The Rift Coda

by Amy S. Foster

  Today, the street is buzzing. Species of every sort are walking with purpose, talking about what’s happening. They must be hopeful that a return home is possible. Reptilian-skinned Sissnovars walk amiably beside simian-faced Maribehs. Humans are holding hands, huddled close, whispering in one another’s ears.

  The air is damp and cold, the sky teasing snow. I tuck my hands under my pits and press them into my chest to stay warm. Along the sidewalks and gutters there are six or seven metal garbage cans burning; great plumes of pulpy smoke waft in the air. I check one of them out to see what is being destroyed. The signs. Dual-toned posters of different species doing very mundane things. The slogans say things like humanity = happiness and english only!!! I grin when I see the glowing edges of the papers buckle and double back on themselves. ARC kidnapped thousands of people and then convinced them to give up everything they believed in. In this, I must admit my own complicity. I did bring them here in the first place. I should have known better, but I didn’t want to know. My anger at what had been done to me was sometimes the only thing that kept me going. The prospect of violence, of ripping something apart soothed all the parts of me that could never be put back together. My outrage could not be sustained if I felt like there were others who had it worse.

  Now I know it’s all terrible. Everyone is a victim, and at the same time, no one is. These are just average people, but they are going to fight to get out of here. They are going to risk their lives to speak their own language again and for a future generation that they may never even get to have. They, like me, have realized freedom is not the same thing as being free and that fighting is the only thing you can do with the prospect of a life in chains hanging over you—even if the chains are made of memory foam and great Wi-Fi.

  I see a group of SenMachs walking together. There are two faces I don’t recognize, but the other two are Will Ferrell and Carrie Fisher. Princess Leia! I grapple with the urge to run over there and take a selfie because she looks so badass in the SenMach uniform—which is similar to ours, except it’s a light gray color, almost silver. The SenMachs see me and give a small salute. You might think that the robot army would be very stiff and proper, but their languid movements don’t surprise me. Everything they do is calculated and nuanced because it is programmed and not learned.

  I give a salute back to them and continue on my way. There are hundreds, if not thousands of people and troops on the street. My hand is still sticky with Seelye’s blood, and I wipe it uselessly on my thigh. I remind myself that it is okay to be two things at once. I can be buoyed by this scene of blossoming rebellion, of so many different genders and races and colors and shapes coming together with one determined purpose; I can also be so terrified that I bite the inside of my cheek until it bleeds. The upcoming battle doesn’t scare me. The fact that I lit this fire, that I am the one now in charge of feeding it and watching it burn down everything in its wake, has me practically shaking. I can’t help but think there must be someone better qualified to be in charge. Then again, who has experience overthrowing a tyrannical interspecies regime hell-bent on multiversal domination? No one. So I suppose it might as well be me.

  Right before I get to the large stucco walls of the Sugar Skull I realize that something is off. I turn around, resting my back lightly along the collage of plastered-in bottle caps and hand-painted skulls. I keep watching, and still I don’t see what I want to.

  I walk determinedly inside. I am expecting a restaurant, with tables and chairs and members of the UFA looking over plans and talking. Instead, I am assaulted with dozens and dozens of screens and holographic projections of Camp Bonneville and a few other Rift sites. Troops are on computers. Some are comparing notes. This is a proper Command Center. I suppose I shouldn’t find the speed and efficiency with which all the races of the UFA (including our own) got this up, but somehow, seeing this here, makes it feel more real. And why did I think they would be looking over paper plans? This isn’t World War II.

  I clock Levi and make my way over to him. When he sees me, there is a look of absolute relief on his face. It’s like his entire body lets go of a single breath. He opens his mouth but before he can say anything I blurt out, “What happened?

  “Where are the Akshaji?”

  Chapter 22

  The entire room goes still. Everyone looks up from their monitors and tasks and focuses on me. Ezra is leaning against a table, chewing on the end of a pen. I can’t in that moment understand why; it’s not like he’s doing any actual writing. Nerves? Navaa and Arif walk toward Levi and me. Iathan doesn’t need to; he happened to be by the door.

