“Well, you are Beethoven, right?” I say with a smile. This is not for me, but for the others watching. Like I said, it is the burden of the suffering—to make those who are helpless to do anything for themselves feel better. “Just no weird jazz or massage music.”
“No, no, nothing like that. As I said. We must be positive. I have chosen Little Stevie Wonder. Here we go.”
The song begins. I know it’s “For Once in My Life,” but only because I’ve heard it on a Netflix binge of Scandal. I hear something else, screaming from somewhere far away. Then I realize, it is me that’s screaming. The agony slams me brutally from the floaty netherworld of the drugs back into my body. It is a slicing, searing pain. I want to be brave and tough, but I simply don’t have it in me. I don’t know how long I keep screaming. It could be five minutes or an hour. Time becomes a slippery rope that I can’t seem to keep hold of. It doesn’t matter. It feels like forever and when it is finally over, I will never, ever leave that room entirely. A part of me will always be there. Screaming.
Chapter 18
I spend the entirety of the next day in my room doing physical therapy. I take what happened in the birthing suite and strangle it. I cover it in blankets and stupid, mundane memories like driving to work and peeing and filler episodes of average TV shows in an attempt at camouflage, so that my brain will just skip over it. It doesn’t really work. The memory lies in wait for me, pouncing every time I let my focus slip.
Feather and another SenMach named Ribbon (who I am very pleased to say is Idris Elba) work to help me regain the full use of my new arm. It does look different, but that’s because the skin is brand-new. Eventually it will age and freckle like the other one, just on a seventeen-year delay.
There is no scar, though, and for the most part, it works just fine. Still, I need to reacquaint my traumatized neurons with the notions of fine and gross motor skills. I throw balls, block punches, and pick up objects of various size. The arm feels like it’s mine, mostly. There is still something not quite right about it. It’s not that it’s wrong, just different. It reminds me of when I got my ears pierced. I kept staring at them in every mirror I would pass, tugging on my lobes even though my mom yelled at me that they were going to get infected. I couldn’t help it. Something had changed that I could never change back. Even if I took the earrings out, the holes would still be there.
Levi has escorted the others back to the Faida Earth. He felt it was best that they not get too comfortable here and I agreed. I do trust the Faida, but this is a very tempting place for a race like theirs. They’re all peace and love among one another now, but they did their fair share of warmongering and conquering before becoming so “enlightened.” Besides, whatever bullshit Ezra and I have gone through, he would want to know I am okay, and oddly enough, I think the only person he’d believe completely is Levi.
I am lying in bed that night, flexing and unflexing my hand, when Cosmos knocks and walks in.
“May I sit?” she asks politely.
“Sure,” I tell her. I am a bit surprised when she actually sits on the edge of my bed and not on the chair beside it. Being that she’s a robot and all, Cosmos will never have kids of her own—unless of course she decides to go through with the human breeding program and use the eggs I gave them the first time I came to this Earth. At the time, I thought it was a pretty hard-core sacrifice to forge an alliance. Ha! I showed me. So I guess she could eventually raise my own biological child. In the meantime, though, I think I’m the closest thing she might have to a daughter. She certainly acts like a mom.
“I wanted to tell you,” she begins gently, remaining perfectly still on the bed, “that the troops we promised are ready, but they do need training.”
“Do you want me to organize a unit to come back here? To help with that?”
There is a brief pause. Talking to the SenMachs takes some getting used to. They don’t react instantaneously. Of course they could, if they wanted. Instead they choose each word carefully, after running it through several algorithms first, to gauge what the response to them might be.
“No,” Cosmos says softly. Both of her hands are resting on her knees. I do that now, notice hands. “We have just finished constructing quite an elaborate simulation program. In it, we will run the troops through every single variable they might encounter. For a SenMach, a simulation would be the same as training. You could say that it would even be the same as experience itself, given that we do not feel fear or excitement in the way that you would. Emotions are not something we need to consider. We just need time. I understand that you do not have much left.”
