The Other Side

For Ehlorea Rayn,

Welcome to the world.

Make it beautiful.

Make it yours.

When
I asked Colin to teach me how to shoot a gun, I should have considered the consequences. Now he's right behind me, waiting for me to fire, and despite my thermals, snow pants, heavy jacket, and wool cap, I can't stop shivering.

Ever since Colin and his dragon arrived on our remote Alaskan island four weeks back, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd seen him before. I didn't know why until a few hours ago, wish he'd never told me his reason for deserting the army and joining the insurgency.

Trying to ignore his presence, I focus on squeezing the trigger, an action I've repeated a thousand times over these last several days. The empty supply crate at the cave entrance, cast in Randon's red glow and papered with bull's-eyes, is crumbling from all the holes I've put into it. Kill
shots, Colin calls them. Always go for the kill shot.

Until today, firing the Beretta gave me comfort, didn't bother me in the least. Didn't remind me of all the people I killed or helped kill during my time in Georgetown. Of Claire.

Colin's sister.

He comes closer and places his hand on mine. I've faked nerves for that touch, for the tickle of his breath on my ear, but my heart stalls a beat for a different reason this time, and my shivers intensify.

“Another flashback?” he asks.

“I'm fine.”

“Why don't we do this later, Melissa?”

No, I need to be strong. For Allie, for Baby. I speak a silent prayer, begging any god that might exist for forgiveness, for strength, then pull the trigger.

Again and again. Nine times in fast succession. No breaths, no blinks. Even trembling, flinching at the thunderous echo of gunfire rattling through the cave, I nail the center of three targets, come close on three others.

“Good job. Fifty feet. You were born for this.” He's told me that before. It no longer makes me happy.

“Natural born killer,” I murmur. I turn and force myself to look at him.

A sandy crew cut that's grown fuzzy frames a hard
military face that once reminded me of Dad, the pre-paralyzed version. Round it out, add a heavy dose of madness to his big brown eyes, lengthen his hair . . . how could I have missed the resemblance to his sister?

Unlike the others Keith has sent to monitor us, Colin doesn't normally treat me like damaged goods. Tonight, however, there's deep concern in his eyes.

“I'm gonna go on my rounds.” I pull out my earplugs, stick the gun into the holster beneath my jacket, and head for the ladder that leads from the cave into the modified shipping container where we sleep and eat and try to live a semblance of a normal life.

He falls in stride a step behind me, putting a hand on my elbow. Like he's worried I'll fall.

“By myself,” I say, more harshly than intended.

He doesn't respond, but my footsteps echo alone now. I reach the ladder, climb the rungs fast, my vision blurring with tears I can't afford if I'm supposed to protect those I love.

Kill emotion, human,
Grackel says. The old Red's adopted the role of my dragon-talking mentor. Whether I like it or not.

Originally, I wasn't pleased about the idea of other people or dragons on the island, but Keith insisted. Sentries, he calls them. Grackel's a permanent tenant, a dragon with a
sharp tongue who knows how to keep a low profile when she hunts for food and doesn't hesitate to singe Baby whenever she deems fit. We're becoming friends of a sort.

But I'm in no mood for friends right now. Too many of my friends of late have ended up dead. I open the hatch that separates the cave from the shipping container. “Leave me alone.”

Your thoughts are transparent.

“I'm working on it. Leave me alone.”

Allie looks up from the book of poems she's reading on her cot and jabs her yellow highlighter at me. “Speak in your head. How many times do I have to tell you? It makes you look crazy, yes, yes.”

“Sorry.” I grab the binoculars and flashlight from atop a supply crate and head for the door at the other end of the container. “I'll be back in a couple hours.”

“Not taking Sarge with you?” she says. “Go shoot some more shit?”

“Watch your language. Colin's a friend.”

“A good friend? How many dragons has he killed, how many?”

“How many have you?” I snap. She flinches, and tears well in her eyes. “I'm sorry, Allie, that's—”

“Go away! I hate you! I hate him! Go away, go away!” She rocks back and forth, alternating between screaming at me and shouting apologies to dead dragons, her left hand
closing and opening around the silver dragon pin I gave her the day I arrived in Georgetown.

