Joshua McCune - Talker 25

A flashy, silver-themed website. Dedicated to me, or the TV version of me. The site already has over a hundred thousand followers.

And based on the comment wall, almost everyone sympathizes with my plight. Most because they think I’m crazy, though a few admire me for flying a dragon or sticking it to the government or for just being “hot.”

I almost laugh.

The colonel turns on another screen, which displays an overtanned man with a face stiff from too much Botox. His smile makes me think of Evelyn.

“Hello, Melissa. I’m Hector, the director of Kissing Dragons . First off, well done. You absolutely smashed the ratings. . . . We’d like you to reprise your role in a crossover show with the fab four. A redemption episode.”

I almost cry. “Seriously?”

“It’ll afford you some time off from your other responsibilities,” the colonel says, as if he’s doing me a favor. “Who knows? If things go well, maybe we can figure out a way to better accommodate your talents.”

I do laugh. “Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“What’s that?”

“Vestia.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.” I smile at him.

He smiles at me. “I am sorry you had to witness that.”

Super sorry. Asshole. I shrug. “What about my family?”

I intended the question for the colonel, but Hector’s the one who responds. “We hope to incorporate your father into the episode.”

I look to the colonel for the answer I want, but he only says, “Consider this your opportunity to make things right.”

“Right?”

“A lot of these people blame you, Melissa, for what happened,” Hector says.

I gasp. “You’re doing the episode on Mason-Kline?”

Hector nods. “It’s where your journey to evil began. It’s where your journey to redemption will end.” He lays out the details. I stop listening.

If the situation weren’t so ridiculously horrible, I’d laugh. Agree to this charade and suffer the wrath of Mason-Kline, never mind helping to fund the military. Or decline, and hope that my decision doesn’t result in my family’s demise.

“I need some time to think about it.” I need forever.

“This isn’t open for discussion,” the colonel says.

“Then you better go ahead and recondition me.”

“We’ll let you know, Hector.” Scowling, Colonel Hanks shuts off the screen. He checks his tablet, then picks up his phone. “Major, who do you have on the Duckworth assignment? . . . Hold off on that. I want Twenty-Five to handle it. . . . Yes, Major, I’m sure.”

The colonel hangs up. “I’ve got another battle-room mission for you. It’s simple but important. I know you won’t disappoint us.”

Elvin Duckworth, the ranking senator from Alaska—the only state untouched by dragon flames for the past decade—is the sole member on the Armed Services Committee who voted against the bill to exterminate dragons. In and of itself, not a big deal, but since he’s the chair of some military research subcommittee, Major Alderson and his superiors fear the senator’s decision will lead to a cut in funding.

I’m not sure why the major tells me this. I guess to justify what he wants me to do, or maybe just to pass the time while we wait for mission clearance. Duckworth’s nephew, a thirtysomething councilman from Anchorage, is on vacation in Jamaica.

Which means he’s ripe for the torching.

An easy assignment, at least according to Major Alderson. All I need to do is fly my dragon into Montego Bay, a coastal resort town, and instruct it to open fire when Alderson gives the order. Get in, get out. A few deaths, for sure, but that’s the cost of victory.

“We are green for mission go.” Lester’s voice echoes through the battle room. It’s practically empty in here. Just me, Lester, and the major.

Alderson hands me a pair of those wraparound sunglasses. “Enable communication and activate VR-HUD.”

On the lenses, a herky-jerky video appears—from the camera attached to my dragon assassin, a Green named Almac. He’s inside one of those compartments. Animal remains, dragon crap, and something I’m guessing is vomit cover half the floor.

“Initiate communication.”

My CENSIR loosens. “Hello, Almac.”

The dragon scans the compartment, looking for something. Me, I suppose. What do you want, human? Where is Lorena?

“I’m in charge today,” I say. “You ready?”

To kill humans? Always.

Grimacing, I give a thumbs-up.

“Release the hound,” the major says.

The compartment hatch opens from the top, revealing an expanse of gray sky. Almac launches himself toward the clouds, then glances back. The compartment bobs up and down with the roll of the ocean.

“Discard the package,” the major orders. Seconds later, the evidence is gone. “Twenty-Five, have your dragon bank left to a due south heading.”

“Almac, bank left . . . level out.”

Where are the humans, human? I want to kill humans. He scans the darkening skyline, searches the seemingly endless ocean. Where are they? Where is my fire?

“He’s getting angry,” I say to the major.

“It’s thirty minutes before landfall. Tell him to keep his temper in check until then.”

Almac continues to grumble, but stays on course with an occasional shock and reassurances of the slaughter to come. I tell myself that this is nothing more than a video game, that the bloodthirsty dragon and the wicked major are characters in some twisted plot; I must carry out this mission with them to keep my brother and father safe. No do-overs. No extra lives.

Besides, if I don’t take out the senator’s nephew, someone else will. That’s the piece of this puzzle that doesn’t fit. “Why aren’t you attacking the senator himself?”

“ We are not attacking Senator Duckworth because he’s a powerful man with powerful connections,” the major says. “It would be in our interest to gain his allegiance.”

I grunt. “So you’re going to show him how dangerous the dragons are.”

“He already knows how dangerous they are. He just doesn’t consider them much of a threat anymore. It’s out of sight, out of mind for him. We want to open his eyes.”

“You ever wonder if what you’re doing is wrong?”

I expect him to reprimand me, but instead he says, “Every day, Twenty-Five. That’s what makes us different. You believe you’ve got the world figured out, you—”

“I don’t have anything figured out,” I say with a bitter laugh. “Less makes sense today than it did yesterday. But I know what you’re doing is wrong. What we’re doing , I guess, but we only help you because we have little choice. You do.”

“The world’s a dark place. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good. I don’t always agree with them, and I don’t often like them, but every atrocity you think we commit here, I see as a means to an end that gets us closer to the light at the end of this dragon-riddled tunnel.”

“A brave new world, huh?”

“No, Twenty-Five, a peaceful one. Let’s focus now. We have work to do.”

In short order we reach land, veer south toward rows of brightly colored villas and homes . . . none of them black. Guess these people never worried about dragons. Not until today.

“Activate Almac’s fire,” the major says, and my heart jumps into my throat. “Tell him to open fire, Twenty-Five. . . . Open fire, Twenty-five . . . think about your family.”

Almac, your fire’s active, I whisper.

It’s about time, human, he says, then goes silent because I guess he can’t talk and incinerate at the same time.

At the major’s orders, I direct Almac lower, until we’re skimming the rooftops. We create an ocean of flame that consumes everything. People spill into the streets. My attempt to convince myself that this is just a video game collapses when some of the victims look over their shoulders. I see the stark terror in their faces; they know they’re going to die. And then they do. I force myself to watch the first few melt into the dragon’s fire, to implant the memory of my horrible crime.