The Rift Uprising (12 page)

“Roones,” I correct him. I have to get out of the habit of contradicting people who aren't under my command. Actually, I have to get out of the habit of contradicting everyone, friends included, unless they are under my direct command at the time. It must be incredibly annoying.

“Roones. Right. Well, I think they've solved this problem. I think they are so ahead of the game that something is going on.”

I eye Ezra, not sure what he's getting at. “What do you mean?”

“The Rift opened right outside of the lab. I can't explain it, but I'm almost sure that I felt it—a good while before it opened. I know it sounds crazy. But I felt this weird thrumming inside of me. A pull. I got my stuff together. I grabbed my bag. I turned off the equipment, even though I had planned on being there for another couple hours. I walked out, and as soon as I got a decent distance from the building, The Rift opened and I was sucked right in. Can it do that? Choose someone?”

“No,” I say quickly. “It doesn't choose. It doesn't have a consciousness. It's a thing that takes, randomly, which is part of its quantum deal. What do you think? That just from working on research, quarks jump off you and attract The Rift like a magnet? That theory
might
make sense if you had dark matter somehow floating around your lab. But just a computer program? A model? Doubtful.”

But the way Ezra jumps up, excited, it's clear he doesn't think it's such a dubious theory.

“Doubtful but not impossible,” he says. “Because nothing is impossible when it comes to quantum physics. Not really.”

I don't know what to say. He's trying to make sense out of fate. I went through this phase, too. It's not like I have peace of mind or anything, but I have a sort of peace knowing that why this happened to me won't change what has already happened. I so want to reach out to him. I want to hold him and tell him to let it go. I understand Zaka now, when he said that hope only led to pain. Ezra has picked up the matchbox. He's very close to striking something that could set us all on fire.

“Listen,” I say softly. I raise my hand to touch his, then think again and place it gently on the back of the couch. “I know you want to figure this out. But there is no shame in surrendering to something as huge as The Rift. It's not just bigger than you and me—it's bigger than the world and an infinite number of other ones. You work on a subatomic level, so you get that it's a never-ending loop of chaos.”

“Ryn,” he says a little more sternly. His eyes are intense and I have to look away from him for just a second to collect myself. “You—”

“No, don't interrupt me. I don't know much about this place. I do know that the rest of your life can suck or be only sort of sucky. You screw with these people. These people who took—
who still take
—a random selection of the most ordinary seven-year-olds they can find to use as weapons. And when I say ordinary, I mean that we were as average as possible. Not just so that we wouldn't stand out as much when we became Citadels, but because they didn't want to take their best and brightest out of the gene pool. That's how calculating they are.”

Ezra stops and looks at me stonily. “Wait.” He holds up his hand to get me to stop talking. “Just stop. You have to talk me through this because right now it sounds like you're explaining a plot to a science-fiction movie. Where did they even
get
a random selection of seven-year-olds?”

I sigh. I don't blame Ezra for wanting as much information as possible, and I did promise myself I wouldn't lie to him. I'm just not sure that the truth is going help him accept being here. But whatever, I guess I have to.

“Okay,” I begin slowly. “We were tested. They used the tests they give to all kids in elementary school. The tests that are required for schools to get funding and awards and shit. They looked at kids within a two-hundred-mile radius of Battle Ground, because any farther would be suspicious in terms of physically getting the kids to move here. After they selected one hundred of us—they select a hundred a year—we all got the same strange rash.”

“What kind of a rash? How?” Ezra's brows furrow.

I can only shake my head. “Look what they are covering up! You think they can't give us a rash? They probably drugged us or touched us with some kind of other-Earth slime, I don't know. The point is we were all referred to the same specialist. When the specialist saw us, we were biopsied and that's when they implanted the chip. They tried to implant normal, grown-up soldiers, but they all died. Apparently, only a child can tolerate the chip. We grow with it or something.”

Ezra's shoulders sag. “Oh, God,” he says in barely a whisper. “This just gets worse. And it makes no sense. How did they know that you were all going to see the same specialist? I mean, how did they ensure that?”

