The Rift Coda

by Amy S. Foster

  “Well,” he says in a huff. “You are a rude thing. I was going to show you our infamous Akshaj hospitality, but clearly, predictably, you want to fight. I am the Sairjidahl. I would never sully my hands with your blood, but he can do it. Parth?” Varesh says and snaps his fingers.

  A massive, hulking Akshaj Citadel steps forward. I keep my face neutral, but I can see out of the corner of my eye Levi’s body stiffen. Parth pulls two long blades that had been scabbarded to his thighs. He then grabs two large knives that had been attached to a silver harness around his chest. He begins to whip his arms around furiously. It is a breathtaking, mesmerizing dance of steel and postures that he holds for a split second before moving into the next one. He is all beauty and deadly grace.

  I consider, for a moment, my options. What I want to do is just take out my gun and shoot him in the head Indiana Jones style, but I suppose it wouldn’t be very sporting of me. What I find interesting is why the Akshaji would be worried about humans to begin with? Why would we be of any concern to them? Then again, I see plenty of purple bodies around here but no Immigrants and, more importantly, no altered Roones. Navaa had said that they were paranoid to the point of mania, but I think it’s more. I think they are xenophobic . . . to the extreme.

  Parth moves closer. I squat down, gathering momentum in my thighs, and then I push up, jumping more than ten feet in the air. I somersault and land behind him. Before Parth can even react, I reach up and catch his neck in the crick of my elbow. I break it swiftly, like a walnut shell, using my strength and the weight of his bent-back body. I release him and he drops to the floor with a jangly thud. I turn around and face Varesh once again.

  “That was not amusing,” he barks and his lone voice echoes off the chamber walls. “At all.”

  I can’t tell if he’s joking or being petulant. Either way he’s playing with me. I look him squarely in the eyes, narrowing my own. I give Parth’s body a hard swift kick and he goes flying. The Akshaj Citadels and their minions have to duck until after a dozen or so feet Parth lands once again. This time the thud is much louder, and his body slides across the smooth floor.

  “Brute force,” Varesh says as he sits taller on his throne. “It’s a trick, an illusion. Those bald-headed bastards gave you a gift, but you are still nothing more than a girl. You’ve been a Citadel for a few dozen full moons. It is impossible for you to understand the true nature of war or sacrifice.”

  Is there even any point explaining that the altered Roones started with me a decade ago? That in truth, I have sacrificed an entire childhood, intimacy, and family—not to mention my innocence? I fear that my protestations will only confirm his suspicions. A familiarity with suffering is not something you can prove in words, only actions.

  “Despite what you think,” I tell him calmly, “there is a great deal we need to discuss. I would not have come here unless our situation was dire.” I make a point of sweeping my eyes around the room. Everyone has stopped what they are doing and is looking at the warrior king and me with rapt attention. Parth’s body has been given a wide berth. A dark pool, looking more like oil than blood, has begun to seep from the back of his head onto the floor.

  “Oh, yes, I imagine it is quite dire for you. We, however, will be just fine.” Varesh is now perfectly still. Any thoughts he may have entertained of turning us into entertainment are past. While I might be a puny human girl, I still dispatched one of his own in under five seconds.

  “Where are they? Are they here? Did you kick them out or are they prisoners?” I ask boldly.

  At that, Varesh smiles, but only with his mouth. His eyes are focused. Intense.

  “The Roones are treacherous cowards. They thought to control us—they killed thousands of us with the push of a button. But, one of their infernal miniature God machines did not respond to the command. A lone Akshaj killed every single one of them at that Rift site and warned us of their plan. And so we killed them all. Just like we executed the Faida spies they sent.”

  Arif and Navaa don’t speak Akshaj. Which is good. We all need to stay calm. No sudden movements, no impassioned speeches. We must all act like we have stepped onto a land mine and if we take our foot off it, we die.

  “The Faida that came here were not spies. I am not a spy. I promise you there is more to this story than you know. Please let me tell it to you, because whether you know it or not, we need each other.”

