Joshua McCune - Talker 25

I struggle against the handcuffs. “Let me see him. Please!”

Simon nods to Mr. D-man. The lock clicks and I bolt for Dad, the cameras converging around us.

I have to squeeze my hands between his back and the chair to hug him. He’s limp and heavy. I press my face into his shoulder, my tears soaking into his hospital gown. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

He lets out a low gasp. I back away, afraid I’m hurting him.

“He wants to talk,” the nurse says. She extracts a small tablet from the back of the wheelchair and inserts it into a tubular column a few inches from my father’s face. A digital keyboard appears on the bottom half of the screen. Using rapid eye movements, Dad types a message onto the top half. It plays from the tablet speakers in a robotic voice identical to the one I hear in the ER when I’m interrogating dragons.

“You do not need to be sorry. How are you doing?”

I bite my lip until I taste blood. “Okay.”

“You look like you have lost weight. Have they been treating you well?”

I nod. I can’t let him know the truth. I’ve already caused him too much pain. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“You are a good girl.”

“So you don’t hate me for what I did?” Hector says in my ear, causing me to flinch. I forgot he was there. “Ask him that.”

I hesitate. The cameras come in close. The heat from their lights warms my face.

“Melissa, I won’t ask twice.”

Deep breath. “You don’t hate me for what I’ve done to you and Sam?”

“That’s not what I told you to say,” Hector says. “Don’t ad-lib.”

“I would not have come if I had known it would hurt you so much,” the robotic voice says.

“What about Mom? You’re not upset about Arlington?” Hector says.

I clench my fists. “You’re not upset about Mom?”

“Your mom was an angel in a world of demons. She only ever did what she thought was right. You are a lot like her.”

My smile vanishes when my CENSIR jolts me.

“That was your last warning, Melissa,” Hector says. “Ask him this. It doesn’t bother you that Mom killed all those people? Ask him. No changes.”

“I love you, Dad. If you talk to Sam, tell him I never meant to hurt anybody.”

Rising, I remove the earpiece. I’m about to throw it to the ground when searing pain blasts through my head. The world goes dark.

“Hasthe bleeding stopped?”

Hector’s voice pulls me from the void. Floaters flash behind my eyelids. I struggle to open them but can’t. My arms and legs are equally useless. A drumbeat of pain ignites in my skull and accelerates into a pounding throb. Somebody’s pressing a wet towel to my temple.

“You’re hurting me,” I try to say, but manage only a groan.

The pressure abates, the pain intensifies. A warm gush of blood spurts from somewhere above my CENSIR. I choke on bile.

“It’ll be a while before it clots. We need to take it off to stitch her up,” a woman says. The towel holder, I think. Seated beside the bed. A doctor? She reapplies pressure.

“Absolutely not.” Colonel Hanks’s voice sounds staticky.

“We can’t do the show with her bleeding all over the place,” Hector says.

“Then you won’t do the show,” the colonel says.

“We have a contract.”

“It’s not coming off. She might communicate—”

“She’s in no condition for that,” the doctor interrupts. “Even if she were, we’ll hit her up with meds. She’ll be completely knocked out.”

“She won’t be able to communicate?” the colonel asks. “You guarantee that? Your job’s on the line, Captain.”

“She’ll have the functionality of a corpse.” Pause. “She might be able to receive messages.”

“But she won’t remember anything, anyway, would she?” Hector says.

“We’ll use an amnestic, but that’s for standard cognition. I’m not familiar with this condition.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Hector says. “A few dragons sing her lullabies?”

After a long silence, Colonel Hanks says, “Make it quick.”

. . . The armies gather. We will come . . .

The words fade as I regain consciousness. Somebody’s pressing on my head again, but I barely feel it.

“Give her another dose,” Hector says, from what sounds a mile away.

A cool sensation streams up my arm. My eyes blink open and, after a couple of seconds, focus on Cosmo Kim. She sits at the edge of the hospital bed, dabbing at my temples with a makeup sponge. “You’re a piece of work.”

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asks from the other side.

“Confused,” I mumble. The armies gather. We will come. A dream?

While Kim fixes my face and hair, the doctor removes my IV, has me follow a penlight, stethoscopes me, tests my reflexes. Once Hector’s sure I won’t be a drooling Frankenstein, he orders everybody out.

“We’re going to try this again. Colonel Hanks informs us that you two have a deal. If you’re not on your best behavior for the rest of your visit with us, Melissa, that deal is forfeit.”

The deal. Keep Baby alive until I return to Georgetown, let me say good-bye to her, execute her when I’m not around. Not the greatest bargain, but it was the best I could get.

Hector tosses me my streetwalker outfit, then leaves to let me change. There’s a small window in the room. It takes me a good minute to get out of bed, another to cross the ten feet to the window.

The armies gather. We will come. A message?

Outside, it’s night. Real night. With darkness and moon and stars. I scan the sky, but the only visible specks of light remain white and miniscule. I lift my gaze from the horizon to the heavens.

Long time, no see, Mom. There’s this baby dragon I know. She’s the reason for this horrendous outfit, so keep that in mind if you’ve got TV up there. I don’t know if she’ll be around here much longer. I hope you two get to meet. I think you’ll hit it off.

“How much longer, Melissa?” Hector calls.

Gotta go. Love you.

As I turn from the window, I catch my reflection in the glass. Barely visible stitches, covered in bronzer like me, peek out from beneath the CENSIR and run from the middle of my forehead halfway to my left ear. Otherwise, I appear undamaged. If only memories could be fixed so readily. A few sutures here, some makeup there, and all the ugly goes away.

I’ve just slithered into my whorefit when Hector and Simon barge in, followed closely by their production crew. They place a green screen against the wall and set up the interview chair in front of it. Hector positions me at an angle that favors my stitch-free side, and we’re ready to continue the charade.

Simon goes into narrator question mode. Hector feeds me the answers. Without Dad here and the family members staring at me, it’s easier to repeat the lies, to accept blame for actions I never committed, to condemn the insurgency and the dragons, to beg for forgiveness.

Some of my responses are directed at the families (“I’m sorry about your wife, Lieutenant. If I’d known how dangerous the insurgents were, I never would have helped them.”), others to the viewing audience (“I don’t blame my mother for how I turned out. She was always troubled, and I guess that made her into a monster. But to me, she was always just Mom.”). Some questions I answer over and over because I don’t get the tone right or I start crying too early or too late.

A long time later—voice hoarse, eyes aflame, head throbbing—it’s over.

Next stop, the Fort Riley draggatoir, where I get to watch the fab four kill Old Man Blue. She’s fastened to a slab surrounded by production lights, cameras, green screens, and All-Blacks. Frank, Kevin, Mac, and L.T. lounge in makeup chairs.