I start for her, but she ducks beneath the covers and screams louder at me.

Leave her be,
Grackel says.
Kill emotion
.

“Leave me be.” I slip on a pair of gloves, replace the cap with a balaclava, loop the binoculars over my neck, and escape into the cold, blustery night. I flip on the light that hangs from the end of the shipping container, then run toward the cliff, a quarter mile away.

Kill emotion, human
.

“Leave me alone, dragon.”

Your thoughts are transparent
.

“I heard you the first time,” I say between breaths, and run faster. Adrenaline doesn't kill emotion, but it does overwhelm it.

You cannot run forever.

“Help Allie.”

She is too tangled to endanger us
.

Tangled. Dragon for crazy. Allie can communicate with a hundred dragons at once if she wants, but regardless of her emotional state or willingness to share, not a one can make sense of her thoughts.

I stop and clutch at my knees, wishing I were tangled right now. “That's not what I meant. She needs somebody to
talk to. Someone to tell her it's not her fault.”

Arabelle and Randon have her. Who do you have?

I scan the sky in a quick, useless sweep, shivering despite all the layers. Until Keith dropped Allie, Baby, and me here, I'd never heard of Saint Matthew Island, a barren strip of land in the Bering Sea a hundred miles from anything. With the stiff wind and the near-constant night of winter, it's often colder here than it was in Georgetown. According to the thermostat, at least.

I scan again, more slowly, trying to actually spot enemies this time, trying not to think about the maelstrom that is my life.
In nae.
Persevere.
Baekjul boolgool.
Indomitable spirit. I must be strong.

“I don't need anybody.”

Maybe,
Grackel says in her insufferably calm way.
But Allie needs you. Arabelle needs you.

“Don't you think I know that? Don't lecture me, dragon.”

It is not your fault. We do not blame you for Georgetown. Colin would not blame you for his sister.

“I don't want to talk about it. Where are you?”

Northwest
.

I turn in a half circle and spot two pinpricks of light near the horizon. One a faint red, the other a silver beacon that cuts through the darkness. Arabelle . . . Baby. “How is she doing?”

Well enough. She still cannot pace herself. She gets too excited. And she is stubborn. It seems a common trait around here.

I ignore the jibe. “Don't get too far.”

She needs to spread her wings, gain her lungs, learn to hunt and fight.

“No, Grackel. Not yet. And tell her to damp her glow. She's not listening to me.”

You cannot protect her forever, human. A storm is coming,
she says, not for the first time. I lower the binoculars, waiting for the lecture to continue, but when I focus inward, shutting out the world the best I can, listening for her mental signature, Grackel is gone.

I find a boulder near the cliff edge and sit. I close my eyes, remind myself that Claire's death was an accident. The wind cries a mournful wail around me, the ocean crashes against the rocks far below, the first flakes of snow fall.

A dragon roar startles me. I push away from the boulder and drop to my knees. I scour the dark heavens, but there's nothing. Machine-gun fire and screams echo behind me. I look over my shoulder. Nothing . . .

Wait. A flash of something. I whirl around—spot a Green, fire forming in its mouth. Another dragon pops up on my left, an insurgent with a rocket launcher raised to his shoulder atop it. A man's face melts under flame in front of
me. A woman and her baby die to my right in a swarm of bullets.

Not real.

I plant a hand on the rock, fighting the urge to crawl as my lungs seize up. I throw my face into the snow. The shock of cold rips through me, and the roaring and screaming dwindle to muted agony. When I lift my head, the hallucinations are gone.

I reach into my pocket for the envelope I keep stashed there. It contains my security blanket. Something to pull me back from the horrors of my Georgetown reconditioning.