“I don't know,” I say, suddenly feeling defensive, like I've done something wrong for not knowing. “They don't answer those kinds of questions. They don't even tolerate them.”

“What do they do when you ask? Beat you or something?” Ezra's eyes are as wide as dinner plates.

“No, they don't beat us,” I try to assure him. “They ignore the questions outright or they give you an extra round of
training if you get mouthy. Very hard, very annoying training. So it's easier to just go along with it. And then, in the eighth grade, our parents were told we were chosen for this highly prestigious gifted program that basically guarantees an Ivy League acceptance and a whole bunch of very tempting promises about our futures. Like I said, the chips were fully activated when we were fourteen. We got all the superpowers, but instead of going to high school we became Citadels. ARC is a perfect cover. Our parents believe that we are doing twice the work of other kids our age, which explains the stress, the long absences, the maturity level . . .”

“And when they told you what you would be doing, did anyone just say, ‘peace out, no thanks'?”

There's a moment of silence as I consider his question. I think long and hard. “No one says no. No one ever says no. We have to protect our families and the country and the world. You can't just turn away from that.”

Ezra leans back in the sofa. He crosses his arms and looks directly at me. “Let me just tell you,” he says with clear agitation in his voice, “from an outsider's point of view, that story is bullshit. There are more holes in that story than, I don't know . . . something with a lot of holes. It makes no sense. At all.
No one
has told their parents?
No one
has given away this huge big secret? You're telling me that
no one
says no to this life of deception and violence and killing and death? That the entire world is protected from monsters by children? Right.
Of course
that makes sense. I mean, who can't count on a fourteen-year-old? I know how reliable and honorable I was at fourteen in between marathon jerking-off sessions and playing Xbox. There is something else going on. You're not seeing that?” he says frantically.

“I know it sounds crazy,” I counter, trying to keep my voice
level. This conversation is getting away from me. “But once you've fought a Moth Man—like, an actual moth person with wings and big bug eyes and scary black claw things, not to mention fucking velociraptors and a bunch of other terrifying
Island of Dr. Moreau
monsters—the
why
you are there becomes so much less important than staying alive and using your training.”

I dip my head down. I've never tried explaining this before and I know I am doing a crap job. It does sound like bullshit, but how can I convince him that it doesn't matter? I stand in front of The Rift and fight because if I wasn't there, something terrible could be let loose in the world and
kill
a bunch of seven-year-olds. So, if it's death or being implanted at seven, I choose the chip. “There are many children who have to grow up quickly,” I say, using a different tack. “Refugees fleeing war, kids with cancer, kids who are orphaned. Teenagers who go to college instead of high school.” I point a finger at him and cock my head because I can guess that as an eighteen-year-old senior at MIT that's exactly what he did. “A thousand years ago, all of us would be married already with kids of our own. Nowadays, parents are ridiculous. A kid can't even take a public bus or walk home from school without a mom or dad texting to make sure they aren't being followed by a pedophile. Yes, we're young and we have an insane amount of responsibility, but I've got to tell you that despite all the helicopter parents out there desperate to prove otherwise, teenagers are not little children.”

There is an uncomfortable silence as Ezra glares at me. In that moment he seems impossibly tired. “You sound like . . . ,” he begins, but his words seem suddenly remote, as if they are trying to get as far away from his mouth as they can.

“What?” I shoot back, annoyed that I am trying my best and it's still not working.

“Someone who's in a cult. That's what you sound like to me. A cult member. Unreasonable. In denial.”

I jump up, off the couch, unable to contain my impatience. “You know what?” I let my arms fly around my head. “Maybe you're right. It could be a cult. Or aliens. Maybe I'm an angel sent by God. Or maybe Captain America recruited me. But I'm telling you it doesn't matter. You cannot beat this system. You cannot kick this hornet's nest. You have to be cool. That's it. You start nosing around and asking too many questions, they will lock you in a room and
throw away the room.
Do you get what I'm saying? You need to stay safe. Be smart. Smart enough to make a good life here but not too smart to threaten anyone.”