  I look over to Levi who nods his head slightly in approval. Then he goes back to scanning the room as he’s done since we got here—for snipers, assassins, a sudden attack from one of the Citadel guards who are now looking at all of us with seething glares that are growing more intense by the minute.

  Varesh once again places his arms on the tiered rests of the throne. “You have earned the right to tell your tale, girl, through combat. But do not imagine for one moment that there is anything that you can do for us. You are supposedly the greatest achievement of our enemies. And I find it very hard to believe that you are not working for them.”

  I gotta say, this is not how I thought this was going to go down. I had no idea that the Akshaji had broken their alliance with the altered Roones. On the surface, this is good news. But, considering the way they are treating us, it might not even matter. I begin to speak, hoping that my story is convincing enough for the Sairjidahl to even listen, let alone consider my words.

  “Well,” Varesh says when I have finished. “That is a compelling tale. I might even believe it. However, it does not matter. We will never align ourselves with you or anyone else, ever again. We travel through the Rifts and take what we want. You must have noticed—there are no Immigrants here.”

  I look around, darting my eyes quickly over the scantily clad civilians. If I was a betting sort of person, I would have said the odds were high that the Akshaji would have slaves. Their hatred of other races must run so deep that they won’t even allow an Immigrant to serve them. That can’t bode well for us.

  “There is one absolute that I know to be true,” he says to me as he leans forward, various fingers gripping at the fabric of his seat so that his body looks almost as if it’s floating. “Only the Akshaji can be trusted. We are the only race worthy of being Citadels. Everyone else is weak and undisciplined.”

  I close my eyes in an attempt to center myself, to sift through the thoughts and offenses that are floating around this grand and ridiculous room like the billowing smoke pouring from the incense burning in the braziers. “I do believe that you are a fearsome and strong people, regardless of Roone intervention.” I take two delicate steps forward. “But if you believe that you are in any way safe, that they would just let you live to conquer and pillage a Multiverse that they believe is their domain, then you are not only ignorant, but irresponsible as well, because you will get everyone here killed.”

  Varesh laughs once again. This time, though, it is a hollow-sounding thing, a quarter jangled in a tin cup. “We are not afraid of those skinny black-eyed dolts or the hairy snout-nosed creatures who smell as bad as they fight. The Daithi are gone—if you are to be believed—but we did not fear them, either. The Faida are almost decimated and you—you are a bunch of children. While your genetic weapons might have a slight superiority, it is easy enough to wrestle a knife away from a toddler.”

  “And the Settiku Hesh?” I ask bitingly. “And all the Citadels they are planning to make using races we don’t even know about yet? They keep improving each crop every time. They might not come for you tomorrow, or next year even. But they will come. Even if it’s just to train the new and improved Citadels they will likely make. They will use you for target practice. We have a chance to stop them. It would be foolish to overlook the advantage now, before they get any stronger.”

  At that, Varesh stands. His guards place their hands on their weapons and I can hear the faint rustle of the Faida’s wings, ready to unfurl and take to the air to defend us. Varesh walks closer, a slow, predatory crawl that makes me want to back away. Instead, I hold my grou
nd, maintaining eye contact.

  When he gets just a few inches away, he does a very thorough examination of my body. He is a beautiful creature and up close, even more so. His eyes, which I thought were brown, are actually a deeper shade of a purple, like a ripened eggplant. His cheekbones are high, his nose regal and aquiline. He smells of amber and freshly plowed earth.

  “You are young and so to you, it is always about the fight,” he whispers almost sensually in my ear. “You leap from one conflict to the next and your blood, how it must burn and boil, taunting you, spurring you on. You ache to destroy.”

  “You are wrong, sir,” I tell him firmly. “I ache for freedom. They have me under their thumb and I want sole ownership of my destiny. We can overthrow them. Together.”

  Varesh takes a step closer to me. I grit my teeth. I am learning that personal space might be a particularly human trait. “Maybe,” he says, in English, “but maybe not.” I jerk my head back as my eyes widen in surprise, and he continues. “I am not a stupid man. I know full well what is coming.”

