and Space Museum I visited on a field trip a lifetime ago. Instead of old planes, space modules, and tour guides, we’ve got torture slabs, computer-controlled “test” apparatus, and Mengeles.

And chain saws.

Lots and lots of chain saws.

The dragon being sliced and diced on the slaughter slab by a half dozen All-Blacks glowed out at the Electrics station five minutes ago.

On the slab to my left, a car wash of flamethrowers drenches a Red in fire that looks green through the tint of my safety goggles. The filtration mask I wear beneath my jacket hood cannot block the stench of charring flesh.

To my right, mechanized syringes insert a human-length needle into a Green’s neck. Veins of viridescent light race through its broken body before vanishing at its tail stump. The Green flickers off and on, arrhythmic. I see Fourteen flinch. A soldier laughs, another pantomimes a spasm. The Mengele controlling the syringe system gives a thumbs-up.

“Clear!” shouts Patch, my Mengele supervisor.

I turn my attention back to my victim, a Red named Ryla. I clamp the hood of my jacket tight to my ears. Nothing in this place is as loud as Mjöllnir. Well, almost nothing.

The giant hammer swings down from the wall onto her left shoulder. Bindings rattle, bones shatter. Her eyes burst open.

Despite my improvised earmuffs, despite her muzzle, I hear her anguished squeal anyway, though it is a whisper compared to the scream that blasts through my head.

I breathe through my mouth, slow and deep like Lorena told me as I exited the bus this morning. Doesn’t matter. Breakfast rises in my throat. I swallow it back for the third time today.

Patch shows me an incomprehensible graph on his tablet. Subject 247-R (Ryla): Impact Force . “It’s got brittle bones, this one.” He pulls up another graph. Subject 247-R (Ryla): Telepathic Volume . “It maxed out at one hundred and twenty-two decibels. We’re getting to it.” Using the computer console adjacent to the slab, he repositions the hammer over the Red’s right shoulder. “Ask it again, Twenty-Five.”

“Ryla, what are the names of your friends?”

“Kill me.”

In my head, her voice remains defiant. From the speaker in Patch’s tablet, the words are robotic, monotonous.

“Tell it this is not a killing blow,” he says. “Tell it if it continues to resist, we will prolong its suffering.”

I tell her.

“Kill me.”

Patch taps his goggles. Lester and Tim, the other A-Bs from our research team, bound onto the slab. From a tool chest, Lester retrieves a device that resembles a trowel. He uses it to peel back the dragon’s eyelid. Tim draws his combat knife. Modern-day executioners. With the filtration masks, tinted goggles, and floor-length jackets—everything black—we look quite the part.

I shut my eyes.

My CENSIR shocks me.

“We talked about this, Twenty-Five,” Patch says.

“But she can’t even see me.”

“She can sense it,” he says.

“Stop being the weak link, Twenty-Five,” Lester snaps.

I force myself to think of Sam waving at the drone. I will be strong for him. I have to be. I open my eyes.

One quick thrust. One gigantic scream. I fall to my knees, clutching my head. Breakfast fills my mask. Ryla dims.

Patch jerks me to my feet, hands me a splatter rag. “Get it together. Ask it again.”

After cleaning my mask, I repeat the question.

“Kill me,” she mumbles between soft mewls.

I think of Sam. “Answer the question.”

“Please, human.”

“We’ve almost broken her.” Patch points at her other eye. A vicious thrust later, Ryla’s blind and screaming again. I tremble, but keep my balance. Thankfully my stomach’s empty. Empty enough.

“What are the names of your friends?”

“Kill me.”

“Tell her that if she continues to resist, we will prolong the suffering of every dragon in here.”

I do.

Patch gets in my face. “Do it with conviction, Twenty-Five. Don’t be a glowheart.”

I pretend I’m talking to him, put violence into my words.

Ryla brightens momentarily; her nostrils flare. “Kill me.”

We crush her tail, then a wing, cut off two of her feet with a hatchet, pausing after each blow for me to ask my question. Her glow fades, but she’s done screaming. Her responses turn to groans. Two-syllable groans.

A buzzer goes off. The flamethrower car wash shuts down. That dragon still glows a semihealthy red.

The overhead loudspeaker activates.

“Teams, please proceed to your next station. Team One, return to Intake. Team Four, take over at Chemics.”

My CENSIR warms and tightens. Patch snatches the radio from his belt. “Why are we being swapped?” Something from the other end.

Patch frowns. “The colonel?” He glances at me. “You’re sure?” Another glance as he shoves the radio back in his belt. “Let’s go.”

The intake bay opens. A Red is towed in, pulsing brightly, lips drawn back in a snarl as far as the muzzle will allow.

“A rager,” Patch says. “Your lucky day, Twenty-Five. Even you can’t screw that up.”

Evelyn saunters from the opposite direction with Team Four. Blood stains her jacket.

I hug myself against the cold. With the flamethrowers off and Ryla’s warmth dwindling with her glow, the cold draft that blows through the ER has become noticeable.

“Still don’t have your Antarctic skin, Twenty-Five?” Evelyn says.

“What’s the scenario?” Team Four’s Mengele asks Patch.

“It’s stubborn. Probably in shock. Give it some adrenaline and some hallucinogens.”

“You think it’s crackable?”

“In the right hands.” He shakes his head at me. “My talker’s a little too much of a glowheart, though.”

Four’s Mengele laughs. “Taste of a rager will work that right out of her.”

“One can hope.”

Evelyn pulls a half-eaten Baby Ruth from her pocket, unhooks her filtration mask, and takes a bite. She offers the rest to me. “You look hungry, Twenty-Five.”

My stomach knots up. “I’m fine.”

She shoves the rest into her mouth. I force myself to watch until she’s finished. She gives this phony embarrassed smile, straps her mask back into place. “Don’t worry, Twenty-Five, I’ll pick up your slack.”

Our team returns to the beginning of the torture line, where our newest victim awaits, shiny and whole. Patch lowers the cylindrical sheath over the dragon’s body. It hovers there, emitting a low hum for a couple of seconds before rising back to the ceiling.

His tablet beeps. Two 3-D scans of the dragon appear. Subject 249-R (Name Unknown): Luminal Map/Thermal Map . He beams. “Haven’t seen a Red this bright in a while. Approach, Twenty-Five.”

As I enter the dragon’s line of sight, its glow dims. I mount the slab and take my mark on the X, a dozen feet from its snout. Though it shouldn’t be able to see me, its green eyes track me the entire way. Its snarl fades. Warm puffs of breath wash over me in gentle waves.

“Ah,” Patch says. He runs the scan again. He looks from me to the dragon, then back to me. He taps his tablet. My CENSIR loosens slightly. “Initiate communication, Twenty-Five.”

“What’s the dragon’s name?” I ask him.

“It’s a battlefield recovery. We don’t know . . .” If he says more, I don’t hear it.

“Hello, Melissa Callahan.”

I gasp. I recognize the voice.

My CENSIR tightens. Patch looks smug. “Tell me its name, Twenty-Five.”

“Vestia.”

“One of your friends.”

Not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes.”