Amy Foster - The Rift Uprising

I wait for the few people ahead of me to have their retinas scanned, then put my eye up to the device. “Confirmed,” a soothing voice says. “Citadel Ryn Whittaker, designation 473. Proceed to transport.” Now this … this is where it gets interesting. ARC built a train beneath the school, linking it straight to Camp Bonneville. Think of it as a high-speed subway that takes us the few miles to base in just under ten minutes. I hate this thing. If the Karekins ever got through our line and found the entrance at the base, Command Center can remotely blow the whole tunnel so that it collapses and prevents the Karekins from getting into town—and they’ll blow it up regardless of whether there are Citadels in the tunnel at the same time or not. You take your chances every time you step in here. It’s a death trap. I practically hold my breath during each ride.

When the train slows to a stop, I hightail it out of there and take the stairs up just one level to our locker rooms. I shimmy into my uniform quickly and as I do, I feel the change come over me as well. Once again I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a soldier. I’m ready for action. Today might be the day I die.

God, I’m morbid .

As I pull my hair up into a ponytail, Violet races in. It’s clear she has just come from dance practice. Her hair is in a perfect bun. She is wearing tights and leg warmers over a long-sleeved leotard. The irony is so glaringly obvious I don’t even need to say anything.

“Oh, good,” she says a little frantically as she begins to open her locker. “I thought I was going to be late. I’m actually a little early for a change.”

I give her a warm smile. “You’re fine.” A regular soldier walks in and stands a little nervously in front of me. We have a complicated relationship with the military here. Special Ops used to run the show at The Rift, but they did a pretty piss-poor job of it. There were many casualties on both sides, and so they were taken off the job once the first crop of Citadels was activated. It’s only natural that a Navy Seal or a Ranger would resent a fourteen-year-old kid who can not only pull rank but kick your ass in every fight. I never saw it happen, but we’ve all heard stories of the early years. It created a very us-versus-them mentality. Tensions have only eased as the older, professional soldiers have been transferred out and replaced with younger, greener troops. These newer troops are still resentful, but they are mostly just intimidated. We all kind of respectfully leave one another alone.

“Citadel Ryn?” the soldier says. “Colonel Applebaum wants to see you.”

Violet and I exchange glances. I figured that he would have stopped me yesterday before I went home. When he didn’t, I assumed I was in the clear.

Apparently not.

“Okay,” I say brusquely, and grab the rest of my gear. There are weapons caches all over the bunker. Normally we grab ours from an armory room beside the transport bay right before we go on duty at The Rift site. I’m sure Applebaum wouldn’t want to meet any of us for disciplinary action with rifles in our hands. I follow the private out the door, up another flight of stairs to Command. There is nothing much to see at the base from the outside. A few buildings here and there, defunct shooting ranges. But beneath all of that is a bunker, a vast network of offices, control rooms, training facilities, and dorms in case we need to put everyone on lockdown for safety.

The soldier leads us through a maze of corridors until we reach Applebaum’s office. I knock once and wait for him to tell me to enter.

When he does, I walk through the door and stand at attention in the middle of the small room. He is seated behind a large wooden desk. It seems out of place in this room; it’s more presidential than military, though the office is actually decorated quite nicely, with bookshelves, framed photos on the walls, and an ornate desk lamp that looks like an antique. Fancy. My eyes hover on a picture of Applebaum and Christopher Seelye in the Oval Office. I involuntarily shudder. Applebaum is a prick, but Seelye is something else. If anyone is the villain in this story it could easily be him, the president of ARC. Then again, he could also be the hero. I know he certainly thinks he’s the hero, and maybe I would think he is, too, if I didn’t feel like taking a shower every time I had to deal with him. His face is happy and light, but his eyes tell a different story. He isn’t afraid of us Citadels. Sometimes Applebaum accidentally slips and lets his guard down. The horror of what we do, the carnage we leave behind—it frightens him. Seelye is proud. He makes me feel like a shiny gun or an expensive sports car, like something he owns.

“At ease, Ryn.” I move my legs apart and put my arms behind my back. We stare at each other in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.

“Ryn,” he begins, “you’re a good soldier. A natural leader with superb combat skills. I depend on you.”

I keep my gaze fixed above his head, on a photograph of him with the president and first lady. “Thank you, sir,” I respond.

“But that stunt yesterday was not only a breach of protocol—it was stupid. You saw a kid your age, you assumed he was an MTI, but that guess endangered you and your team. You could have gotten hurt or worse.” Applebaum’s voice is level but strained. He pauses. Maybe he thinks I agree with him, but I don’t. He closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. “You know why we call them MTIs? Minimal Threat Immigrants? Because there is no such thing as a Zero Threat Immigrant. These people, or whatever they happen to be, that come through The Rift are never not going to be a threat. It’s our fault that they are snatched from their homes and loved ones. It’s our fault that they can never return. They have every right in the world to be pissed off about that. We can never let our guard down around them. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you believe that, sir, but I’m not sure I can completely agree,” I state calmly.

He looks at me and narrows his eyes. Then he pounds his fist hard on the table. I do not flinch. “No, Ryn, that is unacceptable. You, more than anyone, should know that we can’t trust what comes out of that green hellhole.” Applebaum’s voice is rising with every word and still I do not move, nor do I change the look of indifference on my face. “This isn’t Portland. The Rift isn’t an organic farm. On a good day it’s a hot zone. On a bad day it’s a war zone. You can’t act like a social worker out here. That’s not your job.”

“So having empathy and compassion makes me a social worker? I mean, call me crazy, but shouldn’t having those things be kind of a prerequisite if you’re going to be pointing a gun at someone?” I know I’m speaking out of turn, but I’m getting fed up. He’s not the one fighting. He sits on his ass all day while I put mine on the line. Besides, look what they did to us. What a hypocrite. I might not have lost my home, but I lost any chance at a normal life when I was seven years old. Don’t they get that? That we could be just as dangerous, if not more so, than any Immigrant, for practically the same reason?

“Possibly. The only thing I know for sure is that we can never, ever trust them. Period,” Applebaum says flatly.

“We trust the Roones,” I snap back.

“They’re different. I don’t even think they are capable of feeling hate, or actually anything for that matter. And they saved us,” he says quickly.

I finally look at him. “So says the guy without a chip in his skull.”

Applebaum smiles smugly and leans back in his chair, holding his arms out in front of him and gripping his desk. “You’re young. I always forget that about you kids. You fight so well—and don’t get me wrong; you all do an excellent job—but it’s always a bit like playing soldiers, isn’t it? What’s that thing the nerds do? Larp? Larping? It’s like that. No real discipline.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. For a brief moment I imagine punching a hole right through his chest. I imagine taking one of his hands and pulling it all the way back, breaking the bone so that it sticks out from his wrist. The fact that I don’t disproves his theory of discipline. Even so, I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing how his truly offensive words have stung me. I will not let him dismiss me as a sulky teenager.