The Rift Frequency

by Amy S. Foster

  “Woot,” I say, raising a single hand, my heart gushing a little overtime as Ezra catches my eye for a second before getting back to work. I turn, still smiling, to Levi, who is annoyed. I shrug, and tuck an invisible piece of hair behind my ear. I’m sure that woot is probably the lamest word I could have used, but I couldn’t help it. The shutting-up thing isn’t working. I’m used to working out a problem with Ezra as a team, together, sharing information. This new role he’s taken on is giving me way too much nervous energy. On one hand, I’m thrilled he’s learned so much. On the other hand, I can’t help but feel that this intel is too dangerous. He seems to be aware of how deadly these Citadels are but only from the vantage point of an observer. I’m having a hard time taking all this in and I’ve been training for years. He’s been doing this for a few weeks and he’s a gamer. Does this actually feel real to him? Does he know that he could be killed by any number of people or species for having this intel?

  “The Orsalines are insanely strong. Probably the strongest of all the Citadels. But they aren’t so fast, and they have average or below-average intelligence. We assume that, because of their genesis, they would be the most loyal of all the Citadel races. Maybe even impossible to turn.” I notice Ezra’s use of the word we and I wince a little. For all his brilliance, Ezra is new at this. A partnership with the Roones may be the best move, but until there’s a human Citadel consensus, there can be no we, not yet.

  I keep staring at the vivid, and quite gruesome, images of the Orsalines. What an odd choice for the altered Roones to make. Strategically it’s quite dumb. They look ridiculous, like bears in combat suits, like some fucked-up seventh-grader’s idea of a funny Halloween costume, unless that’s part of the strategy. I suppose if you’re facing down a weird version of a roided-out circus bear, it might throw you.

  Ezra tosses those pictures out of the way and a new crop levitates in front of our eyes. “Next we have the Daithi. From what I can tell, they were chosen for their stature. The Spiradaels are tall, like the Karekins; the Orsalines are strong; and this species is relatively tiny, like the altered Roones themselves. Not one of them is over five feet. The knot-work tattoos that cover their bodies might look familiar. They are very closely aligned with what we know from our history as the Celts, or Picts. All of them have black hair and blue eyes, without exception. I think the altered Roones looked at this warrior species as a way to bring stealth and speed into the equation. The Daithi are also the first race to create female Citadels. They ran extensive experiments to see if they made better or worse soldiers. Unsurprisingly, they found that there was no real difference. Up until this point, the altered Roones recruited species that already had qualities they believed they could enhance via genetic mutation. So the Daithi became faster and even more adept at subterfuge. However, once they came across the Faida, their thinking changed.”

  Ezra spreads his arms and a slew of new pictures lines up above us. I scrunch up my eyes and tilt my head. “Did the altered Roones do that?” I ask in genuine surprise.

  “No. They’re basically humans, with wings. I mean, the eyes are a little bigger, the bone structure a little sharper, but that’s how they’re born,” Ezra answers.

  “Angel Citadels. Fantastic,” I mutter.

  “Okay, so, here’s what I got from Edo’s research. The Karekin mutation was crudely done—no offense, dudes,” Ezra says to the guards, who look back at him squarely. I doubt they speak English, but I suspect they would have remained silent anyway. “The altered Roones had been doing genetic experimentation with all the species that dumped out from their Rifts. So the Karekins are basically genetic Frankensteins. They’ve been altered with at least fifteen other races. The Roones altered themselves with some DNA splicing, which changed their appearance some, but mostly they managed to ramp up their intelligence by mutating their own genes. Over the years, the process got better and more efficient. Cross-species DNA splicing is always going to be part of the equation, but the Faida are such a remarkable race that they’ve figured, why not just enhance everything as opposed to just one or two of the species’ already established characteristics? And that’s what they did. They made them twice as fast. Twice as strong and twice as smart.”