Allie has her silver dragon pin to help fix her to reality. I have Dad's letter, now heavily wrinkled. My hands are shaking so much that it takes three tries to remove it from the envelope. Not Dad's handwriting, but I can hear him saying everything transcribed, and by the end, I no longer see him in that wheelchair when they rolled him in for my
Kissing Dragons
interview; I see him like he was in the picture he kept on the living-room mantle. With Mom, young and vibrant, smiling down at their baby girl.

Knowing someone out there loves me like that makes everything go away for a bit. I fold the letter into the envelope and return it to my pocket, then stand and head south along the cliff line.

The snow intensifies, but the wind settles. I tuck the
binoculars into my jacket. Not much point scouting given the limited visibility, but I enjoy how the white breath of winter makes the world seem innocent and pure.

I think of Mom and Dad and Sam as I walk aimless patterns in the snow. And inevitably, despite my best efforts, I think of James.

The last time I saw him was in an Ecuadorian cave, a few days after Loki's Grunts rescued us from Georgetown. Keith decided to reassign him to the recon squadron to scout our next hideout while we stayed behind and waited for the all-clear.

“It'll keep him busy,” Keith had told me. “He needs time to recover. It's for the best.”

Yes, but not because of recovery. Some scars run too deep.
In nae.
Survive, find a purpose to keep you going. Bury the memories in the darkest corners and hold them down however you can.

I was in the reconditioning chamber four days, but fabricated memories still haunt my dreams and confuse my senses. James was in the reconditioning chamber for almost four weeks. He survived somewhat intact. Broken, but not destroyed. He wasn't Twenty-Six, but he wasn't James either. His love of dragons had been tainted by dark rage. I understand his torment far more than I'd like, but wrath and vengeance won't protect Twenty-One or Baby.

That was more than three months ago. I didn't even say good-bye. I didn't know how.

We “talked” after that, here and there, sending messages via Baby.
How's the weather? How's Keith? How's Allie?
Short conversations, long silences. Our answers were all variations of “Fine” until they just became
Fine
.

A month ago, we had our final conversation. Started off the normal way.
How are you doing?

“Fine,” I said. “You?”

Good.

Which was not what I expected. Normally there'd be a long pause, or maybe that would be the end of the conversation altogether, but his next words came quickly.

It'll get better, Melissa. One day, this will be a bad memory. You'll be able to go home
.

Baby was holding back.

“All of it,” I ordered.

She cowered and her glow dimmed, but she eventually spat it out.
He said you won't have to worry about things like Georgetown, stupid TV show
s . . .
or insurgents. He doesn't mean it.

But we both knew he did.

My legs begin to weaken, so I find another rock and lean against it. I roll back the balaclava and welcome the snow that falls onto my lips, feel the coolness melt to warmth, and
let myself imagine that I'm being kissed. Then I make two angels in a snowdrift, side by side. I watch until they fill and disappear, praying that the hurt will fade soon. I've already got too many problems.

I continue south, switching between walking and sprinting, the fatigue and sharp spikes of coldness in my lungs distracting me from thought. I'm not sure where I'm going, just that I need to get more tired before I return home. Exhaustion helps the nightmares, sleeping and waking.

The snow lightens to flurries, and the first stars peek through the shadowy haze above. I find little comfort in them anymore. With the thick winter clouds, our island is invisible to military satellites and enemy dragons, but on clear nights, we are naked and exposed.

I turn back toward home as the clouds continue to part. I'm within shouting distance of the shipping container when the sudden feeling of being watched envelops me. Goose bumps prickle my arms.

I crouch low behind a boulder and tug out my binoculars. The light from the shipping container illuminates a small patch of snow-dusted bleakness, but nothing else. Behind me, darkness stretches into forever.

I scan the sky several times. Not a soul in sight.

I scoop up a handful of snow and press the frozen wetness
to my face. Biting into my lip, I slow my breaths and wait for the feeling to go away.

Instead, it intensifies.

Eight months ago, at Blue Rez Five, I felt a similar watching sensation. Minutes before I discovered I could talk to dragons, and my life spun into hell.

Those invisible eyes at the rez were withdrawn and cautious.

These are . . . eager.

No, not eager.