  “You okay?” Levi asks. If two hands wringing and gripping and fidgeting could speak, that’s how he would sound right now. He is off. He actually sounds . . . panicked.

  “I’m fine. They wouldn’t have killed me. Edo is too curious about the Kir-Abisat.” Levi turns away for just a brief second, composing himself before looking at me again.

  “No, but they could have tortured you,” he insists. “You have a bruise on your jaw.” He picks up my left arm. “There’s blood under your nails. Is it yours?” I pull my hand away.

  “How did you even see that?” I look self-consciously at my uniform. I don’t have a mirror, but I assume I look pretty normal. For a person who’s just been taken prisoner anyway. Maybe Seelye did more damage than I realized.

  Seelye.

  “It’s not my blood.” I attempt a coy smile. “I’m not saying that I ripped out Christopher Seelye’s throat,” I blurt out, because technically, I could go to jail for murder, “but I’m not not saying I ripped it out either.” Levi squints his eyes, processing.

  “So you killed the president of this fictitious organization that has no real power. Wonderful,” Iathan says, thoroughly unimpressed. “What about the breikas—the traitors? How many of them did you kill?”

  “If you’re talking about the altered Roones, I thought it best to make my way here after brutally and fatally attacking one of their leaders, fictitious or not. I could have looked for them, but, well, there’s a bunker full of Citadels and only the one me so, you know, priorities. It is good to see you, all of you. But I have to ask one more time: Where is Sairjidahl Varesh?”

  “Yeaaah.” Levi winces so the word is dragged out slowly, like one of those scarves magicians pull out of their mouths. “We have a slight problem there.” I feel my body tighten, as if every joint has suddenly been superglued together. If the Akshaji have reneged on their word—if I ended up giving my arm for Varesh’s amusement, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Whatever it is will involve violence and maiming. Lots of maiming.

  “Perhaps I can explain,” a voice rings out behind me. I turn and see that it is Lupita Nyong’o. Not her, obviously, but the SenMach version of her. “My name is Morning. I have been designated as the liaison between the humans and the SenMachs. I have been coded with additional command functions should that be necessary. However, my task here is to ensure effective communication between our troops.”

  “Well, that is great news. I am really glad that you all are here and I look forward to seeing Feather,” I say warmly. “And our families? They made it onto your Earth without incident?”

  There is a slight lag and my heart climbs up to my throat. If communication is Morning’s wheelhouse, I’m going to have to explain that verbal delays like this aren’t going to work. “The humans arrived on our Earth safely and they have been given the sanctuary Cosmos promised,” Morning tells me without affectation. I have a feeling that these SenMachs aren’t like the ones I’m used to. They were created to be soldiers. There is a hardness to Morning, a distinct inhumanness that I can’t help but notice. Then again, they are, like, two weeks old. Maybe they need time to warm up a little?

  “Great. So why do you need to tell me about the Akshaji then?”

  “The altered Roones have created a sound blockade, much like the one the Faida have implemented on their Earth. It is possible that they even managed to use a variant of
that same code and made it more efficacious. We have all been trying to find a way through the data—looking for what I believe you call a ‘back door.’ We have not been able to do so.”

  I look over to Levi and then Ezra, who just shrugs. “That seems impossible,” I tell her, shaking my head. It still feels weird to have such short hair. My head feels so much lighter. “You are computers basically—no offense. It’s just, I didn’t think there was a system you couldn’t hack into. I don’t get it,” I tell her, genuinely confused.

  “No offense taken,” she tells me matter-of-factly. “Please understand that our capabilities are limited. We are soldiers. Our primary function is to defend and to fight. We are not programmers. This could be a problem handled easily by those back on my Earth. However, since no Rift can now be opened, we have no way of allowing the data to flow freely between us.”

  I bow my head in frustration and dig a few fingers into my bare neck in a bid to ease the tension there. We need those troops, but it’s not just that—Varesh would be overly sensitive to what he perceives as a slight. And, like with any other bully, even the tiniest of grievances would give him permission to escalate things disproportionately. He might not come to our aid, even if we find a way to get to him.