  “So what made them change their MO?” Levi asks, intently staring at the photos and videos of the Faida, which not only look like footage from a big blockbuster movie, but are as intimidating as fuck.

  “Hubris,” Iathan says with a flick of disgust.

  “Yeah, I mean, it makes a better Citadel, but”—I inhale quickly and look down at my uniform—“a Citadel that excels in just one thing, like the Daithi with their stealth, is going to be not only easier to control, but easier to deploy for certain missions.”

  I hear Iathan sigh a thin, reedy breath before he turns and addresses me. “That makes sense to you, but you must remember: Our rogue brothers and sisters do not believe they have done anything wrong. It’s quite the opposite, in fact. And because of that, they don’t worry about something like control. Rather, they believe that they are entitled to the Citadels’ complete loyalty. And don’t forget the kill switch and what you call the ‘Blood Lust’—these are as effective controls as they need. Although, from the intelligence we’ve gathered, we can conclusively say that the Blood Lust was only used with the humans.”

  The term Blood Lust makes me twitch. The Blood Lust is the last friggin’ thing I want to think about with both Ezra and Levi in the same room. Together. I stick a thumbnail between my teeth and bite.

  “Something you want to say, Ryn?” Ezra asks. Had I actually groaned? Or is it my body language that’s got him wondering? I shake the thoughts from my head and redirect my attention.

  “Yeah, I’m just thinking about the ones, regardless of species, that aren’t given the great gift of genetic fuckery. Conflict would be inevitable. History has proven that once one group believes it is superior to another it usually leads to war. I mean, eventually, after abuse and slavery,” I say, exasperated.

  “You don’t really believe they care about that, do you?” Iathan says without emotion.

  I shake my head deliberately. “Negative.” I answer in a voice so deadpan it would give a Vulcan pause. Iathan simply flicks his thick eyebrows in my direction.

  “Good,” he says deliberately. “You may proceed.”

  “And finally,” Ezra says, keeping us on track, “we have the Akshaji.” Images of this fifth race pop up in the projection in front of us.

  “Whoa” is about all I can manage.

  “Yeah, they’re pretty hard-core,” Ezra agrees before continuing on. “The Akshaji are interesting for more than a few reasons. From Edo’s notes we now know that the Akshaji actually already had Rift technology, or some approximation of it, a couple thousand years ago. They visited many iterations of Earth, including ones like our own. As you can see from the way they look, there’s little doubt that their appearance kick-started Hinduism and Indian mythology. They have six hands and they adorn the basic Citadel uniform with a lot of extra-fancy gold stuff. I mean jewelry, if you can call it that.

  “However, somewhere along the way the race took a step—well, several steps, miles, actually—backward. Infighting, revolutions, some basic extreme fundamentalism, and they lost most of their advanced technology, including the ability to Rift. That was the Roones’ way in. They offered them limited Rift data in exchange for a fighting force that they could genetically alter.

  “Again, they enhanced everything: speed, strength, stealth, and intelligence, by about a triple margin. You do not want to mess with an Akshaj. Not only are they insanely good soldiers, but they seem to be morally ambiguous. I think they like to kill, but that might be a by-product of their genetic mutation that the altered Roones deliberately left out of the human-Citadel cocktail.”

  I look all around the room, which is now absolutely teeming with pictures and videos of these incredibly diverse and interesting races. They are all so different, but I do notice one stri
king similarity: our patches. What a kick in the ass. We’ve been fighting all this time under a Roone banner. The observation leads me to the most obvious question.

  “So why us?” I have to ask aloud. “I mean, why humans? We aren’t that special. We aren’t especially big or strong or smart and we have just the two hands.”

