“We will not harm you,” Andy Warhol says brightly. “We were alerted to your presence and were sent to retrieve you.” They both take a step forward.
“I said don’t move, and keep your hands up!”
More bewilderment, although they don’t come any closer. Eventually they both raise their hands. “We do not possess any weapons. We are no threat to you,” Jason Momoa says earnestly.
“Fine. You can come closer, but stop when we tell you, and walk slowly,” I command. When they are about ten feet away I tell them to halt. “I’m going to frisk them. Cover me.”
“Really? You’re going to go frisk Aquaman? That’s going to be your job?” Levi throws out.
“Not now, Levi. God.” There’s a time and place for sarcasm, but this is not it. I quickly move over to the two and I am able to get a good look at them close-up. If I needed any more proof that something absolutely bonkers is going on here, I get it after I see their silver eyes. They are as round and luminous as full moons, but the irises are a darker silver, the color of bracelets or rings left forgotten in a drawer. On Andy Warhol it looks creepy as fuck. On Jason Momoa it’s kinda sexy in an otherworldly way. Both have hair cut close to their scalps and they are wearing matching slate-gray outfits, though uniform is a bit of a stretch. They are dressed the same, but there is no ornamentation, not even buttons. Just plain jackets over trousers. Even with all that, though, it’s their skin that really gives me pause. It doesn’t look right. It is without blemish or lines, fine or otherwise. It’s as if a newborn baby morphed into an adult. I’m not sure yet what these people are, but this is definitely not an Earth like ours—not an echo Earth.
My rifle is clipped, which leaves me with both hands free to pat them down. I do this efficiently and without lingering, even on Khal Drogo.
“My name is Thunder,” he says kindly.
“Really?” I say, even though of course it is.
“And this is my colleague Ragweed.”
“Hello,” Andy/Ragweed offers. Okay, the names are weird (and more than a little unfair).
“They aren’t armed, Levi, you can put your gun down.” Levi slowly lowers his weapon and moves with steely determination toward us. As he approaches, I know he is noticing the same exact things that I did. It’s clear that he feels threatened. I do, too, but I can hide these things better. His posture is yardstick straight and he’s clenching his jaw.
“I’m Ryn and this is Levi. Where are we?” I ask with determination.
“North 44˚3′29″, West 121˚18′51″,” Ragweed answers efficiently. I don’t even need to check in with my partner. We are both well aware that these are the coordinates of central Oregon. Just as we thought. Still, latitude and longitude are not as helpful as an actual city name.
“What year is it?” I ask a little more impatiently.
“I am afraid I cannot answer that question. We do not keep time in the same way that I think you probably do,” Ragweed offers regretfully.
“Yeah, well,” Levi says while resting his forearm on the butt of his rifle, “maybe you should just give it a try anyway. Let us be the judge of what we can and cannot figure out.”
Both men look past us, in the distance. I have a feeling that their eyes are providing some kind of digital interface. More than likely, we are all being monitored and they are awaiting instructions.
Finally Thunder says, gently, “I am sure you have many questions. We cannot provide you with the answers you are looking for. We have been designated to deliver you to our doyenne, who will be able to discuss your questions in detail. We are simply escorts.”
I nod my head and look to the ground as a wave of nausea washes over me. I’ve heard this speech before because I’ve made it. It’s the same speech I give to all the Immigrants who came through the Rift at Battle Ground, and I doubt these two would give up any more information than I would. However, they are decidedly less aggressive than the Citadels are, and if there is some kind of equivalent of a Village on this Earth, chances are that’s where Ezra would be. There’s also no chance in hell that a place like the Village could hold me and Levi. Still, going with them is a risk—I’m not sure we could elude them and get our packs and the QOINS up and running without incident. Just because they don’t have weapons doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous.
“And you guys just fly around, hoping to run into someone? Escorting people places?” Levi asks stubbornly. They aren’t going to give us anything useful.
