The Rift Frequency

by Amy S. Foster

  “What are your names?” the barkeep demands. I don’t like his interrogative tone. At all. But there are so many people here that, for now, I think it’s best we play along. I scramble to come up with an old-school name that might make me sound like I belong here, kicking myself for not thinking we’d need them before we barged in here. Unfortunately, what I come up with is:

  “Daenerys Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, called Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons. And this is . . .” I look at Levi, who is just shaking his head in frustration, “my companion . . . Joffrey Baratheon?”

  The entire bar is silent now. I should have just gone with “Daenerys.”

  “So you’re a queen?” the barkeep asks, barely able to keep from laughing.

  “It’s more of an unofficial title . . . like a fun term of endearment?”

  Levi is gritting his teeth and holding on to the handles of our packs with white knuckles. I don’t care. I’m not afraid of these people, and even though I need answers, the vibe in this place is so sketchy that I think asking about e-mail servers will only make things worse. It’s time to hightail it out of here. But, casually, no need to get anyone further riled by the super-soldier-speed thing.

  “And where are you from—Your Majesty?” he asks in a condescending tone.

  “North,” Levi answers in one short burst.

  “I can see by your packs that you must have traveled a great distance. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll give you some water.” It is a kind offer, but it doesn’t sound the least bit kind coming out of his mouth. He’s given us an order. I feel a gentle squeeze on the back of my arm. Levi is telling me it’s time to go. I don’t need to worry about the Blood Lust—his whole body is tensed, ready for a fight.

  “No need. Thank you.” Levi and I turn, and my adrenaline immediately starts to race when I see half a dozen police officers walk through the door.

  Interesting.

  Judging by the speed with which they have arrived, the bartender must have hit a panic button.

  These new men are not dressed in togas but black pants and long black shirts covered by some sort of Kevlar breastplates. They’re even wearing a modified version of legionary helmets, complete with nose guards. The effect, which should be intimidating, actually makes me laugh. They look like a bunch of dudes dressed up as Batman for a comic convention.

  We walk slowly toward them. “Halt,” one says, without hostility. He grabs my wrist and runs some kind of scanner over the diamond pattern. Shit. Not even the SenMachs could have seen this one coming.

  “Under section 7 of the Slavery Act of New Rome, subsection 3.22, wherein no slave shall enter a restaurant, bar, tavern, or any other public business where food and drink is served, without his or her master or a representative of his or her master present, I am detaining you both.”

  An overwhelming surge of self-righteous indignation sweeps over me. This notion of ownership, of being forced against your will into a life you didn’t choose, for the most arbitrary of reasons, unhinges me. It hits way too close to home. I know it’s stupid to be outraged. I know it’s not logical or particularly smart, but being here, right here in this moment, I want to show them all a thing or two about what real power looks like.

  “You have slaves?” I say in disgust. “There are TVs over the bar!” I yelp, pointing wildly behind me. “You have cars. There’s an ATM machine in the corner and you actually have slaves?”

  Levi leans in and whispers in my ear, “If you’re going to go into a whole ‘I Have a Dream’ speech, Khaleesi, now is not the time.”

  “What language is that?” another one of the police officers asks while pushing forward.

  “English,” I answer honestly. There’s no point in lying now, and I’d rather buy some time trying to figure out how to get us out of here. Who can I take out first? Do I have to take them all out? Right now we’re being arrested, presumably as runaway slaves, but that’s a long way from murder. So, no killing. We just have to get outside long enough to open a Rift.

  “Well, then, perhaps you are not slaves after all, but spies,” threatens the same policeman. He might actually be scary if I were a slave, or a spy, but quite honestly, it’s just amusing. He doesn’t seem to think so. “You’re coming with us, now.” He grabs my arm and yanks it toward him.

  Oh buddy.

  “Bad idea.”