  “The altered Roones wanted to push it as far as they could,” Ezra says as he, too, looks around the room at all the other Citadels. “They needed to start with you as children in order to accomplish the kind of absolute genetic alterations they wanted to do. This meant that a lot of requirements had to be met. And believe me, according to Edo’s records, many other races were considered. But humans on Earths like ours are technologically advanced enough to accept Roone technology without thinking it was mystical or magical. Beyond that, our Earths work within a geopolitical system that requires balance and secrecy in order to function effectively. They posited, and rightly so, that when the Rifts opened, governments would scramble to keep them hidden from the rest of the world in order to maintain that balance. And that’s exactly what happened: The Rifts opened, ARC formed and then got desperate. Recruiting children seemed a fair enough trade to keep the world safe not only from Immigrants, but from total socioeconomic collapse.

  “And it turns out humans make great Citadels. Our bodies are incredibly well proportioned. We have an excellent capacity to store energy inside our cells, and even more important, the plasticity of our brains is exceptional. On paper, human Citadels are the fastest, strongest, and smartest. But against all the other Citadels? You can’t beat the Roones alone. You’re going to have to convert at least two other races. Statistically, anyway.”

  I clench my jaw and gulp. The weight of this new information doesn’t hit me so much as land on my back and jump up and down, squeezing my ribs and compacting my lungs. It’s too much. It seems impossible, insurmountable. How do we get at least two other Citadel races on our side when a civil war broke out over control at Battle Ground—and we were all human?

  Well, Ryn—you got what you wanted.

  Because I had wanted answers. And now I have them—kind of. Edo warned me that her laptop would give them to me, but she also said that I wouldn’t necessarily get to the truth. She was right. There is no one truth here. Everyone has an agenda and everyone believes that they are the only ones fighting the good fight. I understand why Iathan keeps saying that Edo and the altered Roones don’t consider themselves anything other than the heroes in this epic they’ve created. This is important because, at some point, if I’m going to get close enough to neutralize her and the others, I am going to have to feed into this delusion. I’m going to have to bow and scrape and kneel in gratitude to them. Convince them that I believe I’ve been saved from the boring life of a regular human being.

  In that moment, I make a decision. I forgive myself for all the lies I’ve ever told, because it was all just practice. Practice for the most important lie I am ever going to tell—that I understand why Edo did what she did, and that I am thankful that they chose me.

  So that I can then kill her.

  I turn my attention to Iathan. “You’ve clearly done extensive recon on the other Citadels, but have you approached any of them? Or have any of your spies ever been caught?”

  “I was about to ask the same thing,” Levi chimes in.

  Iathan looks at the videos and photos that are swimming around all our heads like a swarm of bees. The willow-thin Spiradaels, the furry bulk of the Orsalines, the lightning-fast reactions of the Daithi, the angelic majesty of the Faida, and the ferocious whirling hands of the Akshaji. “No,” he says rather quietly. “We felt that the most prudent course of action was to wait for at least one Citadel race to see the altered Roones for the evil lunatics they really are.”

  Even on the surface that seems like a tragically stupid plan.

  Iathan is about to continue, but I hold up my hand and close my eyes. “Stop,” I tell him. The weight continues to press and squeeze. Each breath is now being pushed out in short, laborious huffs. “I’m going to clarify something before we go any further. You need to know that I don’t care about this Earth. And it’s not because it’s your people who started all this.” Iathan starts to object, but I speak over him. “I told you to stop.” He shuts his mouth.

  “Believe me, I get it. It wasn’t really you, at least not from your perspective. But from mine, you’re all Roones. That said, I have to concede that our options are limited, which is why I’m willing to at least discuss an alliance. All the same, though, let’s not disrespect this process when it’s at its most fragile by building it on a foundation of bullshit. You need us and we need you. The only thing we have in common is an enemy.”

