Amy Foster - The Rift Frequency

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.