The Rift Uprising (5 page)

“Speaking of college,” my dad says, turning his eyes to me. I groan inwardly but keep my face passive. “I hope you're giving some serious thought about where you want to apply. Now's the time, Ryn, and you have got to do some extracurricular activities. I know you're in ARC, but it might not be enough. It's not just about grades.”

My parents believe that ARC stands for Accelerated Rate Curriculum. They think I'm in a highly advanced scholastic program, but it's a cover for the real acronym—Allied Rift Coalition. They moved to Battle Ground from Portland just so that I could be a part of the program. Even though I start my days off at Battle Ground High, I don't even go to school. I don't need to. When I was fourteen and my chip was activated, I had a secondary and post-secondary education downloaded straight into my brain. I still haven't decided if this is the best or worst part of being a Citadel. ARC robbed me of the opportunity to learn like a normal person. I will never have to sit through a boring lecture or do homework or worry about getting to class. I don't know if I got super lucky or completely cheated.

“She does all that volunteer work at the old military base,” Abel says brightly, and looks at me. God, my brother is a nice guy. He has so many reasons to be an asshole, but he's just not wired that way. The taller Abel gets, the more protective of me he feels. It's cute. I smile genuinely back at him.

“I just want you to find the right place, Ryn, where you can really open up and find out who you are, you know? A place that will help you come into your own. Nothing would make me happier.”

That would make me happy, too. And the fact is, I
will
leave Battle Ground in a couple years. My parents believe I am a junior in high school and think I will be off to college soon. In reality, though, I will be working another Rift site. I feel the dull throb of a headache emerging. I reach back with my hand and rub at an invisible scar at the base of my skull.

“I know, Dad,” I respond, but I don't say anything else. There are a couple of seconds of silence before Abel tells me how much he likes the pasta, effectively switching the subject.

“Thanks,” I say gratefully. The talk resumes until dinner is over. I have said six words throughout the entire meal. My parents do not know me. They truly have no idea who I am. I hate that The Rift has denied them the opportunity. I excuse myself and walk upstairs to my room, grabbing my knapsack on the way. I close my door, turn some music on, and unzip my bag. I take out a binder, open it, and put it faceup on my bed. It is filled with fake assignments and handouts from nonexistent teachers. The ARC program (that is, the Accelerated Rate Curriculum) has us use an iPad instead of textbooks, and it is where all of our papers, written by God knows who, show up in the appropriate folders. I flip the iPad so the attached keyboard sits propped up beneath the screen, so if one of my parents happens to walk in, it'll look like I'm working.

I take out a book, one of my own from the library, and lie down on the bed. I love reading, and every time I finish a book I feel both indulgent and defiant; I process information faster than a regular person. I could, in theory, read the book in my hands in about half an hour, but, through
much trial and error, I have learned to slow this process down when I want. Reading should be savored. Each word should be enjoyed. I'm sure our bosses at ARC would prefer we read technical manuals, something practical on bomb making or physics. Actually, they would probably prefer that we spend our downtime doing crunches and pull-ups, which is never, ever going to happen. The reading is mine. It's the one thing I won't let them have.

I love the look on Applebaum's face when I show up at work holding a romance novel.

And yet I can't seem to enjoy reading tonight. I open the book and stare at the words. Each sentence seems to end and then double back on itself. If I truly focused I could let them settle, but I know there is no point. I keep the book cracked and bring it down over my face. Inhaling the ink and paper, I feel my tension slide just a little. This smell—of the library, of stories and childhood and oak shelves—is comforting.

I allow myself the luxury of thinking about Ezra.

I see him in the clearing near The Rift, so brave, so handsome, and so
totally
fucked. I throw the book across the room. It hits the wall with a thud. How can I get to him? Even if I do, what can I do? Be his friend? How can I be around him without wanting to kiss that beautiful mouth of his? I can't. It's impossible and then I'll hurt him—literally. He's been hurt enough. If I was a decent person I would just let it go, let
him
go. I am not a decent person, though. I am a liar and a killer. And I can't stop thinking about him, of him being debriefed and tested back at the base. After that he'll be sent to the Village. No one breaks out of there.