“Yes, I can see why you would think we have the ability to fly. I assure you that we do not. It is technology, built into our boots, using a combination of the planet’s magnetic core and micro thrusters,” Ragweed offers, but why? Why is that information something he’s willing to give up, unless . . . ?
“You want to take us up there? With your shoes?” It’s an amusing thought, but I am not amused.
“You will agree to come with us now?” Thunder asks brightly. I don’t think I actually agreed to anything, but he is certainly hopeful.
Levi must see me mulling and he leans in closer, not near enough to actually touch me, but close enough so that he can speak almost in a whisper that they hopefully can’t hear. “They seem pretty harmless, and if you want to know if Ezra is here, then I think we have to go with them. We just have to demand that we stay together and we get to keep our things with us at all times so we can Rift out if we need to.”
“To be clear: You do understand that it’s Jason Momoa and Andy Warhol with silver eyes offering to take us in their Blade Runner helicopter, right? Because I’m still coming to grips with that, and there is no scenario we thought of that included anything like this in our strategic planning sessions,” I add, concealing at least half of my mouth with a well-timed itch to my top lip.
I can practically hear his eyes rolling. “Yes, I understand that we are in the Multiverse. And yes, this is batshit crazy, but it’s the Wild West out here, so what else do you want to do?”
“Fine,” I say to everyone. “We will go on the condition that we will not be separated from our things or each other.” I watch as they pause. It definitely seems like they are getting information visually from the implants that are their eyes. I think I might be way more freaked out by this if I had never watched Black Mirror. “Oh, and no flying. Send down a rope or something. You must have a backup in case your rocket boots don’t work.”
Ragweed grabs hold of my arm. “Excellent. We will now escort you to the doyenne.”
I give him a stern, unflinching look. “Take your hands off me. Now.”
Ragweed does not remove his hand. I look at Levi, who has backed away from Thunder. His look is a clear warning. “We must escort you to the doyenne safely,” Ragweed tells me, undeterred.
“Yes. But. Do. Not. Touch. Me,” I growl.
“We must escort you to the doyenne safely.”
“Remove your hand or I will escort my fist into your throat.”
Ragweed seems not to hear me, or not understand. He simply holds on tighter, attempting now to pull me toward the chopper. “We must esc—” But I don’t let him finish the sentence. I’ve set a boundary, a rule. I asked, maybe not so nicely, but a girl shouldn’t have to be polite when asking a man not to touch her. I yank my arm away from him and pick him up by the throat. His body lifts up into the air and his feet are off the ground. Ragweed has that faraway look in his eyes. He is not struggling. His body has gone slack.
I exhale loudly and pitch him up and out, tossing him in the air. He lands with a dull thud, his head hitting a tree trunk.
Oh shit—did I just kill him?
His eyes are still open, but he isn’t moving, never a good sign. I spin on my heels toward Thunder and Levi. This whole situation is tense as fuck. Why wouldn’t he just do as I asked?
“I don’t know what ‘escort’ means here,” I say to Thunder, “but where we come from it implies a certain amount of protocol. All he had to do was direct me, verbally. I know I look young, but I can follow dire
ctions. Apparently your buddy over there can’t. I won’t be held responsible for actions I take when I feel threatened.”
Levi’s stance has gotten wider. His chest is thrust forward slightly. If Thunder isn’t a complete moron he’ll notice this and not try anything. There is an awkward, almost painful silence as Thunder looks at his fallen colleague and then out past him above the tree line.
“Yes. I understand. Another team will come and retrieve Ragweed. I will escort you safely to the doyenne without physical contact. Cable. Harness.” Given these people’s weird names, I hope he’s asking for what I think he is and not sending more “escorts” down. Still, who is he talking to? I don’t see any kind of comm system. I frisked the guy and he has nothing on him, not even an earpiece.