  “And you’re just going to let it happen? You won’t fight with us because we aren’t Akshaj? Like you said, you aren’t stupid, you must see what we could accomplish if we align?” I know my voice has gone up a decibel. I am trying not to get excited. But Varesh has just admitted he knows what the altered Roones will do and because I don’t have six arms I’m not worthy of fighting beside? That’s a bunch of bullshit right there.

  “You don’t understand, girl. But listen to me now when I tell you that we have already lost. You seek to make me even more desperate? You want me to admit to my people that I believe that we are equals?” Once again his eyes flitter over my body, resting for just a few moments on my hands. His chin turns upward as if turning away from a noxious smell, like I got into my mother’s perfume and poured the whole bottle of it on my head. “You may be able to fight, but none of you have any . . .”—Varesh stops midsentence searching—“honor. No. That is wrong. You are doing what you believe to be right, so I suppose in your own way you are honorable. What you lack is character. You have no character.”

  I have been accused of many things. I have been called a liar, a killer, cold and calculating. I have also been beaten, tortured, abused, molested, and experimented on and yet here I stand.

  Unyielding.

  I tilt my chin down but keep my eyes on him. “You want to talk about character? Honor? Well, I’m not the one who started talking in English, Sairjidahl Varesh,” I say, emphasizing the word Sairjidahl because it means “supreme commander” in Akshaj and I don’t think his sly use of a language that most of his people probably don’t understand is particularly commanderish of him. “How much character can you have if you have to keep this conversation private from your own troops?”

  His eyes narrow and his face is transformed. He is wearing a shadow. Something twisted and dark. I’m going to lose him now, if I haven’t already, if I don’t shut my stupid mouth and backpedal. “Look,” I say through my clenched teeth. “I believe you are mistaken. There must be something I can do to prove that I have character enough to fight beside you.” I practically choke on the words. The thought of having to prove anything to him makes my stomach turn.

  With my contrition, Varesh’s face rearranges itself. He is thinking. Pondering. Four different hands rub a thumbnail over the pads of his index fingers. “No, girl,” and I once again inwardly flinch, just as I have every time he calls me “girl.” “It is you that is mistaken. You want to go to war because you believe that you will win. Anyone would fight given those odds. What you fail to understand about the Akshaj people, what your spies could not tell you, is that we believe combat is the only path to our truest selves. Whatever revelations are to be had in this universe are made clear only when death is riding beside us. You see, we are the fight. We are the war. To win or lose—two sides of the same coin and hardly the point.”

  “Well,” I tell him as I straighten my spine. “Honestly? I don’t think our chances are actually that good. But I don’t think that trying to even the odds, to give ourselves the best possible chance to win, makes me shameful or indecent—or weak.”

  Varesh makes a noise, a thoughtful “hmmm,” and then he turns his back on me and sits down once again on his vainglorious throne. “What if I took something from you, though?” He begins loudly, and in his own language. “What if I took something that is precious, that defines who you are? Would you still be able to find a way to fight then?”

  “Like what?” I practically snort. “My life? Because if you kill me, if you kill any of us, we won’t stop. None of this ends,” I tell him boldly.

  “Now that is stupid,” Varesh exclaims with cold condescension. “If I killed you, how would you fight? But, no, I’m not speaking metaphorically. I mean, what if I actually took something that you need. Something that makes you who you are, a soldier.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I tell him, although my heart begins to beat a little faster now.

  “Yes, I suppose I have confused things,” Varesh says. “If I actually took it, it wouldn’t mean much, would it? No, you would have to give it up as a sacrifice, as proof that you would keep on fighting no matter what. That losing this thing would mean you yourself would almost certainly die, but your cause may win.”

  “Fine,” I say in a rush. “I freely offer up any sacrifice you choose if in return you agree to an alliance.”

  “Ryn!” Levi jumps in. “No, Sairjidahl Varesh, if there is something to be sacrificed, let me be the one to offer it. Ryn is our leader.”

  “I think that’s the point, Levi,” I tell him softly. “As the leader, this is the price.”