But, just maybe, someone can break in.

The next morning, I throw on some clothes and stuff my things back into my bag. It's early. I know I am the first one awake. Since I need so little sleep, I am up at dawn or even earlier sometimes. I make a pot of tea and turn on the TV. I don't really watch it, but the quiet always seems different first thing in the morning, more depressing somehow. The night feels like it's full of possibilities, full of dreams and escape plans. Mornings are empty. I don't know exactly what my day will bring, but I know that there is zero chance that I can stay home sick or skip, like I could if I was actually in school. I am needed at my post. People always say, “Oh, I have to get my hair done,” or “I have to pick up my dry cleaning.” In reality there are only a few things you absolutely have to do: eat, sleep, go to the bathroom, and, in my case, show up for my shift at work in front of an interdimensional Rift in time and space.

You know—the usual stuff.

I drink my tea and eat some toast, zoning out. My mom comes downstairs, takes her coffee with her and zooms out the door with a wave good-bye. She's always in a hurry to get to work on time. I probably won't see my dad this morning. He's more of a night owl and doesn't get out of bed till nine or ten. He's his own boss. Must be nice.

It's my job to get Abel out of bed. This is a Herculean effort that generally takes at least three separate wake-up calls and has involved, to a much more minor degree, some of the torture techniques I've been taught as a Citadel. Oddly enough, blaring death metal doesn't work nearly as well on a teenage boy as one might think.

Eventually, after twenty highly annoying minutes (for both of us), Abel comes down dressed and ready for breakfast. He grumbles a simple “hey” in my direction as if the last half hour didn't just happen and pours himself some juice. He then eats two bowls of cereal in under ten minutes. It's impressive. We take turns brushing our teeth and then head out the door to my car.

Every summer I work full-time at The Rift. My parents think I'm a camp counselor. I do actually get paid pretty decently. I mean, I'm not a millionaire, but I will never have to worry about money. Once I turn eighteen and leave home I will get paid even more. In the meantime, as a minor, the majority of my money is held in trust. Isn't that a bitch? At the end of the day, I probably have about as much money in the bank as an average teenager who only works during the summer. I was able to buy a car, though. I needed something fast because, once again, if shit goes sideways at The Rift, I might need to get everyone to safety in a hurry. A Ferrari was out of the question obviously, so I opted for a Dodge Challenger. It's not the most
comfortable ride in the world, but it's fast, and big enough to fit my whole family. The choice absolutely baffled my parents. But since I rarely, if ever, ask them for anything, they agreed to sign the loan, especially since I put a large chunk of money down and make the payments myself.

Abel, on the other hand, thinks the car is cool, and that alone makes me happy about my choice. He slides into the passenger seat and I fire up the ignition. The engine purrs into life and I turn up the music, deliberately selecting a song I know my brother likes. I do these little things for him and I hope he's getting old enough now to figure out that it's my way of showing him how much I love him. Abel isn't weak or helpless. But of course I worry about him. I might just love my brother more than anyone in the world, but I can't get too close. The lying is always going to be a wedge, of course. But there's more than that. As a soldier, my brain often goes to worst-case scenarios. Who knows what could happen? What if the Karekins invade and succeed? What if they round up everyone I love and hurt them just to try to get some leverage on me? Because of those thoughts, I must keep everyone at arm's length. Close, just not enough to kill me if I lose them somehow.

The drive to Battle Ground High is uneventful. I park in the lot and my brother and I walk to the entrance.

“Later,” Abel says as he goes off in the direction of his locker. I turn right and follow the hallway to a solid metal door. I notice the other students staring at me. I feel their eyes scanning me with a mixture of fear and awe. They know I'm different, though they can't quite figure out why, other than I'm part of the ARC. Whatever. I look forward and ignore them all. I don't have the time or the energy to think about how these kids perceive me. I'm too focused on trying to save their lives.