In three seconds I’m relieved to see a pulley being sent down from the chopper. Still, I find it odd that Thunder has not gone over to Ragweed to make sure he’s okay. I have my back turned to him because, quite frankly, I don’t want to know. I have no idea how they do things here. That might be normal. I’m beginning to wonder if these people, like the trees around us, are clones. It would be a logical reason as to why Thunder isn’t more concerned about Ragweed’s safety. Still, you can’t know what you don’t know and my hope is that my explanation, my very clear vocalization that I felt threatened, will be enough for what just went down.
We make our way to right below the hovering aircraft and its muffled blades. “I’m going first,” Levi tells me. It’s not a suggestion. I put both my hands up in surrender. Thunder is keeping a respectful distance. The device they sent down looks a little like a swing with a crisscross seat belt that you step into. Levi figures it out quickly enough and secures himself in with the carabiner they’ve provided. He holds on to the cables on the side, and once he does Thunder says, “Retract,” and the seat shoots up with alarming speed.
In short order it’s my turn. I get myself in and braced for the ride. This time, when Thunder gives the verbal command, he follows me up in the air with the same impressive speed.
Once I climb into the helicopter I see that it is compact, but there’s enough room for at least six people to sit comfortably on two padded benches. There is no cockpit or jump seat. There isn’t room for a pilot at all. The whole thing is automated. I feel like that’s cool as much as it is terrifying. The doors are mostly windows, so as we begin to ascend and veer off I get a better view of the trees and their odd layout from this vantage point, meant to look wild but really spaced in a sequential pattern, which is easy to discern when you know what you’re looking for.
I don’t get much of a look, though, because this helicopter is fast. And not just regular fast but, like, bullet train in Japan–style fast. The landscape below me becomes a blur, but it only lasts a couple of minutes. The chopper slows as we approach the city. I peer down and look at the entire scope of this place. Everything is gray and green, like a giant stone sundial covered in moss. There are tall high-rises ringing smaller buildings, though not many roads. The few streets branch out like perfectly proportioned sunrays. We are clearly headed to the center of this circle, an impressively large building with a solar-paneled roof in the shape of two giant butterfly wings. The building is concrete, as it seems the other structures in this city are as well, but there is fluidity to it, an odd sense of motion to the heavy architecture.
The helicopter touches down softly and without so much as a bump. The landing pad is a raised cement platform in the middle of a large expanse of grass. This grass, like the ponderosas, is too green, too perfectly mowed. It almost looks like carpeting. The doors open and Thunder solicitously waits behind as Levi and I exit. I see there is a stretch of concrete leading from here to the building.
I also see others. They stop and watch us, and I can’t help staring in turn. Like Thunder and Ragweed, many of these people have famous faces. I see Meryl Streep, Gandhi, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Princess Diana. It’s just too weird. Awesome but weird. My clone theory is starting to feel more and more plausible.
The path leading to the building we are going to starts blinking blue. How they get cement to turn color is another neat trick, but considering what I’ve seen already, it’s almost hardly worth noting. The blinking lights flash more rapidly and turn into arrows, and it’s apparent that this is the pathway we are meant to take. I don’t love being told so explicitly what to do, but I figure this is the fastest way to find out if Ezra is here, so I stay on the path.
We arrive shortly at the entrance and two massive glass doors slide open. I center myself to steady my heart. I have no idea what these people are or what they want from us. I have just injured—more than likely killed—one of their own, so that’s going to play into this equation. On top of that, if Ezra even showed up here, would they tell me? And how will I find him if they won’t? It’s a mix of frustration, fear, and curiosity coursing through me as I walk through the doors.
Once we step inside there are more famous people sprinkled among others I don’t recognize. I notice they are dressed more for comfort than fashion, but there is a certain element of minimalist chic going on. Everyone is wearing loose-fitting cotton or linen clothing. Some of the women wear leggings with long tunics past their knees, almost like traditional Indian dress, but without the vibrant colors. In fact, all the colors are muted: grays, blacks, ivories, and rusts with more browns than reds. The people move silently around us, staring with unabashed moon-eyed curiosity, and it’s unsettling, so I take in my surroundings instead.
