Читать книгу The Rift Uprising - Amy Foster S. - Страница 10

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.

“Will that be all, sir?” I ask in a passive voice.

“Don’t let it happen again, Ryn. You’re the team leader for a reason. Boone’s a clown, Violet is a ballerina, and Henry is coiled so tight I think he might be one mission away from going postal. You’re the only one with any sense. Or at least that’s what I thought until yesterday. Don’t disappoint me again.”

I refuse to say anything. I know he’s pushing me, though I can’t imagine what reason he has for doing so. My own family can’t get a reaction out of me—and I want to be around them. This guy is getting nothing from me.

After another couple of seconds, he sighs and tells me to go.

I meet the rest of the team at transport to The Rift site. The site is about a mile away, down a graveled road through the forest. We say very little in the car because there are just normal troops accompanying us and we prefer to keep our distance from them. We understand that the things we say get reported back to Command and then to ARC. We’re on the same team, but at the same time, we’re not. No one trusts anyone here, and either way, I’m happy for the silence.

Today we are working up in one of the seven Nests above ground, in the tree line. The Nests surround The Rift and serve as both lookouts and vantage points for sharpshooting, if it comes to that. The four of us easily scale the rope ladder that leads up to a wood platform suspended in a huge sequoia tree. There are provisions here—water and emergency rations—but no bathrooms. The boys will often piss in empty bottles. The girls have gotten good at holding it until the shift is over in four hours.

Nothing like a little institutional sexism to remind us we’re in the military.

Omega Team is at the rock on lookout. We really just have to check in and make sure Command knows we’re here if needed. I ask the team to make sure their earpieces are functioning and then we disable the mics so we can talk without being overheard.

“So, did Applebaum cut you a new one this morning?” Boone asks, wasting no time. Before I can even answer he goes off again. “He’s an ass. You didn’t do anything wrong, Ryn,” Boone assures me.

“You really didn’t,” Vi adds.

I lean back against a wooden slat in the platform. “I shouldn’t have gone in alone. Without a weapon. It wasn’t the smartest move,” I confess.

“It wasn’t,” Henry says through clenched teeth.

Violet places a hand on my arm. “Oh, please. He was young and cute. It’s bad enough that he ended up here. He didn’t need a bunch of us ambushing him.”

I have to smile at her optimism.

Henry pulls a few pine needles off a close branch and throws them down from the Nest. “He could have been dangerous. You gambled. It worked out okay, but it might not have.”

“Stop being such a hard-ass all the time, Henry,” Boone says. “It’s boring. I think I might have a coronary if you ever cracked a joke.” Of course, Boone’s sarcasm does not play well with Henry. Henry is wound tight. Applebaum hadn’t gotten that wrong. At six four, he is the biggest of us. His mom is Korean and his dad is Native American. He’d probably be the total package if you didn’t have to go on such a search-and-rescue mission for his personality. The thing about Henry, other than the fact that he’s a superb soldier, is that he is loyal as anything. He’s taken a bullet for me more than once, multiple punches, and even a knife wound. Whether we are at work or hanging out, he is always just there. I love him. I love his quiet strength and the little things he does to show he cares about us—things that Boone is too clueless to pick up on.

“Knock it off, Boone. It was fine with Applebaum, but to be honest I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine.” Vi tries to negotiate. “We’ll leave Applebaum out of it if you tell us why you went out there alone. I meant to ask yesterday, but you went home so fast.”

“Whoa, what’s with all the questions?” I snap. “It seemed like the right thing to do. That’s it. No agenda. I just said I didn’t want to talk about it. God.” My teammates look at each other with raised eyebrows.

“It’s okay to think someone is cute,” Violet says softly. “It’s okay to be attracted to someone, to have feelings for someone even if they come through The Rift.”

At that, I have to laugh. I look at her, my eyes widening. “Are you crazy? It’s not okay to be attracted to anyone. Because obviously, thanks to ARC, we’re mature enough to save the world but not mature enough to keep our hormones in check.” Without thinking, I pick up my arms and start doing a weird version of jazz hands while talking in an absurdly low voice. “Hey, I’m ARC,” I blurt out sarcastically. “We’re going to make you superstrong and superfast and supersmart but not smart enough!” I’m off on a tangent now. I see Henry sigh. “You might check for a text from your boyfriend while you’re fighting for your life, so we’re just going to put this little glitch in your implant that turns you into a maniac if you touch anyone you might be remotely attracted to. Not so much as a little, teeny-tiny, even-Catholics-would-approve-of-it hug. Nope, sorry! No sex for you! Ever!”