  I haul back and punch him in the throat. His helmet goes flying and I hear him struggling like a car engine being turned over, to take in oxygen. Another officer rushes me from behind, and I kick him so hard that he goes sailing all the way across the bar, landing on a table, which collapses under his weight.

  The four remaining policemen scramble toward me. I punch one in the gut, and when he’s doubled over, I flip him up and backward over my shoulder. Levi wants to get in on this, but he has both our packs and needs to stay out of the fray to keep them safe. For some reason that makes me happy—I don’t want to share in kicking the crap out of people who protect slavery. Two more men grab me, one on each side. I quickly untangle my arms from their grasp and knock both their heads together.

  I’m so focused on the few men I have between us and the door, I don’t notice the one I had knocked into the table. I hear the gun go off and I spin around in time to see Levi reach for his neck, a tranq dart sticking out between his fingers.

  Motherfucker.

  I can’t say I’m particularly surprised. Slaves are valuable commodities—much too valuable to just shoot or Taser, which might kill them. A tranq dart, though, is something safe. It’s also something you would use on animals.

  Humanity is really disgusting sometimes.

  I watch as Levi’s eyes roll back into his head and he drops to the ground. I’m breathing wildly now. I can pick up my partner and get us out of there, but I don’t think I’ll make it, not with the rest of the men starting to recover from the deliberately low-key damage I’ve dealt out.

  “Fine,” I say, holding up my arms in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll go with you. Peacefully. You don’t need to shoot.” I’m worried about our packs. We need to keep them with us or, at the very least, know where they are.

  By way of an answer, one of the policemen takes out a tranq gun and shoots me right in the neck at close range. I let him, thinking, What else can I do? Kill everyone here?

  “As a slave you cannot dictate the terms of your surrender,” I hear him say as my brain grows a thick coat of fur. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and I try to stay on my feet, but gravity seems to have accelerated. The next second I’m on the floor and then . . . nothing.

  Chapter 13

  I come to slowly. The room is sideways.

  No, I’m sideways.

  I slowly pull myself up. I blink hard, trying to adjust my vision. I’m lying on a cot, and there is drool on my tiny, hard pillow.

  Lovely.

  Levi is sitting on the edge of the same bed. He is staring at a plastered wall, which is pockmarked and covered with deep gouges. We are in a cell. Black iron bars run the entire length of the right side of the small space. I crack my back and stretch out my neck.

  “Excellent—she is awake,” I hear from a booming voice shouting down the hallway behind the bars. I glance quickly over to Levi, who has his eyebrows raised.

  “Watch it, Ryn. Okay?”

  I nod. He must be royally pissed that we didn’t get out of that bar the second we felt something was off. That, and the fact that I went a little overboard with the whole Game of Thrones thing. I couldn’t help it. It’s hard to take these people seriously with so many of them wearing sheets and having legit laurels in their hair. Besides, we would have gotten away easily enough if Levi hadn’t insisted we bring our packs with us. The two of us could have neutralized that entire unit with minimal injuries, but instead we coddled our supplies. We trea
ted them like they were more precious than our own personal safety. Maybe. Truth is that we never should have come in here in the first place, at least without doing more than five seconds of recon. I guess I got a little ahead of myself here. Won’t be making that mistake again.

  The man with the loudly magnificent voice shows up in front of the bars with what I can only assume—based on their dress and tattoos—to be two slaves in attendance.

  Gross.

  These guys are wearing very little clothing. Also gross, but also kinda hard to look away from, given that they pretty much look exactly like what you’d think of when you think “Roman slave”: tall, muscular, with a bondage-y type of leather thong covering their chests. They also look similar, as if they could be brothers, both blond with piercing blue eyes that they keep focused straight ahead. They do not look at me or Levi.

