The Other Side

by Joshua McCune

  T-Clef’s smile says my best wasn’t enough. “Nah. She got reassigned a few weeks back. Technically, it was a promotion. She’s good with the Greenies. Crazy good. Has that rage.” She looks at me, laughs. “You Georgetownians.”

  “Of course, the real reason is there was a little too much drama in Tatankaville,” Grizzly B says, pointing at the caricature of James on the other side of the graffiti picture.

  T-Clef winks at me. “He’s all yours.”

  I want to tell her it’s not like that—because it can’t be like that—but it helps my cover, so I play coy. “We’ll see.”

  We enter the prayer center. A couple of crank lamps illuminate a room intended to accommodate maybe two dozen worshippers. On the stage, beyond the pulpit, there’s an upright piano.

  “You play, right?” T-Clef asks as we skirt the stage.

  “Played,” I say. James must have told her that.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “Lost interest.” Mom died. How much had she told James about me in all those years she spent as the clandestine leader of Loki’s Grunts? What else does he know?

  “Shame. She’s got the fingers for it,” Grizzly B says.

  Not quite as long as Mom’s. Not when I quit.

  They take me through a door in the back into a narrow hallway. Hung among the crosses, portraits of Bible characters, and scripture quotes are various score sheets. Stationary Marksmanship, Airborne Marksmanship, Speed and Agility . . . according to the date on the header of each, I’ve been here almost three weeks. I was in detox longer than I realized.

  “We update them weekly,” Grizzly B says, “except for this one.” He jabs a finger at the last sheet. Kills. “This one’s cumulative.”

  T-Clef writes Missy C at the bottom, right beneath Double T. “How many jets you take out?”

  “Eighteen,” I say as I scan the names on the list. Jimmy E is at the top of the list, with two hundred eighty-three kills. How many of those were from Loki’s Grunts?

  She puts 19 by my name. “Klyv counts, I’d say.”

  At the end of the hall is a conference room or something that’s been converted into a barracks with a dozen cots, three folding tables, and four industrial shelves—one with games, one with books, and the last two stockpiled with ravioli.

  T-Clef retrieves a roll of paper towels and three cans. She uncaps one, tosses the lid into a trash can, and gives it to me. “Not that we don’t trust you.”

  “But we don’t trust you,” Grizzly B says with a grin. “Never heard of anybody going dragon on somebody with ravioli lids before.”

  “Yeah.” I set the can on the table. “I’m not hungry.”

  T-Clef scoops out a clump of sauce-encrusted ravioli and shoves it in her mouth. “Don’t sweat it, Missy C, we’ve all been there. I tried to take out Joto’s eyes with my fingers. Bastard was laughing at me the entire time. Like he wanted me to do it.”

  Grizzly B bows his head. “I attacked the walls. I was not very focused.”

  “Still aren’t,” T-Clef says.

  They laugh.

  I decide I like them, and I think they really do like me, so I take a chance. “Why do you think they sent Klyv’s team down south?” Grizzly B stops midbite, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. I quickly add, “Because of me?”

  T-Clef shrugs.

  “It’s not actually down south, like in Texas or something,” Grizzly B says. “It could be east or west. Sometimes they go up north, might end up in the same place.”

  “It’s not meant to be a mystery,” T-Clef says, shooting him a look. “You know how we work, right?”

  I shake my head.

  “On a need-to-know basis,” Grizzly B says.

  T-Clef nods. “And the only things we need to know are how to shoot and ride. We don’t have thinscreens or sat radios or cell phones, we don’t get updates about what’s going on topside. We don’t know what we’re supposed to do next until HQ tells us.”

  Which means they don’t know where HQ is, where Allie is. “Doesn’t that frustrate you?”

  “You get used to it. It’s better that way. No point in worrying about things you can’t change. Only clouds your brain,” Grizzly B says.

  “And we get enough clouding as it is,” T-Clef says, tapping her CENSIR.

  They laugh again.

  T-Clef’s face hardens. “Seriously, though, Missy C, questions are dangerous things.” Back to perky and singing. “Ours is not to reason why . . .”

  Grizzly B joins her for the last part. “Ours is just to fly and die.”