  Iathan strokes his beard and looks down at the floor for a moment. “You are right,” he finally says, with a tone that is more regretful than I expected. “My main concern is rebuilding this Earth free from the fear that we will be attacked by the other Roones. However,” he says as he leans in toward me and Levi, “if you are under the impression that I do not care what was done to you, or that I do not feel some measure of responsibility, then you are wrong. I am the leader of my people, and perhaps if we had fought harder or smarter, none of this would have happened to you or the other Citadels. Admittedly, I . . .” Iathan pauses and swallows. I see the Karekins in the room suddenly take significantly more interest in him, and even his spies move in closer, as if to shield him. If we were wolves, he would be leaving his throat exposed with this admission. The others don’t have to understand his words to see how his body language has changed, and they clearly want to protect the alpha. For perhaps the first time since I’ve met him, I actually feel a twinge of respect for him as he goes through with it anyway. “I am regretful,” Iathan says softly, solemnly. “So while you might not care what happens to us, I assure you, Ryn, I most certainly do not share your apathy.”

  I dig my nails into my palm for just the briefest of seconds. I get fighting and running, and sometimes (obviously not all the time) following orders, but nuance is hard for me. It’s hard for me to take a definitive stand when I am surrounded by conditions that are both right and wrong.

  “Okay,” I say while folding my hands in front of me. “I guess the view from where I’m sitting right now is entirely self-serving. But I’ve been in enough battles to know that view can change. And the victors are almost always the ones who are willing to shift perspective. I am a lot of things, but fortune-teller is not one of them. Who knows what the future will bring? For the immediate future, let’s just call this a mutually beneficial alliance and start with a plan.”

  “I say we pick a Citadel race and capture a single soldier,” Levi offers. “We give them the facts. We show them irrefutable proof of what the Roones are and what they’ve done and what they’re most likely to do—which is enslave them—and turn them into another version of the Settiku Hesh. All it takes is one person to start asking questions. Ryn is proof of that.”

  It’s a sound argument. As I take a hard look at all the evidence floating around me, I realize there are a few problems, first of which is that, while these species are Citadels, they are not humans. They will not act or react like us. But it’s not like all humans reacted with a parade when we told them about what Ezra and I had learned.

  God—how long ago was that?

  “Well,” I say finally, “I think there’s merit to Levi’s suggestion.” From across the room, in Ezra’s direction, I hear a little snort. Without advanced hearing, I doubt anyone else besides Levi and I would have heard the same. I am going to have to deal with this. And it’s going to suck. Right now, though, there are far more important things to consider than Ezra’s feelings. Add to that the fact that he hasn’t supplied any solutions of his own means—so right now Levi is more valuable. So I build on what he’s given us.

  “One major concern is the drugs,” I say. “We can’t forget that it’s the drugs that are keeping the majority of the Citadels in line.
At least, I think so. Iathan? Does your recon include that information? Or, Ezra? Does Edo mention it?”

  “The Citadels are all given various doses, combining different compounds based on each species’ biology, but yes, the mind-controlling drugs are in play,” Ezra says with authority.

  “That means this can’t be done in the field. We’ll have to capture someone and bring them back here. We wait for the cocktail to clear their system and while we’re doing that, we create a red pill made specifically for their body chemistry. I assume you can do that, Mr. President?” Amazingly, Levi says this without irony.

  He does love an appropriate chain of command.

  One of Iathan’s spies leans over and whispers something in his ear. Iathan’s small eyes narrow to thumbnail slivers. The spy backs away, melting among his comrades.

  “That is quite a significant security risk for us,” Iathan states. He does not agree or disagree. I know what he’s looking for.

  “So is having people whispering secrets to you as if we can’t be trusted,” I say. “But forget that for now, because I think I share your concerns. So I’ll say this: If we can’t convince the other Citadels to reason—if they are intent on remaining blindly aligned with the altered Roones—then we execute them.”

  “Ryn!” Ezra cries.

  “What? If they don’t come over to our side, we’ll have to kill them anyway. There’s going to be a war, Ezra. If we can’t convince the other Citadels to break ties with the people who are controlling them—and us—what do you think our options are?”

  Ezra gapes as he looks at me. He’s making a strange noise with his mouth, almost an airless grunt. I glance at Levi. He is blessedly looking at the floor—an attempt, no doubt, to be diplomatic, given where we are. I swear to God, if I so much as hear him snigger . . .