I walk down a flight of stairs into what is, in theory, the ARC
section of school. This section is guarded by what looks like just a normal security guard but who is, in fact, a private in the army. For all intents and purposes the entrance looks like a metal detector, but it's all for show, like the rest of this area. This need for enhanced security was built around a lie that one of the ARC kids pulled a gun and tried to shoot a bunch of students when the first Citadels started working. They said we were under more pressure than the other kids. That the workload was so demanding and the schedule so brutal that extra precautions were necessary. This also handily sets up another lie: that the intensity of the program could be mollified by increased physical activity. As such, they tell our parents we take daily martial arts instruction to reduce stress and anxiety in a productive way. It helps explain if we happen to do something extraordinary (“Oh—we learned that today. It's Krav Maga.”), and it's an excellent cover for all the injuries we come home with. The key is our parents will never know it's not true, because no one gets through here without proper ID. I walk through the metal detector and down a long hallway with empty classrooms on either side. Although there are other Citadels here waiting to go through the last bit of security, this is a lonely stretch of linoleum. The classrooms, fully kitted out and ready to hold students, are just another lie. If things were different, I would be right here every day—learning and probably hating it a lot—but all of this seems oddly cruel, like a reminder of what we can't have. ARC has to keep up appearances, though, for open house nights and fake teacher conferences.

I wait for the few people ahead of me to have their retinas scanned, then put my eye up to the device. “Confirmed,” a soothing voice says. “Citadel Ryn Whittaker, designation 473. Proceed to transport.” Now this . . . this is where it gets interesting. ARC built a train beneath the school, linking it straight to Camp Bonneville. Think of it as a high-speed subway that
takes us the few miles to base in just under ten minutes. I hate this thing. If the Karekins ever got through our line and found the entrance at the base, Command Center can remotely blow the whole tunnel so that it collapses and prevents the Karekins from getting into town—and they'll blow it up regardless of whether there are Citadels in the tunnel at the same time or not. You take your chances every time you step in here. It's a death trap. I practically hold my breath during each ride.

When the train slows to a stop, I hightail it out of there and take the stairs up just one level to our locker rooms. I shimmy into my uniform quickly and as I do, I feel the change come over me as well. Once again I'm not a kid anymore. I'm a soldier. I'm ready for action. Today might be the day I die.

God, I'm morbid
.

As I pull my hair up into a ponytail, Violet races in. It's clear she has just come from dance practice. Her hair is in a perfect bun. She is wearing tights and leg warmers over a long-sleeved leotard. The irony is so glaringly obvious I don't even need to say anything.

“Oh, good,” she says a little frantically as she begins to open her locker. “I thought I was going to be late. I'm actually a little early for a change.”

I give her a warm smile. “You're fine.” A regular soldier walks in and stands a little nervously in front of me. We have a complicated relationship with the military here. Special Ops used to run the show at The Rift, but they did a pretty piss-poor job of it. There were many casualties on both sides, and so they were taken off the job once the first crop of Citadels was activated. It's only natural that a Navy Seal or a Ranger would resent a fourteen-year-old kid who can not only pull rank but kick your ass in every fight. I never saw it happen, but we've all heard stories of the early years. It created a very
us-versus-them mentality. Tensions have only eased as the older, professional soldiers have been transferred out and replaced with younger, greener troops. These newer troops are still resentful, but they are mostly just intimidated. We all kind of respectfully leave one another alone.

“Citadel Ryn?” the soldier says. “Colonel Applebaum wants to see you.”

Violet and I exchange glances. I figured that he would have stopped me yesterday before I went home. When he didn't, I assumed I was in the clear.

Apparently not.

“Okay,” I say brusquely, and grab the rest of my gear. There are weapons caches all over the bunker. Normally we grab ours from an armory room beside the transport bay right before we go on duty at The Rift site. I'm sure Applebaum wouldn't want to meet any of us for disciplinary action with rifles in our hands. I follow the private out the door, up another flight of stairs to Command. There is nothing much to see at the base from the outside. A few buildings here and there, defunct shooting ranges. But beneath all of that is a bunker, a vast network of offices, control rooms, training facilities, and dorms in case we need to put everyone on lockdown for safety.