  32

  Someone’s playing the piano. I know the song. “Over the Rainbow.” At first I thought it was a nightmare.

  The piano stops momentarily, starts again. The same song.

  I get up from my cot, wrap the blanket around my shoulders. Most everybody else appears asleep, though a quartet of boys is playing cards at the table near the entrance. In the crank lamp’s light, I see Grizzly B bobbing his head.

  I skulk forward, hear him humming along to the music.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The fat one rolls his eyes. “Wake up from your clouds and play your cards, G.”

  Grizzly B stops humming and shows his hand. “How ’bout them lemon drops?” He scoops the pile of tokens scattered at the table center into his stash.

  Fattie notices me. He stands and blocks my escape. “Where you sneaking off to, Missy C?”

  “Just need some fresh air.”

  “Fresh air. Good one.” Cowboy and Skinny laugh; Grizzly B resumes humming and bobbing.

  I shrug. “What’s with the midnight music?”

  Fattie hooks a thumb at Grizzly. “That’s a generous way to put it.”

  “The piano,” I clarify.

  “Piano? Do you hear a piano, guys?”

  Cowboy and Skinny stare blankly at me.

  Fattie cocks his head. “You feeling that itch, Missy C?”

  “Over the Rainbow” starts over.

  “Stop messing with her,” Grizzly B says. He looks at me. “It’s a nightly ritual.”

  I frown. “They ever play anything else?”

  Fattie snorts. “Feel free to put in a request if you don’t like it.”

  “For all the good it’ll do,” Skinny says.

  They laugh.

  I start for the door, but Fattie sidesteps with me. “You want in, Missy C?” He indicates the table.

  “I’m good, thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  He doesn’t budge. “You in Praxus land?”

  I don’t answer.

  He grabs my wrist. “What’s my name, Missy C?”

  “I can’t remember.” It’s true, but not for the reason he wants it to be.

  “I don’t think she is,” Grizzly B says, eyebrows pinched together.

  I prefer Fattie’s leers over his scrutiny. I drop my voice low so only Fattie hears. “If you don’t want me to hurt you in front of your friends, I’d sit back down.”

  “Brave words for somebody in cuffs,” he whispers, but releases me. “Better sleep with one eye open tonight, boys,” he says with a chuckle, and turns his shoulder for me to pass. “Wouldn’t venture too far, Missy C. Not everybody’s as understanding as we are.”

  He slaps my ass. It takes all my control not to whirl and knee him in the groin, but I can’t afford any more enemies at the moment. I look at my feet and head for the chapel, the only way out of here.

  The piano player starts over.

  Rainbows and magic, dreams and lies.

  As I round the corner, the piano goes silent. As I open the door that leads into the chapel, it awakens again. The same damn song, sad, happy, and beautiful all at once. And horrible. Above all, horrible.

  James sits in the second of three rows, head bowed onto the back of the front pew. T-Clef’s on the piano. Eyes closed, fingers caressing the keys, head swaying with the music, a small smile on her lips.

  Neither of them seems to have noticed me. I skirt the edge, tipt
oeing along the carpet. Come to a sudden stop when I hear James. He’s singing. Not very loud. And not very well. But earnest. It almost sounds like he’s crying.

  I listen to him for an entire verse before it’s too much. I take a step. The floorboard betrays me with a sharp creak. His head jerks up, and he’s staring at me. For a second there is a rainbow in his eyes, and then the clouds return.

  He rises, raises his hands in a defensive position.

  “I wasn’t sneaking up on you,” I say.

  He advances on me slowly. “What’s my name, Melissa?”

  I give it to him.

  He looks at me, into me. “I’m sorry.”

  I shrug, my heartbeat accelerates. “About what?”

  He nods toward the piano. “It helps calm the dragons.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’d never admit it, but they’re scared.”

  “Why this song?” I ask.

  “Because it has hope, because it promises a better tomorrow.”

  “You only believe that if you’re a foolish bluebird.” Or a foolish girl. My vision starts to blur. I look away from him. “Other songs are better for . . . hope.”

  “Maybe, but I know this song.”