The ceilings are incredibly high, at least three stories with long pendulous lights that hang down from the ceiling like necklaces. There are elevators, but we veer away from them and end up at a frosted glass door that slides open with our approach. Inside this room is a man who I don’t recognize and a woman who is Tilda Swinton because of course Tilda Swinton would be here.
Thunder stays at the door, and any trace of his earlier goodwill has dissipated. In a way, I almost find this more imposing version of him comforting. It’s kind of how I expect Jason Momoa would actually be. In the middle of the room is an ivory-colored reclining chair and there is a bunch of equipment lined up on a tray that is hovering a few inches above the ground. I have a sinking feeling I know where this is going. I glance at Levi, who has focused all his attention on the man seated on a low stool by the chair. If I were that man I would be very worried right now. But he does not seem worried at all. His unremarkable face is open and gentle. His posture, though straight, is not rigid.
“My name is Feather,” he opens with quiet confidence. “I am the head of the biomed division here. I understand that you do not want to be touched, but if you will allow me, I can repair your eye in less than ten seconds. Please?” He asks kindly. My eye. It must still be bruised from when Levi hit me on the island. It has been throbbing, a dull ache that I have ignored and, admittedly, my vision hasn’t been 100 percent. There is more than a good chance that he actually fractured my orbital bone or even my maxilla.
I look to the chair and then back again at the man who I suppose is a doctor, or something like it. “How would you fix this?” I ask skeptically.
“We have a patch. It has the ability to instantly heal damaged tissue. It is painless and I promise to apply it only to your eye.” A Band-Aid that can heal cuts and bruises instantly? That’s the kind of thing a Citadel could really use—the kind of thing that would stop our parents from worrying about our time at all those fake martial arts classes ARC says is a mandatory part of the curriculum but which is of course just a cover-up for the injuries we sustain.
“And it is not just your eye. The initial scan our drone sent back before you shot it down revealed that you both were exposed to a dangerous level of radiation. I could fix that as well, but it would require cooperation on your part.”
“Radiation?” asks Levi cuttingly.
“The microwave Earth,” I remind him. I assumed we had just been burnt, but of course there was bound to be more than just toxins in the atmosphere
. These people found it with a blinking light. We don’t have anything like that sort of tech, and now it seems like my earlier paranoia about our lack of technological advancement wasn’t paranoia after all. I think these people probably have a lot of things that would help us, save us even.
Still . . .
“I didn’t notice it before,” I say to Feather calmly. “We were outside. There was a helicopter over our heads. You all look like famous people, except for you. I don’t know who you are,” I tell the man honestly. “But that,” I say, pointing to the woman who is silently standing behind him, “is Tilda Swinton with silver eyes, so I’ve been distracted, but not here. Not now. The thing is, you don’t have a heartbeat. Your chest moves up and down and you blink, but you don’t have a heartbeat.”
Feather looks past me. He is doing that same zoning-out thing that I watched the others do. He quickly shifts his eyes to me after almost twenty seconds and says, “I do not have a heartbeat, but that does not mean I do not want to help you. I promise, I would never hurt you. None of us would ever hurt you. It goes against our very nature. And our nature does not change. Ever. It is why Ragweed did not fight back. He did not even struggle, because he might have accidentally harmed you if he had done so.”
“We’re looking for a friend,” I try, but Feather holds up a single hand.
“Please. I do not want to appear disagreeable. I am not authorized to answer any of your questions. My only job here is to make sure that you are healthy. I am asking that you let me do my job.”
“I think you should let him, Ryn. I think they really can help us and they did let us keep our weapons.” I curl my lip up and throw him an incredulous gaze. Why is he talking like that? Is he trying to good cop/bad cop this situation? Because I may have already killed one of them, so the jig is up on that front. It doesn’t matter how much ass he kisses or how official he tries to sound; they probably won’t see us as anything more than teenage crazies.
The Rift Frequency Page 6