I sit up straighter in the bed, adjusting the pillows somewhat. “No,” I have to admit. “Not so much now and even less with this whole thing,” I say as I raise my left arm up.
Cosmos leans over and really looks at me. Her silver eyes glint in the darkened room. “I want to extend an offer to you,” she says smoothly. “We would be willing to act as a sanctuary planet for not just the human Citadels, but your families as well. Even if this means accommodating tens of thousands of people. We have already done the math. We know what we must do to ensure a thriving human population.”
I give her a broad, but melancholy smile. “That’s a really kind offer. But I can’t accept it. For so many reasons. I’m sure our families would do anything to ensure our safety, so they probably would come. It’s not that, though. I’ve made promises to the Faida, even to the Akshaji, that I will fight with them to stop the altered Roones once and for all. Because they aren’t going to stop. Ever. They could slaughter us all and move on to another Earth where they would just do this all over again to humans, or a different species.”
“But, Ryn”—Cosmos puts her hand over my own—“like I said, we have done the math, even with these brutes—the Akshaji—the odds are not necessarily in your favor. You could very well lose, everything, to a species that is so beneath you. They are monsters, these altered Roones.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Trust me, if hiding out was a realistic option, I would definitely choose hiding. But if there’s one fundamental truth that I’ve learned these past few weeks, it’s that there’s a big difference between being alive and having something to live for. Maybe you think you’ve cracked the mystery on how to get humans to coexist without killing each other for stupid reasons, and maybe really you have. But I couldn’t live here farming or whatever, in this Utopia you imagine for us, knowing that I could have saved even one kid from going through what I’ve had to go through. I just couldn’t do it. Especially if there is farming involved.” I say this all with real genuine warmth. I like Cosmos and I know she is coming from a good place. It’s just that she doesn’t actually feel anything and I think that’s all I am right now, a big ol’ flesh sack of feelings.
“I understand,” Cosmos says. I can’t be sure, but I think there might be a twinge of sadness in that acceptance. “The troops will be ready when you need them. Feather will bring them to you.”
“Feather? Why—” I begin, and then it dawns on me. Feather will come to extract the eggs and sperm from the other Citadels. More epically crazy shit I’ve agreed to, to win this war. “Oh,” I say, not bothering to hide my surprise.
“You have ignited something in us, Ryn. We were built to coexist with humans and somehow, somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten our primary function.” Cosmos stands. She reaches out tentatively and touches the newly grown hair on my skull. I haven’t even looked in the mirror, but it has been itchy. “It is so blond, this little bit of growth. Almost white.” I run my own hands through it, there’s just an inch or so. I suspect I’ll get another inch by the time I leave. It does feel different, though. Softer. Like baby hair.
“I promise you, Ryn”—Cosmos’s hand drifts to my shoulder—“we did figure it out. We ran hundreds of thousands of simulations, for you and your people, had you chosen to immigrate here. We know how to bring a generation of humans into this world. They will be kind, and smart and compass
ionate. They will understand about the value and the sacredness of human life because we will teach them about the sacrifices their parents had to make to get them here. No matter what happens in this war, part of you will always be alive.”
I feel tears pooling behind my eyes. Someday, I will have a child. I will not raise her. I might not ever even get to see her. This is another gift of sorts from the SenMachs, a biological legacy. I don’t know what it says about me that a robot would be a better mother than I could ever hope to be. When Cosmos realizes that I am not going to respond, she excuses herself. I look over to the window, but there is nothing to see but the dark spread of night’s cover. I am alone, in a hospital bed with one inch of platinum hair, but I do have a brand-new arm.
Levi and I do not go straight back to the Faida Earth. It is imperative that we check in at home. We arrive early morning, before shift. We choose Henry’s house and he lets the others know by some elaborate code system to meet us by his house in the woods. I do not tell them what happened to my arm. Violet’s only weakness is her empathy. If she knows what I have done, it might distract her from what she has to do that day, and every day, to maintain control of Battle Ground. She does wonder about my hair, though, so I lie and say it was just too annoying. I am such a good liar that Violet doesn’t even question it.