Ezra nods his head slowly and sets his jaw. He stands up, too, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “How do I know they didn't send you to try to test me or throw me or convince me?”

I almost want to laugh. Just the idea that I would cooperate with ARC on that level with this boy is ridiculous. Then again, he doesn't know me. All he knows is that I'm the girl he saw when he first came through The Rift. I'm the girl who beat down a bunch of Vikings without breaking a sweat, and I'm the one in the prison guard uniform. I cannot touch him, though I ache to do so. I feel like my fingertips on his skin could say everything that my mouth can't. Since that is impossible, I stand as close to him as I dare, noticing every detail of his face. The arch of his eyebrows, the lock of hair that flops down around his left eye. His mouth, so full and pink, his lips parted just a millimeter . . .

Jesus, Ryn—get it together.

“You're right to be wary of me. I am a liar. I'm a killer. I am not a particularly good person.” I feel a lump in my throat. Tears are beginning to well. I cannot cry. It will freak him out. I'm useless at emotions. I wear them so weirdly that it will only increase his suspicions. Once again I have to thank ARC for teaching me how to keep my humanity from seeping through, and I suck the sadness down. “But,” I continue, “I am
not
lying to you. I can't explain why or what it is about you. From the first moment I laid eyes on you it's like I couldn't. Like I was totally incapable of being dishonest with you. I don't know what that means. But I know that I'm asking a lot, given the circumstances, for you to trust me. But I swear you can. I snuck in here. I'm not even supposed to enter the Village until I turn eighteen. I only did it because I promised you I would and I didn't want my word to be meaningless. Not to you.”

We stand. Inches apart. We are so close that I can feel his breath, which is minty and sweet all at once. He steps forward and I step back. Ezra narrows his eyes in misunderstanding. To his credit, though, he respects the boundary I have placed between us.

“All right,” he says finally, and I sigh in relief. “I will trust you. But you have to promise me that you'll think about what I've said. All of you are so smart and none of you are demanding the answers to questions that
anyone—
‘super soldier' or not—would ask and it's
really
making me anxious.”

I don't generally like ultimatums, but this seems fair enough. It's not like I could
not
think about this conversation, anyway. I'll probably replay it a thousand times in my head.

“Okay, I will consider everything you've brought up,” I tell him as neutrally as possible.

“Great. Can you stay?” he asks. “We can . . . I don't know,
I'm binging
Game of Thrones
. We can just sit here and not say anything and watch it. No conspiracy theories. I swear.”

“HBO really is a thing here. Crazy,” I say, raising my arms in a gesture that speaks to how much I don't understand the way things work here in the Village.

“Not that crazy. It's
Game of Thrones
,” Ezra jokes. “Come on.”

“I can't. I really have to go.” I back away and head to the door.

“I don't know what you had to do to get in here. But . . . can you do it again? Things seem so much more . . . I don't know—
manageable
seems like the least romantic word ever, but it fits somehow. And the word
better
just doesn't cut it.” Ezra puts his hands back in his pockets. He looks so vulnerable. If I was smart I would stay away. The thing is, I
am
smart and so is he, though he doesn't understand the full implications of what spending time together could mean.

So of course I say, “I will. I will come again.”

Clearly, when it comes to Ezra Massad, I am a dumbass.

