Joshua McCune - Talker 25

“Hurry it up, Twenty-Five, we don’t have all day,” Patch says.

“Who else?” I ask.

Curik starts in on stories of his many friends, but I cut him off because the Mengeles don’t care about anything but their names and their death status.

“What about your human friends?” I ask when he can’t think of any other dragons.

“One spoke with me a few weeks ago. Scarlett Graves. She was so scared. The invisible monsters were after her. I wanted to help her. She seemed nice.”

Scarlett Graves—that’s one of Twenty-One’s call center aliases. “Yeah, she is nice. Anybody else?”

“No, other than you. You seem nice, too.”

“That’s all for now, Twenty-Five,” Patch says.

“They’re going to silence us, Curik. I’ll be back when we change stations.”

“Could you continue to talk with me?” he asks. “I like hearing—”

My CENSIR tightens.

“Can I keep talking to him?” I ask Patch.

He growls a sigh. “You have to stop sympathizing with these monsters, Twenty-Five.”

“I’m not sympathizing. It will make him more cooperative,” I say.

“He’s not giving us anything useful. Besides, you’re both inhibited . It won’t hear anything you say.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

He waves an impatient hand. “Fine.”

Tim and Lester whisper roars at me, make sawing motions with their knives.

Ignoring them, I mount the slab and sit beside Curik. He smells of rusted iron and radiates a pleasant heat . . . though in a few hours, he’ll reek of smoke and chemicals, his warmth will be to embers, and he very well might not have any wings.

Ever since my “outburst” with Vestia, Patch has insisted on studying “the acoustic-emotional resonance of a dragon in a weakened state.” To the amusement of everybody within hearing distance, I’ve roared at more than a dozen wingless subjects. A couple brightened a smidge, according to Patch’s tablet, but none has come close to a death nova.

If you can somehow hear me, Curik, let go. Fly into the next tomorrow as fast as you can. . . . I’m sorry about your friends. I miss mine, too. I think of Trish. I’m not sure what’s happened to her. Our town was destroyed by a stampede of Blues. Her mother died. She probably blames me—

A buzzer goes off.

“Twenty-Five, time to move,” Patch calls.

The door at the opposite end of the hangar opens; the disposal trucks enter. After All-Blacks load crates full of a Green’s body parts onto the trucks and the bloodied slab on which it was dismembered is hauled away, the remaining dragons are slid down the line to make room for the next victim. Our team follows Curik to Thermals, where he’s scheduled for a low-degree flame bath, which is one of the more pleasant experiments, at least to a dragon.

A buzzer later, on our way to Impactions, the overhead speaker orders my team to switch places with Evelyn’s, which is rotating from Electrics to Station One for the next intake interview. A talker swap’s not abnormal—sometimes a dragon’s personality jibes better with one talker than another—but Curik and I get along well, and the Green Evelyn was working on is already dead and halfway toward decapitation via an All-Black with a large ax.

“Be gentle with him,” I tell Evelyn. “He’s doing his best to cooperate. Sometimes he gets a little addled, but—”

“I know how to deal with these monsters, Twenty-Five.” She smiles at the surrounding A-Bs. “Once a glowheart, always a glowheart. She probably still thinks her CENSIR’s a dragon-queen crown.”

“Control yourself,” Lester says, grabbing my arm before I can retaliate. “It would serve you well to ignore her.”

“It would have served me well if she’d been in the battle room instead of Claire,” I snap.

“Families need to get along—”

“Yeah, I know, otherwise they get hurt. Why don’t you go lecture her for a—” I break off as the hangar door opens and a silver glow suffuses the area.

Baby. I thought she was dead. . . . I should have known better.

Scars and gouges cover her from tail to head. Her wings are frayed and bent at awkward angles beneath the metal straps. Her glow’s a ghost of what it should be, but when her eyes find mine, she brightens. My lungs seize up, but I force myself to smile at her.

This is the colonel’s ace in the hole.

Two choices. Reprise my dragon-queen role and keep Baby on life support until my fifteen minutes of infamy are up, or let her die on my watch right now.

It’s no choice at all.

“I need to speak with Colonel Hanks.”

Aftera seemingly interminable plane flight, a sleepless night in a normal prison cell, and a breakfast I couldn’t bring myself to eat, I find myself back in the Fort Riley salon. Purple Shirt the tailor—in green today—and his hefty apprentice, Helga, check my measurements to ensure that the costume they’ve designed for my redemption episode will fit.

Purple Shirt scowls. “You’re skinnier.”

“They don’t serve burgers at the rehabilitation institute, and I don’t get much chocolate.” Purple Shirt and Helga share a phony laugh, then hurry from the room. Next up, Cosmo Kim.

“Well, you just like to make us feel like we’re earning our money, don’t you?” She drops her bag of supplies on the floor beside my armchair, puts a warm towel over my face. “Try to relax.”

Not a chance that’s gonna happen, because this time I know what awaits me on the other side of the makeover. Last night, Hector the director provided me with my plotline for today’s taping.

I’m on leave from a maximum security mental hospital at the request of my psychiatrist, who believes confronting the survivors of Mason-Kline will help my rehabilitation process. Overcome with remorse by this experience, I join the A-B dragon hunters during the climactic scene, in which Frank plunges his sword through the target’s head.

Old Man Blue. That’s the target. I figured she was killed during the Mason-Kline battle, but Hector informed me otherwise. She was wounded, near death. He intervened before she could be shipped to a dragattoir for disposal; now she’s sedated in a hangar-turned-production-studio, awaiting “a fitting execution.”

Kim finishes her work with an hour to spare. I’m the blond, bronzed girl again. Crazier this time. Hair puffed and wild, eyes overshadowed with red, blue, and green glitter, lashes longer than spider legs.

Purple Shirt and Helga return with a silver jumpsuit and matching slippers that remind me of something the female inmates would wear in one of those B-movie prison flicks Sam might watch when Dad’s not around. Even with me skinnier, it takes lots of squirming and sucking in to wriggle my way into it.

I glance at myself in the mirror and snort. They’re not dressing me for redemption. They’re dressing me for slaughter.

Helga fits my feet with matching slippers. “What’s funny?”

“Aluminum foil isn’t this shiny.”

She purses her lips, giving her the appearance of a blowfish. “You look wonderful.”

I don’t argue, because I know it won’t do any good; I’m stuck in this thing, literally and figuratively. This outfit will surely go over well with my so-called fan base, but they’re not the ones I’m worried about. Facing the families of Mason-Kline’s gonna be hard enough, but now I’ve got to do it dressed like some sort of futuristic streetwalker.

And Dad. Hector wouldn’t tell me if he’s going to show up. “When the door to the room opens, we don’t want you to know who’s coming in,” he said last night, when I begged him for the participant list. “My script paints the picture, but it’s emotional truth that brings it to life.”