  “Did my mother sing it to you?” I ask, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

  He nods. “When I was younger. When my parents were away on missions and I was scared.”

  When she should have been home with me, when I was scared.

  “It’s my song. Not yours,” I mutter. It was the first thing she taught me. I’d play it and she’d sing it. And even when she wasn’t there, I could play. And the world was right.

  And then the world wasn’t. And there’s no goddamn song in the universe to unbreak the broken.

  “I gotta go.”

  He reaches for me. “I’ll come with you.”

  I pull free. “Alone. I’m fine. Please, James.”

  I leave. He doesn’t follow. The music does. There are three SUVs parked outside the prayer center. Each has a thumbprint scanner on the driver’s door. Each rejects me. I bang hard on the window of the last one, but it’s bulletproof or something, and now my hand hurts. And I’m crying and the goddamn music won’t stop.

  I run. Straight down the middle of the highway, as fast as I can. The music is faster. I lose my strength. I look around. I don’t know where I am. Everything looks the same. Faded signs indicate a dragon shelter on my left, a supply depot on my right, another prayer center up ahead. The understate continues both ways into dark loneliness.

  The supply depot’s unlocked. Handcuffed, it takes me a good minute to crank up the lamp on the entryway table. Through a film of dust particles, I see row upon row of mostly empty shelves. Nothing useful. I slide over the pharmacy counter.

  In the back I find some long-expired NyQuil. I down it in several gulps. I slump down, open a second bottle, close my eyes. I drink. And I sing. And I drink. And I sing.

  And that’s how James finds me. Slouched against the wall, caroling about bluebirds on rainbow dragon highways. T-Clef’s with him.

  “You’re James, and you’re T-Clef.” I grin. “See, I know your names, but can you answer me this? Why aren’t there any yellow dragons? Why didn’t Blues fly?”

  “It’s going to be okay,” James says as he scoops me up.

  I laugh. “Liar.”

  He carries me to an SUV. T-Clef climbs in back with me, hums a lullaby as I lie on her lap. She cleans the tears from my face, then sits me up.

  “Hold still now, and I’m sorry in advance.” She grabs my hands, pulls them to her cheeks so that my fingernails dig into her skin. Before I can stop her, she drags them down her face, leaving bloody scratch marks. Then she slaps me hard.

  I fall back against the door, feel a wave of nausea. She steadies me. “You okay?”

  “What the hell?”

  “We needed to make this presentable,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  James looks over his shoulder at me, grimaces. “It’s best that the others think you had a detox relapse.”

  I get it. They’ll leave me alone if they think I’m a ravioli-lid, might-go-dragon-on-you psycho, and not some weak girl who breaks down when she hears somebody playing a piano. I look at T-Clef, who’s smiling at me even as blood trickles down her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  She winks. “Just don’t make it a habit.”

  We drive back to the prayer center. James picks me up, then sets me on my feet outside the door. He and T-Clef grab me by the elbows. She presses a railshot to my ribs.

  “If you could snarl a bit, that would help,” T-Clef says.

  “Think about what they did to your mother,” James whispers in my ear.

  It’s the best thing to say, and the worst. Inside, the piano sits empty, but the song plays on.

  33

  An alarm clock’s chirping at me. For a moment, I think I’ve suffered the most horrific nightmare, but then I hear the grumbling and groans. I open my eyes. Insurgents are crawling out of their cots.

  T-Clef stumbles past me and smacks the alarm.

  “What’s my name, bitch?” she says, loud enough for everybody to hear. I hiss it at her. She jerks me up, jams the railshot into my ribs. I grimace out a growl. She keeps me at arm’s length, marches me to a table. I get some mumbled catcalls and sidelong leers, but everybody keeps a safe distance.

  She feeds me by tossing ravioli at my face, saying things like “This is how you feed crazy bitches” and “Does bitch want more?” She scowls at me throughout, and I try to focus on the scratches on her cheeks, but by the fifth time she’s smacked me in the face with cold noodles, I’m half ready to really kill her.

  When the can’s empty, she gives me a slight nod, then hurls it at my face. I duck just in time.