Beta Team takes point position at the rock again, right beside The Rift. It has been four days since my trip to the Village. Each morning I've woken up and hoped that I would get some sort of perspective, but my days have been full of Ezra. Not him, actually, but the thought of him. I wonder what he's doing, how he is doing, and if he is getting any closer to accepting where he is. At night I've climbed into my bed, closed my eyes, and imagined scenarios where we might be together. I get as far as a posting in the Village, maybe even a rotation or two nearby where he ends up working. That is the closest we will ever get to a life together. I've allowed myself brief, fleeting flashes of him taking my face in his hands and kissing me deeply. I cannot allow myself to fall completely into this fantasy. I've felt the violence sweep through my fists as I picture our mouths colliding, and don't want to destroy my
room—and possibly my family—by going any further. If I am to see him again, safely, I can't even daydream about something physical happening between us, or it will be the first thing I think of when I see him in person, and even though physical touch is required to set off the Blood Lust, I would not want to risk it. What if I'm close enough to feel the touch of his breath? Would that count? We've always been so overly cautious when it comes to the Blood Lust (Levi excluded, of course) that in truth, we don't even know where the limits actually are. So we all keep our hands to ourselves and our thoughts as PG-13 as possible because it's just easier that way, safer. Which I'm sure, no doubt, is exactly how ARC wants it.

This is why I feel I can innocently imagine us in The Menagerie, walking hand in hand through the grasses of the pasture where they keep Merle. His hand in mine does not feel sexual in this little mind trip. The unicorn's presence cancels out lust. Ezra's hand will fit perfectly into my own and both of us will stare into the inky black of Merle's eyes. We will see ourselves reflected there as we could be: two kids, normal, stripped of the craziness that is our lives.

I miss him. It's illogical. I keep trying to dismiss him. I can't. He is a bruise I keep pushing, a scab I keep picking. My inability to see Ezra, let alone touch him, is painful, but I know later on down the road it will be agony. Eventually he will find a girl, someone else in the Village, to share his life with. I will have to watch them with a rifle in my hand as they walk down the street, go out to eat, head home together from work. I will become invisible to him, just another guard keeping him trapped in a world that isn't his. I do think about all those questions he asked, as I promised. I haven't come up with any other answer than ARC has probably lied about a number of things. But like I told Ezra, it doesn't matter. I've
gone too far down this road already. I don't want to end up like Levi, angry at everyone every minute of the day.

I have been trying not to let any of this affect my job, but of course it has. Violet seems to know that something is up. She has been unusually touchy-feely with me today. Her hugs last longer, she's rested her head on my shoulder twice, she even insisted on braiding my hair this morning, and now it's pulled back so neat and tight I'm getting a headache. Boone hasn't cracked a joke, and Henry, well, Henry is the same. I want to tell them what I've done, but I can't put them at risk.

I was so afraid the first day I came into work after I went to see him that somehow I had been found out, but I hadn't. Things went forward as usual and no one said a thing. It seems I have done it, broken into the Village. I couldn't have done it without Levi's help. He reminded me of this when we drove away from Ezra's apartment. He also explained that we are now even. The debt has been paid. It was the only thing he said as we made our way back to The Menagerie and I was beyond grateful for the silence.

The thing is, I'm pretty sure I can do it again without his assistance. I now have the ever-chipper Audrey to get me into the Village. Before I left, I asked when she would next be on Menagerie duty. She told me that she wasn't on until the following Sunday night, but that she would be working graveyard, twelve to four
A.M
., and would happily let me in. I don't relish the idea of sneaking out of my house, nor do I love the fact that I would be showing up at Ezra's apartment in the dead of night, but what could I do? He knows I basically have to break into the Village to see him. I can only hope that he understands I am working with what I've got, and not assume it's some kind of booty call.

I hear the various teams checking in. It's been two hours
and The Rift has been blessedly silent. But then, of course, right after I think that, I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I look at my team and let them know silently that The Rift is about to open. I close my eyes and focus. I concentrate on the air around me. There is a strange pull and a sort of thrumming. Ezra was right about that; it's possible that his body is simply sensitive to the subatomic changes in the atmosphere, as mine is. There is no way that it chose him or singled him out, though. I have to get that idea out of his head.

I look through the rock and see The Rift begin to shimmer.

“Command Center, this is Beta Team. We have a visual confirmation. Stage one.”

“Copy that, Beta Team.”

