Amy Foster - The Rift Frequency

While he powers up the program, I reach around and dig into my pack, tears leaking out of my eyes from the pain, and manage to pull out my oxygen mask. It’s agony as the contraption forms around my face, but at least now I can breathe. I scramble around Levi’s pack and find his oxygen mask, too. It’s a Roone-designed device, more advanced than anything humans have developed yet. In its dormant form, it looks a little like a metal beanie. Once I put it on Levi’s head, it clamps to his skull and a hard black shell molds down his cheeks. A clear plastic barrier covers his face and I can hear it seal at his neck with a soft pop. The mask filters our carbon dioxide emission, mixes it with a small amount of water, and converts it into oxygen. To his credit, Levi doesn’t even wince as the helmet covers the melting skin on his face.

Once again I push him off the computer. My hands look like they’ve been in a microwave, too, but at least I don’t have a hole in one of them. The next Rift opens and I can’t believe I’m actually relieved to see it. As Levi puts the laptop away, I do a quick atmospheric reading from yet another Roone device attached to my utility pouch. It may seem ridiculous, as I’m standing there, literally cooking, but we need to catalog and identify as many Earths as we can. If we can get a fix on this location, no other Citadel has to endure this as we have. Ezra once said that mapping the Rifts would be pointless and impossible, but I’m not so sure this assessment is correct. I now know the location of this Earth, or at least the computer does, and I have viable proof that we should stay away.

I pull Levi to his feet and strap on his pack. As I do, a strip of bubbling skin peels from my hand and I let out a small yelp of pain. Putting on my own pack brings me close to retching. Luckily we’re still attached. Not that I think that even matters anymore. Based on our last two trips, I’m beginning to suspect that opening a Rift leads to one distinct Earth and one distinct Earth only. The Rift slingshots us through in a straight trajectory—there are no tunnels or curves to lose one another in. Even if we were disconnected, we would have had to risk it. Levi doesn’t look like he’s doing so great; his eyes are closed behind his helmet, and my hands hurt so badly that I can’t even hold on to him, so I push him through the Rift and jump in behind him.

Once I’m inside the Rift I use the pain to focus. I keep my eyes open so I can watch Levi, who seems to be tumbling, head over feet. I concentrate on my hands, covered in blisters and blood. I can filter out the distraction of the Rift, of its intense green light, the careening noise, and the lack of gravity if I allow myself to embrace the agony of the exposed flesh on my palms.

I make my body straight as an arrow and nosedive through the tunnel of space and time. After a few seconds I begin to feel something else. My body starts to feels heavier, denser, and I can see a vertical light ahead of me. It’s clearly the new Earth’s gravity pulling me forward. On the previous two trips I’d thought that the Rift literally spat me out. I realize now that the kicking force I feel is simply the change in atmospheric pressure. Using the white light coming from the other side, I align my body accordingly. I’m now vertical, and my hope is that the exit is upright, too. I brace myself for the final release and take a step forward. My foot hits solid ground. I’ve done it. I’ve walked out of the Rift instead of landing on my face again. Levi isn’t so lucky. He tumbles out and rolls three or four times in the white sand at our feet, pulling me down with him.

I disconnect and pop up, grabbing the Roone device on my belt that’s used to measure the compatibility of our human physiology with our current environment as I do. Thankfully, the air is clean and fresh without any toxins. And I mean totally clean. Not even our Earth is so free of pollutants. I push a switch on my oxygen mask and it retracts. I scream as it takes a layer of skin along with it. I’m usually good with pain, but this must be really bad. I wonder briefly if my face is going to be scarred for life. Given a Citadel’s advanced capacity for healing, I doubt it, and either way, scars don’t bother me. In fact, I wish I had more. I think it might actually be a relief to see on the outside what I feel so often on the inside.

I don’t even know why I’m letting myself be distracted by something as stupid as a scar. Probably so I can ignore how bad our current predicament is. I shake myself out of it and go into crisis mode—say what you will about ARC (and believe me, I’ve said it all), but their training is exactly what we need right now.

I look down. Levi is in bad shape, but before I can worry about him, I need to assess our situation. We are on a narrow stretch of sand bordered by a bright turquoise ocean. I pull out the binoculars attached to my utility belt, which are also enhanced with Roone tech. I see nothing but some palm trees and the sea for at least a hundred miles in every direction. Beautiful as it is, this version of Earth might be scarier than the last. I wonder if it’s sheer luck that the Rift happened to open on the one piece of land available, or if it’s some kind of fail-safe built into the system. I pray to God it’s the latter, and not just for our personal safety. The fact is, our packs are water-resistant against things like rain and what not, but they aren’t airtight. And that’s crucial because of our equipment, specifically our laptops. If they got wet, that would effectively end our travels and we’d be trapped. It really dawns on me in that moment how crazy this mission is and how much faith we’ve put in Roone tech. It’s one thing to imagine how it’s going to be in theory, but out here in the field I understand how truly vulnerable we are. What at first seemed like a miracle—a computer program to navigate us to other versions of Earth—is starting to feel primitive, cumbersome, and unpredictable. There are simply too many variables and too many potential situations that end with us being separated from our technology, and effectively stranded. I allow myself to imagine briefly what it would be like to be stuck on a desert island with Levi for the rest of my life. No family, no friends, no Ezra. Just me and Levi forever.

That thought, along with the excruciating pain, brings bile to my throat.

What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t be thinking about any of that now .

Crisis.

Mode.

I have to deal with Levi. Since he’s lying facedown in the sand, I’m fairly sure he isn’t conscious. Thankfully, there is that small tree line behind me made up of a crop of swaying palms. They’ll provide enough shade for us to rest without having to set up the tents. I grab Levi by his pack, and because I’m in too much pain to carry him, I have to drag him the hundred feet or so away from the beach. My burnt hands touch his backpack, and the pain of this one small act, dragging my partner to shelter, almost brings me to my knees. I take a moment when it’s done, steadying myself on a tree with my elbow. I’d like to collapse, too, but there’s too much to be done.

There’s no point in waking Levi until I can doctor his wounds, and I can’t do anything to help him with my own wounds raw and exposed. I take off my belt and unzip my catsuit-like uniform down past my belly button. Ever so gently, with just my thumb and index finger, I peel the suit down. When I get to my wrists I try to make the opening wide enough so that the material doesn’t touch my hands. I fail on both sides and I grind my teeth against the pain so hard my jaw starts to ache.

I sigh with relief when it’s off. Beneath the suit I’m wearing nothing but a black sports bra. Ordinarily I’d worry about touching Levi dressed like this, about touching him period, but he’s in too much pain for his Blood Lust to activate.