  “Okay.” I nod. I want a shower. I want to eat. I want some time alone with Levi, but this is happening—everything we’ve been preparing for. I am in command, which means that me, the individual, no longer exists. “We need a war council. Right now,” I inform them.

  As soon as I get the words war council out of my mouth, Gomda suddenly appears, out of nowhere.

  “Ryn,” he offers smoothly, “allow me to show you where we’ve set up the senior command post.” Gomda’s hand is gesturing forward and as I begin to walk, all the others follow. I am steered toward the back of the restaurant to a door that leads outside. To what I assume would be the outside patio. Instead, when the door opens, I walk into a massive tent. Tables have been pushed together to form one large one, big enough for the leaders of each delegation. There are holographic screens floating in midair around the space as well as one large one that takes up the entire back wall of the tent.

  “Fantastic work, Gomda. Did you organize all this?” I ask him gratefully. “How have all the factions been settling in?”

  “I delegate. However, it has been a challenge. We have emptied out certain neighborhoods so that distinct races can have their own space,” he announces calmly while taking a seat of his own.

  I snap my head in his direction disapprovingly. “Please explain your decision to relocate the residents. And why you would segregate the troops? We have to learn to live together if we’re going to be putting our lives on the line,” I tell the table occupants tersely. They have all assembled now: Navaa, Arif, Yessenia, Gomda, Sidra, Donav, Morning, Henry, Violet, Levi, Ezra, Boone, Iathan, and a Karekin general named Berj—Vlock’s replacement.

  “The residents were happy to vacate their homes for the troops. We thought with the Akshaji—well. We thought it best that we give them a wide berth,” Henry explains. “Better to prepare for the worst but expect for the best, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m aware. Still, the Immigrants just moved out of their houses? Without incident?”

  “They did, Ryn,” Violet assures me, her voluminous brown hair expertly bunned at the top of her head. “They are scared, but they’re more scared of never being able to leave here. Some Immigrants do want to stay and that’s another conversation, obviously. Still, even the ones who don’t have an Earth they care about going back to? Those residents have friends here, as close as family, whom they know are desperate to return. Everyone is working together.”

  “And we can feed all these people?” I ask no one in particular.

  “We will be using stored food from the Village, but the SenMachs have sent along a literal ton of protein cubes that will keep us from starving should it come to a siege,” Gomda answers evenly. Before I can ask my next question, the door opens and Zaka walks confidently through with another human woman I’ve never seen.

  “Zaka,” I tell him with real warmth. “I was just about to ask where you were.” I pause for a moment, taking in his many layers of warm clothing to keep the winter chill at bay. “And who is this?”

  The petite woman beside him smiles broadly but remains stock-still. “This is Glenys,” Zaka says with affection. “She is not only my betrothed, but my partner in this endeavor. She and I are leading the resistance movement among the Immigrants.” I deliberately keep the smile on my face. I mean, no, I couldn’t see myself falling in love with a Sissnovar, but I suppose if I had to, I could get down with a Faida (okay, real talk, not that hard to imagine). Love adapts. Love finds a path to see through the surface, to bridge all the ways we are different and bloom on common ground. It’s important that I give my immediate approval. I have a feeling we are going to be seeing this more and more. Still, Glenys is standing there awkwardly, not moving, smiling, her eyes darting at me and then to Zaka.

  “Is there a problem?” I ask softly.

  “I’m sorry,” Glenys tells me earnestly. “I don’t know what the protocol is here. Am I supposed to salute or courtesy?” A nervous giggle escapes her mouth. “I’m from a very small town in Missouri. This is all very . . . a lot.”

  “Just take a seat and listen,” I prompt. “If there’s anything pertinent you feel the need to add, you can do so. We’re all getting used to this, so don’t worry about feeling overwhelmed. To some degree, it’s like that for all of us.”

  Glenys nods and they both take a seat. “So, Zaka,” I begin, “Violet was just telling me that there are no problems with Immigrants rehousing. That’s really the case?” It’s not that I think Vi is being overly positive, but Zaka will undoubtedly feel more comfortable giving me the straight facts than a Citadel—scratch that—a member of the UFA whom he doesn’t know.