  One of them is holding a small upholstered chair, which he places down gently in front of the bars. Unfortunately, it’s not close enough for us to make a grab for the man who will presumably be sitting there. The first thing I notice about the slave owner is that—like his slaves—he is not unattractive. I would put his age at midthirties. His short brown hair is cropped close to his scalp but clearly styled to look a little bit ruffled. His toga is a heavy, luxuriant royal blue. I remember that we are in “Los Angeles,” and if we were in the L.A. on our Earth, this guy might be an agent or a manager or have some other similar job that requires white teeth and a slick tone.

  Which meant that if it wasn’t for the fact that he had us in a jail, I’d still hate him.

  The man sits down and then dismisses his slaves with a flick of both wrists and the two stand back against the far wall. He doesn’t want to be crowded, but clearly he doesn’t quite want to be alone with us.

  “First things first: introductions. I’m Faustus Mallius Majus. And you are?” Levi and I don’t speak. We just glare at him. After a few seconds he shrugs his shoulders. “Fine. It’s no matter to me, since I’m giving you new names anyhow. You,” he says, pointing at Levi, “you will be Hector, and you, sweet thing”—he gestures toward me—“you will be Honoria.” Faustus waits for some kind of reaction, and when he gets none, he continues to be unconcerned. “I am the lanista here.” Levi and I both look at each other. Levi grits his teeth and gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. We both know our history. We both know what a lanista does.

  They manage gladiators.

  “Excellent,” Faustus says. “So, you know who I am and what I do, and what you will be asked to do.” Faustus gives a small, snide chuckle. His lips widen, but he does not show even a single tooth. “I suppose that ‘ask’ is the wrong word here, given the circumstances. What you will be made to do is more accurate.” Levi grips the iron bar of the bed and I tilt my head in a gesture of warning. “I know that you are not slaves. Though I can’t for the life of me understand why you would mark yourselves as such.” Again, we say nothing and once again, our silence leaves him undeterred.

  “Thankfully for you, our police force here in Solis Littus is . . .” Faustus looks up to the ceiling and circles a single manicured finger as he searches for the right word. “Open,” he finally drawls, in a voice that somehow sounds both bored and snide at the same time, “to alternate avenues of compensation. As soon as the sergeant showed me the footage of your tavern escapade he knew full well what I would pay him to get you. You should be flattered. It was a small fortune.”

  I blink my eyes lazily. I am angry at myself for being so stupid, for allowing myself to get wrapped up in the history of it all, for forgetting that I am a soldier first. Just like the real L.A., Solis Littus is seductive and dangerous. I look at Faustus, my eyes burning.

  “Nothing? Still?” he says with a long frustrated sigh. “I looked inside your bags.” Both Levi and I whip our heads around, our eyes meeting in distress. “I thought that might get your attention,” Faustus tells us. “You know, the vigilum ministri who arrested you believe that you are children of the gods, given your strength and speed.”

  I struggle to keep my eyes firmly locked in place, straight ahead. Demigods? Like Percy Jackson? I guess in this world that would make more sense than genetically altered super soldiers.

  “I am not a religious man,” Faustus continues, “or a political one. I don’t care where you come from. I don’t care if you are the children of Jupiter himself, Ottoman spies, or visitors from another planet.” Faustus leans in closer, as close as he dares, mindful of our reach. “The only thing I care about is the show. The spectacle and the money it will make . . . for me.”

  “And if we don’t fight?” I ask grimly.

  “Ah—you do speak.” He smiles, but there is no warmth. “Then I turn you and your belongings over to the authorities.”

  “Where are our bags now? And how can we be assured that you will keep them out of curious hands?” I demand.

  “You have no assurances. You are my property, and that’s all that matters. But I will tell you the bags are safe. So,” he says as he stands. The two blond men scramble to pick up the chair and push themselves back against the wall. “I will safeguard your rather peculiar personal items and you will fight for me. Win enough fights and you will win your freedom. Once the people see you tonight, I expect we’ll be sold out for weeks. Do we have a deal?”