Or it looks horrible and she is the one lying.
I do tell them about the alliance, breaking the news that we will need about two hundred volunteers for the SenMachs. I explain the procedure, but they hardly seem to care. What’s an egg or two compared to what the SenMachs are offering in return? I will let them continue to live in this little world, this bubble of war. It serves no purpose explaining exactly what this means. Our children will literally inherit the earth. Not our Earth, but still.
Henry’s plan is working perfectly. In less than a week we will control most of the Rifts and Villages. If we had more time, we could even convert the Citadels deemed unlikely to denounce ARC and the altered Roones. But we don’t. As it stands, Boone thinks that by the time our fighting force arrives it will be about a seventy-five/twenty-five split in our favor. It’s just a matter of days now, before Christopher Seelye returns. We need a solid plan by then. I am close to having one and I promise to send word once I do.
When we Rift back to the Faida Earth, I am met with real affection and genuine concern. Ezra hugs me for a very long time and makes a point of telling me how much he likes my hair. It is easier now between us, now that we both know that wanting someone, even loving someone, is never enough to make a relationship work. I always thought that fighting made me like an adult, but that’s stupid, because kids kill people all the time. I realize that the way Ezra and I let each other go was probably the first real grown-up thing I’ve ever done.
The next few days are difficult. I spend hours training. First I work with my arm. I keep working until my reflexes are just as fast and my punches just as strong with both arms. Somewhere along the way I realize that my new arm is actually better, faster, and able to tolerate much more pain. There’s also the added bonus of turning shit off and on by running my hand over it. I have activated the holographic Fortress of Solitude version of Doe. I started feeling silly talking to my cuff. So now, Tim Riggins is almost always beside me. At first I thought it might be annoying, having a constant presence in my room. But Doe is mostly silent and awfully pretty to look at—kind of like a painting . . . with well-defined muscles.
Doe links everything on the network with my arm. We are working out ways of controlling the lights, computers, phones, et cetera, by using certain finger and palm movements.
Finally.
I’m a magician—like Julia or Eliot.
But not Alice.
Ever.
Then I work with Navaa for my Kir-Abisat training. Sure enough, the SenMachs were able to develop a small gadget, a black disk we can attach to the hollow, curved space where our collarbones meet. It’s basically like a little megaphone, boosting our own voices and frequencies as we sing open Rifts. I have managed to open quite a few with Navaa’s help and we learn what the crazy altered Roone Grifix said was true. I don’t need a conduit. I start singing tones from Earths other than my own, and while I can’t get them to completely open, we both know that it won’t be long before I can.
The rest of our time is spent in the war room. Citadels require very little sleep, but we push it, even for us. Between Ezra and Doe, we are able to make best guesses about our enemies’ numbers. We run strategy and tactics. We argue back and forth like schoolyard kids about who should be in charge of what and where. We bring in Gomda and Donav to work out artillery. We think about leaving a force behind, to use guerrilla tactics if things go badly. Eventually we agree that if things go that badly, resistance cells would be pointless.
When, finally, we get a working battle plan, we bring in Sairjidahl Varesh’s Akshaj faction, and Iathan comes with the original Roones and Karekins. I make a point of looking right at Varesh every time he addresses me. He is amused by my new arm and possibly impressed. Whatever terrors I face in the dead of night, in my thoughts, dripping with anxiety and helplessness, I do not let them surface. Varesh tried to break me, to split me apart. Every answer I give to him is firm and unyielding. Every question I ask exudes authority. It is imperative that he see me as an equal, as a whole human being. He’s taken enough.
Our fight may be easier with these other allies, but it doesn’t feel that way in the room. There are so many voices and egos trying to get their agendas across. Varesh believes we should go to the Spiradael Earth and slaughter them all. After that we should work our way to the Orsalines. I tell him that’s impossible because that leaves my Earth dangerously exposed. It also leaves their Earths open to invasion with no Citadel force to protect it.