“You didn’t need to go straight to the Blood Lust, Ryn,” Violet says with an undeniable hint of sadness. “It’s a long way from liking the way someone looks, and maybe even crushing on them a bit, to activating that part of the chip’s programming. It’s not like we have no control.”

I look up to the sky and shake my head. “Oh, well, I know that,” I spit back meanly. “Look at you and Boone. You guys have been in love with each other since we were fourteen and you two haven’t killed each other.” This is common knowledge, but we never speak it. The fact that we are all just the best of friends, like family—that is another lie. “It’s easy, right? As long as you guys don’t touch each other or even brush up against one another. Unless you’re fighting. We can always fight. They made damn sure of that.”

“Shut up, Ryn,” Boone shoots back, clearly wounded.

“And what about poor Henry?” I continue even as Henry shoots me a death stare. “He’s gay. I mean, seriously, he’s like every gay guy’s wet dream. He could get more ass than all of us put together and he can’t even jerk off without destroying his bedroom, maybe even his whole house. So yeah, I’m a little skittish. I’m a little fucking sensitive about being attracted to anyone, because I can’t even stick my hand down my pants and make this teeth-grinding ache go away.” The silence in the Nest becomes a living thing, awkward and full of ugliness. I put my head down on my knees. Shit.

“I’m sorry,” I say finally. “That was mean. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. And so help me God, Boone, if you say ‘PMS’ I will punch you in the face.” Boone puts his hands up in surrender. “Can we please just drop it? I don’t know why I went out there or why this Ezra guy should be any different from anyone else. He probably isn’t. I’m just … I don’t know …” I rummage around in my head trying to come up with the words to explain how I feel. When I can’t, I just apologize again.

Vi reaches over and gives me a hug. “It’s okay. We’re all just doing the best we can. Some days are better than others,” she says, and I nod my head, embarrassed. I hate hurting my friends. And for the most part, Violet was right. The Blood Lust is one of the crueler by-products of the chip, but it’s not like we want to kill every person we find attractive. It’s always there, though, simmering beneath the surface like a sleeping junkyard dog. As long as we are careful, as long as we don’t linger on romantic thoughts or touch someone that we might have—in another life—hooked up with, the dog remains asleep. I understand that the idea behind this wiring was to make us more efficient, but honestly it takes a lot of energy to suppress these urges. ARC must know this, but they continue on with it anyhow. Maybe it’s just too late; they can’t have some Citadels who can get it on and some who can’t without a mutiny. Or maybe it’s just another cruel way to control us. I don’t know, but if you combine the Blood Lust with our constant lying and living a double life, we can burn out in this job. When that happens, they send the Citadel away for a couple months to recuperate. Sounds great, but it’s not something we push for. Our teams depend on us. What if something bad happens while we’re gone? Something we might have stopped?

I take hold of her hand. “Thanks, Vi.” I watch Boone look at us. We are comforting each other the way best friends do. He turns sharply away, uncomfortable, knowing it’s something he’ll never be able to safely do with her—yes, even something as benign as holding her hand. There’s a lot of pain on this platform, and it’s relieved only when I suddenly hear Omega Team in my earpiece. The Rift is opening. I enable my mic, as do the rest of us.

We stand and look out at The Rift. That was quick. We have been on duty for only a matter of minutes. I check in with Command, confirming that we have eyes on the situation and can see The Rift opening. The center of The Rift turns black as tar and then we hear an earsplitting sound.