  Levi and I both stand. Levi keeps his hands at his sides. I fold mine, one over the other as if I’m still considering. I take my time before answering, only because I know the longer I do, the more irritated I’m sure Faustus will get. Finally, after a minute or two, I relent.

  “You have your deal.”

  “Somehow, I rather thought I might.” I feel a desire to rip the smug right off his face with my fingernails, but he is still too far away. “You will now swear the sacramentum gladitorum before me,” Faustus says. He then proceeds to say some bizarre, long-winded oath, which Levi and I repeat in deadpan voices. Like a stupid Latin oath means anything to us. When we’re finished, he slaps one of his slaves on the wrist, and the man produces a document from a brown leather messenger bag that he had slung across his back. “This is your auctoramentum. It is a legal and binding contract, which now states that you belong to me. Caeso!” he yells, and the slave with the bag steps timidly forward. “Hand these documents over to our new friends so that they may sign them.” Caeso retrieves a pen from his bag and then, with his entire body shaking, he steps toward the bars. His trembling hands reach forward. The papers he is holding slap against each other like dead leaves under boot soles. I walk slowly toward him. “Noli timere,” I tell him kindly. “Omne bene erit.” Caeso gives me the briefest of smiles and hands over the papers.

  Levi and I don’t even bother to read them. As with the oath, it’s amazing for anyone to think a friggin’ contract could actually keep us here. It’s not as if we’re not honorable, but these people are slave owners who probably want to feed us to the lions (real ones, not metaphorical ones). So I will play along until we get our chance to escape. As we are signing, we hear Faustus yelling at the other, unnamed slave to go get our armor. Levi looks up in alarm.

  “Just armor?” he says. “What about our weapons? We might die before you get a chance to earn your money back.”

  At that, Faustus belly laughs. He doubles over and then, for dramatic effect, pretends to wipe tears from his eyes to further illustrate how funny he thinks Levi is.

  “My dearest boy. I doubt very much that this female is your bodyguard. I’ve seen what she can do with her bare hands, so I can only imagine what you’re capable of. You think I’d allow you to have weapons? Around the audience? Please—I have their safety to think about.” We can still hear him laughing, the snarky chortles echoing down the hall long after he’s left.

  In short order the other slave returns, his arms full of clothing and metal. He’s also accompanied by no fewer than a dozen guards who have rifles aimed at our heads. So much for escaping that way. The iron gate of a door is unlocked. The slave throws th
e items inside, takes up our signed contracts, and then rushes away from us as fast as he can.

  “You have two hours to prepare yourselves,” he says bravely, if not boldly, and then as quickly as they arrived, they are gone, the soldiers marching along the stone floor in two precise columns.

  Levi wordlessly draws my attention to a camera inside the cell. So, that prick Faustus is watching our every move. Neither one of us is about to give him any clues as to where we’re from or who we are.

  We sit silently on the bed side by side. We excel in this. Waiting. Waiting for a Rift to open. Waiting for an enemy to emerge. In the rain, the heat, in booming thunderstorms, we hold our positions like human statues. Two hours is nothing.

  An hour later, small flakes of plaster begin to fall from the ceiling like snow. Our cell vibrates with shuffling feet from the stadium above. Levi and I are no strangers to killing. As Citadels we try to kill cleanly, efficiently, but never like this. Never for anything but self-defense. Never for amusement. This is the darkest side of humanity: pain for sport, violence for escape. I try to recall everything I know about what history has said about gladiators, at the same time trying to ignore what I’ve seen in movies or read in books.

  The one good thing I remember is that it was rare for a gladiator to actually die in combat. Gladiators are, as Faustus mentioned, a sizable investment. The lanista had been surprisingly astute by withholding weapons. We can take down our opponents with our bare hands. We have that kind of strength. What we don’t have is numbers. If we are asked to fight a dozen others, we can manage. If it’s two dozen, we will be overwhelmed. We can still win, but the chances of us doing so without killing anyone are statistically smaller.