The drive to Battle Ground High is uneventful. I park in the lot and my brother and I walk to the entrance.
“Later,” Abel says as he goes off in the direction of his locker. I turn right and follow the hallway to a solid metal door. I notice the other students staring at me. I feel their eyes scanning me with a mixture of fear and awe. They know I’m different, though they can’t quite figure out why, other than I’m part of the ARC. Whatever. I look forward and ignore them all. I don’t have the time or the energy to think about how these kids perceive me. I’m too focused on trying to save their lives.
I walk down a flight of stairs into what is, in theory, the ARC section of school. This section is guarded by what looks like just a normal security guard but who is, in fact, a private in the army. For all intents and purposes the entrance looks like a metal detector, but it’s all for show, like the rest of this area. This need for enhanced security was built around a lie that one of the ARC kids pulled a gun and tried to shoot a bunch of students when the first Citadels started working. They said we were under more pressure than the other kids. That the workload was so demanding and the schedule so brutal that extra precautions were necessary. This also handily sets up another lie: that the intensity of the program could be mollified by increased physical activity. As such, they tell our parents we take daily martial arts instruction to reduce stress and anxiety in a productive way. It helps explain if we happen to do something extraordinary (“Oh—we learned that today. It’s Krav Maga.”), and it’s an excellent cover for all the injuries we come home with. The key is our parents will never know it’s not true, because no one gets through here without proper ID. I walk through the metal detector and down a long hallway with empty classrooms on either side. Although there are other Citadels here waiting to go through the last bit of security, this is a lonely stretch of linoleum. The classrooms, fully kitted out and ready to hold students, are just another lie. If things were different, I would be right here every day—learning and probably hating it a lot—but all of this seems oddly cruel, like a reminder of what we can’t have. ARC has to keep up appearances, though, for open house nights and fake teacher conferences.
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