“Finally. Christ,” Boone says, rolling his eyes. “My ass has fallen asleep and you guys are about as much fun today as a teeth cleaning.” Boone lifts himself up and puts a hand on Vi's leg to maneuver over her so that he can see through one of the rock portals. His hand lingers for just a couple seconds, but it's enough. Violet reaches out quickly and grabs his wrist. Her breath begins to quicken. It's the Blood Lust. Immediately, I turn off my mic.

“Henry, take my spot.”

Henry obeys the order and begins reporting back to Command on The Rift's progress. Boone isn't moving. He understands that if he tries to jerk his hand away it will only make things worse. I can see Violet fighting it. Her lip is trembling, she is scrunching her eyes shut.

“Vi, sweetie, let go,” I say softly. She opens her eyes and looks at me, pleading. “It's okay, it's fine, babe. We're at work. The Rift is about to open, so we have to do our jobs, all right?” I can tell she is gritting her teeth. She is not in control, so I have to take control for her. “Vi, just listen to the sound of
my voice. You don't feel anything. Everything is calm.” I see Boone wince—Violet has clamped down harder. From behind me, Henry is telling Command that The Rift is at Stage 3. There is no time. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, I get an idea.

“Violet!” That gets her attention and she looks me straight in the eye. “Martha Graham's Night Dance!” Everyone turns and looks at me funny, including, I think, Violet. “Dachshund puppy dogs, turkey Bolognese,
The Gilmore Girls,
Cherry Garcia ice cream!” Her head jerks back and she lets Boone's wrist go. Boone stays crouched and massages the place where Vi had him. I see a purple bruise forming in the shape of her slender fingers. I can only hope it's not broken.

“What did you do?” he asks in disbelief.

“I just thought of all the things that make Violet happy. I was trying to distract her. I guess I just sort of blurted out all the things that give her pleasure but not, you know, sexual pleasure.” I smile wide and Violet smiles back.

“I don't know, I've lusted pretty hard-core over a pint of Ben and Jerry's,” she says, “but thanks. I'm so sorry, Boone.” I'm sure Violet would have loved to reach out and at least pat him on the shoulder, but she won't dare now.

“It's all good. I'm fine. No real harm done.” Boone is lying. The physical pain is nothing compared to how he hurts when the reality of the two of them becomes so dangerous. I don't know how I know that—I've never had the Blood Lust hit me full force—but when I think about Ezra, and how close I've wanted to get . . . I just do.

He moves his wrist back and forth so I can see it's not broken.

“You guys want to sit here and talk about puppies, or do you want to work?” Henry says grimly.

“I
was
working,” I say as Boone says, “Puppies.”
Good—if
he's joking, at least he's trying
. “Stand down, Henry.” I turn my mic back on and see The Rift is open fully. “Stage four. Expect incoming, Command.”

“Roger that, Ryn.” It's Applebaum. He wasn't helming Command before. The fact that he's taking lead now has me paranoid. Does he know about the Village? Or is it just because he didn't like what happened the last time I was in charge out here? I shake off my annoyance. It is time to go to work, and nothing else matters now except for what is about to happen in the next few minutes.

The Rift spits out about twenty Sissnovars from its jet-black hole. I hear Applebaum start the countdown for The Five. I watch the Sissnovars through the rock. They are bewildered, they stare . . . then they begin to yell at one another in their own language. Even though the time I spent with Zaka was brief, I am seeing his species in a whole new light. There are about a dozen males, five females, and the rest are much younger, children. My heart sinks when I see them. Their speech is not unpleasant. It isn't guttural but, as you might expect, sibilant. Their voices are raised in panic, but their language is actually quite soothing. The children hide behind their mothers. A few of the Sissnovars are crying, a few are racing around looking at trees, touching them, even licking a couple.

They might look fearsome, but I know that they are just terrified. The Five are almost up. I radio back to base. “We are going to make first contact. Do not order the Citadels down from the Nests or bring any forward until I give the okay. Copy.”

“How about you let me give those kind of orders, Ryn?” Applebaum says with superiority.