Iathan wants a parley. He believes, somehow, that once the altered Roones see our show of force, they will back down. On this, at least, every other Citadel is on the same page.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
We will give absolutely no quarter. Every single altered Roone must die. They are war criminals, and the only talk I want to have with them is explaining to them what’s about to happen during their hanging or shooting or stabbing. Whatever, I’m not picky.
After thirty hours, we finally all agree. We will fight this war in Battle Ground and while, yes, that does leave the other Earths in the alliance exposed, it is also the home of what the altered Roones believe to be their greatest achievement: the human Citadels. They’ll want to secure our Earth far more than the others, so it makes sense that they would amass their troops there for the assault. The irony is not lost on me that in a bid to greedily protect what our enemies consider to be their greatest treasure, that same twisted thinking will be their undoing.
Technically there are more Karekin than human Citadels—the combined Roone/Karekin fighting force is about forty thousand troops strong. But considering that the Roones pretty much got us into this mess in the first place, I pull rank. Human Citadels make up the next largest number. I order everyone back to their own Earths. Within twenty-four hours, they must be ready to deploy.
“One last thing,” I announce to the table. “We need a name. We have to fight under a different banner, but more importantly, you’ll have to differentiate between the humans loyal to ARC and those that are on our side. You will be provided with new patches once you Rift to my Earth.”
The table erupts with suggestions. Levi, Ezra, and I try not to laugh when the other races make suggestions like “The Rebel Alliance,” “The Defenders,” and “The Avengers” (revenge is on the top of Varesh’s mind).
“No. None of those names are going to work and I don’t have the time to explain why,” I tell them all because, let’s face it, there’s a lot to unpack with the aforementioned monikers. “The patch will be burgundy, the same color as our fallen Daithi brothers and sisters. From now on, we are no longer Citadels. I refuse to answer to something tha
t they’ve named me. We keep it simple. We’re united against a common enemy. Today we agree to be a single fighting force, regardless of race. More importantly, we’re free, no matter what the outcome. So, we’re the United Free Army. Any objections to that?”
I admit it’s not the coolest name. Again, I’m shit at naming things. But it gets the point across, and the SenMachs can make tens of thousands of patches in a very short period of time. I task Ezra with opening a tiny Rift small enough to get the message through to our robot allies, along with an outline of what’s happened here.
I have deliberately kept the SenMachs away from the negotiations today. The Faida have an idea of how much technology the androids have and they are already hungry for more. How Iathan and Varesh might react . . . well, I trust them to fight with us, but that’s about as far as my trust extends. The SenMachs don’t need a voice here. Those troops will answer solely to me.
I am their voice.
Once again, each faction wants to weigh in on our name. Why is it English? An army suggests infantry and the Faida are best in the air.
“United Free Army?” Varesh snarls. “UFA? It is the sound one makes when picking up something heavy. It is stupid. Find another name.”
During the long and harried hours of these talks, my capacity for patience has been climbing steadily to its limit. Varesh’s rudeness takes it well beyond that.
“Enough!” I say, slamming my SenMach fist on the table. We all watch with rapt fascination as the thick wood begins to crack. A deep crevice crawls up the center of the table, branching out, with limbs and arms of its own. The assembly is stunned into silence. “Everyone gets a vote. Everyone gets a say,” I tell them, barely able to mask my irritation. “But do not forget yourselves. The only reason we’re all together right now, the only reason we have a fighting chance is because of me. I brought us this far, and so I am the one in charge. Each and every one of you is a seasoned veteran. I shouldn’t have to tell you that there can only be one commander. Would any of you like to challenge that? If so, do it now because if you attempt to do it in theater, we will lose.” I have to step up, before someone tries to push me out of the way. The table is silent. There are some formidable leaders here and I’m sure they dislike the idea of answering to anyone. They are also brilliant strategists. Most likely they are biding their time, knowing that the only person who can lead all of us, together, is me.
The Rift Coda Page 19