The soldier leads us through a maze of corridors until we reach Applebaum's office. I knock once and wait for him to tell me to enter.

When he does, I walk through the door and stand at attention in the middle of the small room. He is seated behind a large wooden desk. It seems out of place in this room; it's more presidential than military, though the office is actually decorated quite nicely, with bookshelves, framed photos on the walls, and an ornate desk lamp that looks like an antique. Fancy. My eyes hover on a picture of Applebaum and Christopher
Seelye in the Oval Office. I involuntarily shudder. Applebaum is a prick, but Seelye is something else. If anyone is the villain in this story it could easily be him, the president of ARC. Then again, he could also be the hero. I know he certainly thinks he's the hero, and maybe I would think he is, too, if I didn't feel like taking a shower every time I had to deal with him. His face is happy and light, but his eyes tell a different story. He isn't afraid of us Citadels. Sometimes Applebaum accidentally slips and lets his guard down. The horror of what we do, the carnage we leave behind—it frightens him. Seelye is proud. He makes me feel like a shiny gun or an expensive sports car, like something he
owns.

“At ease, Ryn.” I move my legs apart and put my arms behind my back. We stare at each other in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.

“Ryn,” he begins, “you're a good soldier. A natural leader with superb combat skills. I depend on you.”

I keep my gaze fixed above his head, on a photograph of him with the president and first lady. “Thank you, sir,” I respond.

“But that stunt yesterday was not only a breach of protocol—it was stupid. You saw a kid your age, you assumed he was an MTI, but that guess endangered you and your team. You could have gotten hurt or worse.” Applebaum's voice is level but strained. He pauses. Maybe he thinks I agree with him, but I don't. He closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. “You know why we call them MTIs? Minimal Threat Immigrants? Because there is no such thing as a
Zero
Threat Immigrant. These people, or whatever they happen to be, that come through The Rift are never
not
going to be a threat. It's our fault that they are snatched from their homes and loved ones. It's our fault that they can never return. They have every right
in the world to be pissed off about that. We can never let our guard down around them. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you believe that, sir, but I'm not sure I can completely agree,” I state calmly.

He looks at me and narrows his eyes. Then he pounds his fist hard on the table. I do not flinch. “No, Ryn, that is unacceptable. You, more than anyone, should know that we can't trust what comes out of that green hellhole.” Applebaum's voice is rising with every word and still I do not move, nor do I change the look of indifference on my face. “This isn't Portland. The Rift isn't an organic farm. On a good day it's a hot zone. On a bad day it's a war zone. You can't act like a social worker out here. That's not your job.”

“So having empathy and compassion makes me a social worker? I mean, call me crazy, but shouldn't having those things be kind of a prerequisite if you're going to be pointing a gun at someone?” I know I'm speaking out of turn, but I'm getting fed up. He's not the one fighting. He sits on his ass all day while I put mine on the line. Besides,
look what they did to us.
What a hypocrite. I might not have lost my home, but I lost any chance at a normal life when I was seven years old. Don't they get that? That we could be just as dangerous, if not more so, than any Immigrant, for practically the same reason?

“Possibly. The only thing I know for sure is that we can never,
ever
trust them. Period,” Applebaum says flatly.

“We trust the Roones,” I snap back.

“They're different. I don't even think they are capable of feeling hate, or actually anything for that matter. And they saved us,” he says quickly.

I finally look at him. “So says the guy without a chip in his skull.”

Applebaum smiles smugly and leans back in his chair,
holding his arms out in front of him and gripping his desk. “You're young. I always forget that about you kids. You fight so well—and don't get me wrong; you all do an excellent job—but it's always a bit like
playing
soldiers, isn't it? What's that thing the nerds do? Larp? Larping? It's like that. No real discipline.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. For a brief moment I imagine punching a hole right through his chest. I imagine taking one of his hands and pulling it all the way back, breaking the bone so that it sticks out from his wrist. The fact that I don't disproves his theory of discipline. Even so, I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing how his truly offensive words have stung me. I will not let him dismiss me as a sulky teenager.