  “Exactly. She actually understands. Perhaps you are not so unworthy as I thought,” Varesh says with a sickening purr. “Now, hold out your arm, Citadel Ryn Whittaker, and kneel.”

  Varesh is wearing a sly grin. There is absolute silence in the massive room save for the exploding sound of my heart rate soaring and the noise, the ear-shattering squeal of this Earth’s tone screaming inside of my skull. Fear has kicked down my mental barricades. I don’t know what he wants. Submission? Does he want me to beg? He’s a thousand kinds of wrong if he believes that I won’t sacrifice my pride to save everyone and everything I know and love. Besides, that isn’t even pride, it’s vanity.

  “You can’t actually be considering this, Ryn. You can’t trust him!” Levi says in a panicked rush. He’s switched over to Russian. As if speaking in a different language will make a difference. As if Varesh hasn’t already figured out my biggest secret. I don’t fear death. I fear weakness. I fear being helpless to save the people I love. “Do not take a single step in his direction or I will knock you out myself,” Levi warns.

  “Nyet,” I answer stoically. “It actually makes a kind of sick sense. He needs proof that I’m not lying—that we aren’t working for the altered Roones. He needs assurance that we’re dedicated, that we won’t switch sides if shit goes sideways and he needs to do it in the kind of bloodthirsty way that will satisfy his soldiers.”

  Levi looks around the room, for an answer to this or an escape, but it’s pointless. We both know that there is no way out, just like we both know that, bigger picture, however he tries to humiliate me doesn’t matter if it saves our lives down the line. I look over to Navaa and Arif, who may not know exactly what is going on, but who are well aware that something unpleasant is about to happen. Their faces are stone masks. But I know, if Navaa was in my place, she would do the same.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to do this,” Levi whispers.

  “It’s fine,” I tell him grimly.

  I step toward Varesh.

  “Again, I will ask you to kneel. I’m not trying to subjugate you, girl, I suggest this only to save you the embarrassment of falling,” he says almost kindly, as if he were the nicest guy alive and he is doing me a favor.

  “I won’t fall,” I practically hiss back at him.

  “I understand
that you’ve been trained, girl, but you are made of flesh and bone. When your arm is severed, all the discipline in the world won’t keep you on your feet.”

  There is a beat of absolute stillness as I let Varesh’s words sink in. I honestly thought he was going to make me scrape and bow. I thought he wanted me prostrate and exposed. At the very worst I imagined he might carve into me in some ritualistic kind of proof of loyalty—a blood oath of sorts.

  He wants to cut my arm off.

  Levi explodes. He is yelling at me, at Varesh, explaining what they’re asking for in Faida, and then Arif and Navaa get in on the action. Varesh just sits there, wearing a sly, wicked smile.

  So this is the price for the alliance? Varesh doesn’t need my arm. He doesn’t even need to prove himself the stronger Citadel, for, surely, cutting off the limb of a single human girl won’t do that.

  I recognize in that split second that this is the only way Varesh will align with us. How else can he allow his troops to be sullied by commingling with “inferior” species without first proving that he is the master? My character means as much to him as shit scraped off a boot. Varesh is asking for my arm. If he appears weak, he may be deposed and what will the next Sairjidahl ask for? My head? I have no choice and that wily fucker knows it.

  “Ryn,” Levi warns, moving toward me.

  “Levi, stop!” I command. “This is going to happen, and you will stand down!”

  For a moment we just stare at each other, the fire in his green eyes intense, but I know they don’t come close to what my own eyes are showing. Slowly, deliberately, he nods, and he doesn’t even flinch as Arif and Navaa come on either side of him, Navaa whispering what I hope are soothing words in his ear.

  Not that it should matter. Levi is a soldier, through and through, and he has his orders.

  I turn back to Varesh. “You won’t be able to cut through my uniform. I’ll have to take the top part off,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. Varesh shrugs as if this is a detail he isn’t interested in, though his eyes stay locked on me as I slowly unzip the fabric down to my waist. I slide it over my arms and tie the dangling pieces around my belly button. I want to throw up. I want to run away. I can’t do either of these things.