An explosive detonated by a hand-held rocket launcher deploys as soon as the Karekins enter this Earth. They don’t mess around. The rocket destroys a tree about seventy-five feet away from us. Karekins are streaming out of The Rift. I use my enhanced eyesight to count as they come through. A dozen. Two dozen, fifty, one hundred, one hundred fifty, two hundred. That’s a significant number. There are about a hundred of us Citadels, so I don’t love the odds. The five other teams that have been hiding in trenches will emerge. The reinforcements will come forward. Each Nest team will jump down, leaving the best marksman behind to shoot whomever they can safely. In our case it’s Violet. Boone, Henry, and I give each other a nod and do a swan dive off the platform, flipping at the last second so that we land on our feet. I immediately get shot in the shoulder. Karekins use laser technology. I wince in pain and take sharp breaths until I can steady myself. The suit has absorbed most of the impact. I’ll have a bruise, but that’s about it.

I take about two seconds to calm down. I must not be angry. I must feel nothing. I must run forward when every instinct I have still says, even after all this time, to get the fuck out of there. I take out my gun and shoot one Karekin in the middle of the forehead. I swing around and shoot another in the same place. Karekins, like us, evolved from apes. I think in their case it was more of a King Kong thing. They are eight or nine feet tall, and hairy. Their eyes are small and slit-like. They use sound and smell mostly to fight. Sounds like a big disadvantage, but the research people at ARC think it might be an advanced form of echolocation that allows them to compensate for their poor eyesight. They aren’t savage, though. They wear sleek black uniforms and have advanced weaponry—lasers, remember? Most important, they keep coming through, and they seem more prepared each time to deal with us. It’s almost as if they are getting to know our weaknesses and adapting, which should be technically impossible. Because that would mean that they are reporting back through The Rift, and they should not be able to do that. Yet here they are. Shooting into the trees, into the Nests.

How else would they know to do that?

I feel one of the Karekins pick me up from behind and fling me at least twenty feet to the side. My shoulder takes the brunt of the impact. I know it’s been dislocated. I flip up before I can get attacked again. I try to pull my shoulder back into its socket. I can’t get the right angle. Bracing myself, I smash it into a tree so that it pops back into place. I hear a Karekin behind me. I kick out, pushing off from the tree trunk. I turn around and he staggers a bit. I leap up, using his shoulders as leverage, and land with my legs around his neck. I squeeze, and we both fall to the ground with a thud. I reach down and pull my bowie knife from my boot and stab him squarely in the throat. I push my body out from underneath him. Just for good measure I slice his throat back and forward. Blood spurts all over me.

Gross.

I almost laugh at that thought—surrounded as I am by all this gore and death—but another Karekin is already racing toward me on the ground. I have just enough time to whip my knife out of the other one’s throat and throw it into the approaching Karekin’s right eye. Their suits are just as protective as ours, so there is no point in aiming anywhere else. Boone runs up beside the one who is now down on his knees with my knife planted firmly in his eye. Boone shoots him in the forehead and kicks him down to the ground.

There are screams and shouts, and the sound of gunshots and the smell of blood are thick in the morning air. I cannot afford to take the time to really live in the middle of all this. And yet, just for a split second I wonder how I got here. Who put my name down on the list for this? Who guessed that I would make such a good killer? Who would even look at a seven-year-old and be able to imagine such a thing?

“Ryn!” Henry screams at me. He leaps ten feet in the air. I turn just in time to hear a laser pulse whiz past my ear. I can’t believe how stupid that was. I lost focus for just a couple seconds and I almost died. Henry is now just a few feet away, but before I can turn and face the enemy to fight, I feel a massive Karekin hand on the back of my neck. He’s going to try to snap it and now I have to break free. Henry lunges at him. The Karekin has just enough time to remove his hands and hit me with something large and heavy on the head. When I fall, the sky shifts sideways. It’s like it happens in slow motion. One minute I’m up and the next I am floating to the ground. Henry has killed my attacker. From this angle it all looks so different. Like a dance. I can almost hear music in the rifle shots.

“Ryn, are you okay?” Henry screams, but his voice seems far away, like he’s on the other side of the forest and not right beside me. I open my mouth to answer, but all my words are gone. I want to say that yes, I am fine, but I am not fine. I am always almost dying and so is he and Violet and Boone. I am not fine, because I will most likely die a virgin. I will never have another profession. I am a liar. I’m not even sure I am capable of telling an absolute truth. My head will heal, but I am not okay. I want to say this, but I can’t say anything. Nothing is working on my face. Henry stands guard over me, taking out two or three Karekins as I lie helpless on the ground. The world tilts again and everything goes black.