“Not today, Applebaum,” I answer vaguely and with obvious annoyance in my voice. He and everyone else is wondering
if I mean that I'm not going to take his crap today or if I am actually taking complete command of the mission.

I press the mute button on my mic. “Leave your weapons here, on safety,” I order my team.

“Are you insane?” Henry says, clearly baffled.

“No, I'm your team leader. Do it.” They all look at one another then back at me. Violet puts down her gun first, followed by Boone and then Henry, reluctantly. “Now, follow my lead.”

Usually in situations like this we go in with our guns. We show immediate authority because we believe it's actually safer for our opponents to see they are obviously outmatched. I have decided on a new tactic.

I think it's starting to become a habit for me.

I stand; my team follows. I slowly walk toward the clearing, toward the Sissnovars with my arms wide. For a minute they stop and look at me. I take my right fist and bring it up so that it crosses my heart, the gesture I saw Zaka make as I was leaving The Menagerie. I bend at the waist and bow twice.

“What in the good goddamned hell are you doing, Ryn?” Applebaum yells in our ears. “Where are your weapons? Gamma, Delta, and Epsilon Teams—prepare to jump from the Nests on one . . .”

I unmute my mic. “Nobody move,” I whisper sternly. “I mean it. Let me try this, or somebody is going to get hurt.” I look at my team and raise my eyebrows so they know to copy my body language. All in a row we repeat the same movement. A female Sissnovar bravely comes forward. A male is yelling, but she silences him with a choice word and a look. She returns my greeting and begins to speak slowly. I quickly hold my hand over my lips and shake my head, hoping that she will understand that I don't speak her language. I point to
The Rift, and make a kind of scary face and vigorously whip my head back and forth in an obvious “no/bad” charade. The female nods her head in understanding.

I hope.

I move even closer to her. Gently I raise my hand. She winces slightly and is near shaking with fear. “It's okay,” I whisper. I give her my warmest smile as my hand lands on her shoulder. She takes it and examines it closely. I am far more alien to her than she is to me at this point, with my pink, smooth skin, blue veins, and smattering of freckles. She smells my skin and then gently rubs the back of my hand on her cool, scaly cheek. I wonder if she can smell aggression or fear, of which I have neither. It also occurs to me that I should
know
that. That kind of information should be included in our briefing seminars about the different species we have encountered and housed in our Villages.

I point my finger away from The Rift and then gesture for them all to follow. They talk for a minute among themselves, but there is decidedly less tension. The woman nods her head and surprisingly wraps her arm around my own and allows me to escort them all away with us in the lead. We don't say anything—we can't. There is only the sound of twigs and pine needles crunching beneath our feet and birds chirping from the trees. She leans on me, still shaking, but I am in awe of her bravery. I am also ashamed. Sissnovars are gentle, as Zaka had said. They are also now prisoners here, forever, and about to be humanized. I am taking them on the first steps of that journey. There is no denying my part in this.

My only consolation is that no one got hurt. It might be enough.

The vehicles are waiting for us in the safe zone. The Sissnovars look at the jeeps and vans in an odd kind of way. They
don't seem surprised by a motorized coach, but they do seem intrigued by the design. I have no idea what they are used to, because I know nothing about them. I see Kendrick again, and another of his colleagues, Greta, whom I don't really like at all. She has about as much empathy as a diving board. I give Kendrick a pleading look, hoping he will take charge. Immediately, he jumps forward and puts his hand on his chest and says, “Kendrick.” And again, “Kendrick.” Then he points to the female who has taken her arm and unwrapped it from mine. “Liseth,” she says with a smile. Kendrick repeats her name and nods. His smile is broad, genuine, and unthreatening. He points to the open door of one of the vans. Liseth looks at me, uncertainty clouding her face. I nod and point once again back at The Rift, shaking my head. She stops for a moment and looks at her people. She wears her apprehension and worry softly, like a veil, but it is there. I see it. She looks once more behind us, toward the green mouth that had swallowed her people, and narrows her small yellow eyes. Finally she nods her head in resignation.