  “Come on, we’re already running late, guys,” Grizzly B says from the doorway. The few bystanders who stuck around to witness my humiliation and offer up their own taunts funnel out of the room.

  “I’ll be there in a little bit,” T-Clef calls after them. “Gotta give her dessert.”

  Grizzly B gives me a thumbs-up and sprints off.

  T-Clef cleans my face with a wet rag. “How you doing?”

  “Where’s James?”

  “Said he had to do something. Think he didn’t want to be here for this.”

  “How much longer we have to do this?”

  “Usually it’s a couple of days.”

  I glance at her. “You’ve done this before?”

  “Lots. Though never pretend before. It’s kind of fun, isn’t it?” She retrieves a makeup bag from under her bed.

  “What’s that for?”

  “I’m gonna rough you up some.” She clenches a fist, fakes punching me, grins. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

  I spend the rest of the morning handcuffed to a chair in the arena, watching everybody else blow up mannequins. Mostly watching James. He leads the scoreboard. Others joke and laugh and kill efficiently, but he’s stoic and focused and kills ruthlessly.

  He’s always seemed so confident, so sure of right and wrong. Real or not real? Maybe he’s wearing a mask, too.

  Wear it long enough, and is that who you become?

  Who have I become?

  It’s been almost six weeks since I lost Allie, and I’m no closer to finding her. In the meantime, I’ve managed to make life worse for everybody I know. I can only imagine what the mask I wear resembles. Bloodied and battered and scarred with savagery. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to take it off.

  I break my promise and try contacting Grackel to see if she’s heard anything from Allie, if she knows anything about Colin, but I don’t get a response. The CENSIRs can be set to limit communication to specific dragons, so maybe I can only talk with Praxus.

  I’m trying to reach her again when Vincent comes over for his periodic checkup on me. “What’s my name?”

  I give it to him. He scrolls through pictures on his phone. I give him those names
. He checks my CENSIR readout, pats me on the shoulder, and resumes instructing the others on proper killing technique. In a few more minutes, he’ll return to my chair and ask me the same questions.

  What is my name? Who am I? Melissa Callahan, Twenty-Five, Diocletian, Murderer?

  At the end of the dummy decapitation session, Vincent orders everybody to gear up for dragon dashes. Cheers echo through the cavern as they hurry toward the lockers to change. Even James smiles. It fades when he glances at me. I give him my best fake smile, fine as fuck, but he’s already moved on.

  “You can hide who you are from them,” Vincent says, pulling my attention from James.

  The bald instructor towers over me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “But you can’t hide the truth from the CENSIR.”

  I laugh at the irony. I wish the CENSIR would tell me my truth.

  He frowns. “It’s normal to come off the high and experience emotional reflux. It’s not easy, what we do.”

  I look at him. He was playing along with my detox story for everybody else. He knows I’m not under Praxus’s influence.

  “I’m fine,” I say, because that’s the only choice.

  “‘Black care rarely sits behind a rider whose pace is fast enough,’” he says, removing my cuffs. “Luckily, we’ve got dragons.”

  The other riders are finishing gearing up when Vincent and I reach the lockers. He instructs me to wait with him until they’ve vacated the area. “You’re dangerous,” he says. “At least for a few more days.”

  After everybody’s disappeared into the stairwell beneath the wall, I’m allowed to change. The label on my locker now says Melissa in somewhat ugly handwriting. Inside, the pictures of Double T and his family have been removed. So have the Confederate-flag bandannas. The body armor’s smaller; so is the helmet. The scored dragon-jet stickers on it look new. I don’t count, but I suspect there are eighteen.

  Inside the helmet, I find a package of earplugs with a sticky note taped to them in that same ugly handwriting as my name. To help with the outside noise.

  “Go!” Vincent shouts.

  Praxus launches toward his hatch with an earsplitting roar. In the other cages, Bakul and Erlik roar toward their hatches. Soon we’re in our chute, swerving around, ducking under, and smashing through outcroppings. We zig and zag through tunnel after tunnel, sometimes shooting up, sometimes jetting down. Half the time my stomach’s in my throat or feet, and the other half I’m too busy holding on to make sense of up or down at all.