  “She is correct. All the Immigrants have vacated their homes willingly, gladly. They now reside in only two neighborhoods: the Cotswolds and Cape Cod. The rest of the town has been given over to your troops. Marrakech is empty, of course. In anticipation of the Akshaji.”

  “Look,” I say, leaning across the table so I can get closer to Zaka and his fiancée. “We aren’t going to ask the Immigrants to do any frontline fighting, but they may be called to defend the Village if any of the Citadels get by us after we attack. How many here, realistically, can we depend on for that?”

  The entire table swivels their heads in curiosity to look at Zaka. “About a thousand. And let me tell you,” he says with barely contained hostility, “if it comes to that, I pity the Citadels who would try to take this Village. We may not have altered genes, but we are more than capable in guerrilla tactics. Once again, it seems your altered Roones underestimated the very people they kidnapped to be here. More and more it seems as if they believe a person can be only one thing: a teacher, a doctor, an author. It doesn’t seem that they went beyond current employment when choosing their victims. A fair number of us have many other skill sets. We have been setting booby traps and making bombs since our meeting the other night. Many of us having been secretly planning this day for years.”

  “I assume our people know where these traps are? We can’t afford to lose anyone, especially in friendly fire,” I ask him directly. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m impressed. I just don’t need the hassle of easily preventable accidents.”

  “We’ve got it covered. The Immigrants have it seriously dialed in—I can show you the schematics later,” Boone offers. I wait a beat, wondering when the joke is coming—I’m guessing it will be of the Flintstone variety, with us all riding on the backs of dinosaurs from the Menagerie. Boone just sits back again in his chair. These last few months have changed all of us. I’m glad that Boone is taking this situation seriously, but I do miss the old him, irreverent, cocky, and even overconfident. I suppose there is no room here for humor, of any sort.

  “Okay,” I say, pulling at my
lower lip for just a moment with my thumb and forefinger. I can’t avoid this any longer. I have to know what we’re up against. “Give me the numbers. And if possible, display them on the big screen so we can have a visual. Henry, let’s start with the humans.”

  “There are approximately fifty-six thousand human Citadels. Of that number, twenty-eight thousand have been activated—meaning that the other twenty-eight thousand aren’t old enough yet to have been deployed by ARC.” A cold shudder runs through my body. I don’t let anyone else see it though. I remain perfectly still. That’s a lot of kids. “Twenty-one thousand eighty-seven belong to us. The rest would have either taken months to reprogram or there was something about them that the recruiters felt was untrustworthy.”

  I watch as those numbers appear on the screen behind me in neon green lettering. It is bright, the color of a Rift. I look at the readout and sigh. “It’s unfortunate that we couldn’t reach all of them,” I say reluctantly. “It’s disheartening to think that we might have to kill some of our own because they were loners or simply unpopular.”

  “Ryn,” Henry jumps in, “we did the best we could given the time constraints. Maybe if we had another two or three weeks . . .” He trails off. I think he’s just as disappointed as I am.

  “No, I get it,” I assure him. “The fact that we got as many as we did is a testament to your plan and your ability to execute it. You should all feel really proud of what you accomplished.

  “As I said to Levi,” I announce, switching gears because there’s no point in dwelling on what could have been, “I killed Seelye. But before I did, he told me there are adult Citadels. That the altered Roones reluctantly conceded to the US government, possibly other governments as well, and modified black-ops soldiers. I don’t know how many.”

  “I may be able to help answer that,” Morning pipes in efficiently. “Five point seven minutes after our arrival here, we sent out multiple, very sophisticated drones. They are not only capable of defending this area from an aerial attack, but they have been monitoring Camp Bonneville in stealth mode for hours. In the last thirty minutes, seventeen Rifts were opened in quick succession—presumably after you killed Christopher Seelye. Without a leader, it appears as if the altered Roones have now taken complete control. If there are 16,433 human Citadels at the base currently, we can extrapolate that there are 9,520 adult troops who have been genetically modified. That is the combined current total of humans on the base.”