Extracted (14 page)

“I was hoping I wouldn’t need this,” I point to the booby trap on my leg. Nobel looks away sadly.

Guilt bites into me. “Dude, I’m sorry. It isn’t your fault. You saved my life. It’s just…” I point at the leg and Nobel nods.

“It was the best I could do. I’m working on some other ideas, but for now you’re just going to have to suck it up, Lex.” He holds the cane out to me. “Now, let’s try this again.”

The cane is actually kind of cool. A set of gears underlines the handle, and Nobel has carved some ornate engravings along the shaft.

“I could use this as a weapon,” I say, turning it over and over in my hand like a baton.

“You can,” he agrees. “It’s temporary, but I made some useful modifications. Here.”

Nobel points to the various gears on the handle. “The oil slick is triggered by the rusty gear. When the shiny gear is spun, it emits a noxious gas.”

Suddenly, I love this cane. Then Nobel turns the handle to show me the small gear with one .45 caliber bullet loaded.

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to marry this thing,” I say without thinking. Suddenly the memory of Stein is there again, threatening to crush me. I breathe deeply, trying to focus on the plan. The chugging of Gloves’s train chair pulls me from my thoughts.

“What do you want, Gloves?” I ask as he glares, obviously annoyed with me.

He gives me a stern frown. No sympathy from him, I suppose. “Claymore would like you to grace him with your presence.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right there.”

Gloves turns his train chair around and chugs off. I try to stand up again. Luckily, Nobel is here to lend me a hand. Once I get to my feet, I keep the cane on my right side. Nobel tells me to swing the cane parallel to each step with my right leg. I take an experimental step with my left leg first, as lifting and stepping requires full concentration. With a hiss, and metal grinding against metal, I take another step. It sounds like a new teenage driver learning how to drive a stick shift.

“The grinding sound will go away as you learn to use it,” Nobel assures me.

I shrug. The sound doesn’t bother me so much. “Well, wish me luck.”

Oddly enough, there isn’t much pain now that I’m upright. Hiss, grind, pop. Hiss, grind, pop. I stop at the threshold and turn around.

“Thanks for the cane,” I offer. “I hope I won’t have to use it on Claymore.” I smile, turn, and hobble down the hallway toward Claymore’s office.

* * *

I’m not sure what hits me first—the bitter smell of brass polish or the sound of the arrivals and departures board ticking. Someone is already in Claymore’s office.

The office door is slightly ajar when I arrive. I knock. All I can hear is tick, tick, tick.

“Come in,” a girl’s voice calls out to me.

I use my shoulder to open the door, then, without any grace, I stumble in. Fortunately, I stay on my feet just until I can safely fall into one of the office chairs. Sisson breaks into a slight smile, all traces of her near-death incident erased. Small and fox-like, she moves across the room without making the tiniest sound. She’s wearing dark goggles and scraps of brown leather wrapped around her body in a makeshift corset. Darting for the door on the very tips of her toes, she looks a bit like an insane ballet dancer. As she passes me, she taps me on the mechanical knee.

“Thanks for the rescue, Lex.”

The prosthetic seizes at her touch. “Dang leg,” I say, grinding my teeth as I adjust it under me.

PLEASE SIT DOWN LEX, the ticking board spells. I can sense the sarcasm even though I have to read everything Claymore is saying.

Claymore rests his hands on his scarred, leather-surfaced desk as if paralyzed from the neck down. I tap my cane on the wooden legs of the desk. The bottoms are so old and mangled it looks like a Gear Head has gnawed at them. Sunlight shines in through the dirty windowpanes, landing on Claymore’s canvas overalls.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m still getting used to the leg Nobel gave me.”

OH YES, THE LEG…tick, tick, tick…LET’S TALK ABOUT THE LEG. HOW DID YOUR LEG BECOME…tick, tick, tick…DETACHED FROM YOUR BODY?…tick, tick, tick…OR BETTER YET HOW DID YOU BOTCH THE MISSION…tick, tick, tick…SO SPECTACULARLY THAT YOU LOST ONE OF…tick, tick, tick…OUR BEST RIFTERS AND ONE…tick, tick, tick…OF YOUR BEST APPENDAGES?

“So much for small talk,” I mumble under my breath. I don’t want to recount what happened. I stare at the condensation forming on the brass panel of my leg, knowing that Claymore probably already has a pretty good idea what happened.

“Sir,” I begin, leaning forward with my hands on the arms of the chair. “This mission was a failure from the beginning.”

Tick, tick, tick…WHAT DO YOU MEAN A FAILURE?

Just thinking about what happened to Stein forms a lump the size of a hard-boiled egg in my throat.

“Right when we got there, we could feel a difference in the stream, but we still proceeded as ordered. As soon as the alternate us from the last rift left, we snuck in and retrieved the brush. It wasn’t until we were actually inside the Amber Room that we ran into Gear Heads.”

Tick, tick, tick…CONTINUE.

I walk him through the mission, not holding back anything. At least, until I reach the part about Stein going over the cliff. I can’t seem to force the words past my throat.

Tick, tick, tick…GO ON.

I continue to rehash the horrible events while I stare at the front porthole and try to see if there is any emotion sloshing around in Claymore’s helmet. No, nothing but blackness.

Tick, tick, tick…WELL THAT IS VERY UNFORTUNATE FOR US…tick, tick, tick…STEIN WAS A GOOD RIFTER…tick, tick, tick…WE WILL HAVE TO RECRUIT A REPLACEMENT QUICKLY.

I stiffen in my seat. Replace Stein? Is he smoking crack?

I stare at him, unable to tell what Claymore is feeling. His ticking text doesn’t have any emotion in it. I debate telling him about my plan to go back and get her, but I bite down on my tongue instead. If he doesn’t approve it, I’ll just go without permission. It’ll mean exile, but I can live with that. I’ve already decided. Still, I’ll wait until I can get Gloves on my side.

“Can I go now, sir?”

Tick, tick, tick…YES. AND PLEASE GET USED TO THAT LEG…tick, tick, tick…WE NEED YOU BACK IN THE FIELD.

“Yes, sir.” I take that as my dismissal, so I grip my cane and hoist myself from the chair. Getting this leg to do exactly what I want is a huge chore. In fact, it does the exact opposite of a forward walking movement. Kicking back with a forceful thrust, it knocks over the chair I was just sitting in. I can just imagine the look on Claymore’s face, if he has a face. Not knowing what this leg is going to do next, I don’t even try to right the chair on my way out.

* * *

The hallway to Gloves’s office is in the opposite direction from Claymore’s. Walking there is still a huge task to undertake for me. Granted, it has only been three hours since I woke up. Still, I feel like I should be more resilient than this somehow. I shake my head, mentally promising to allow myself a little leeway.

Wardenclyffe Tower’s hallways all run off from a central common room like spokes on a bicycle wheel. Hobbling down the hall is more of a chore than I imagined.

As I walk to Gloves’s office, the voices from the common room are replaced with the sounds of hissing steam and whistling of trains. Stumbling toward Gloves’s door, my leg starts to ache. My hand is already closed around the brooch in my pocket. I rap on the door with the end of my cane. I figure it is appropriate for a man with a cane to use it in every aspect of life. Plus, it makes me smile.

“Enter,” Gloves calls to me.

I turn the handle and push open the door. Immediately, I’m hit with a thick wall of smoky steam. Gloves is in the back corner, diligently feeding one of the many small furnaces.

My cane taps on the wooden floor of his office as I stagger toward the back wall.

“What can I do for you?” Gloves asks without even looking up.

“I have something for you.” I hold the beetle in my hand, staring at it under the glow of the furnace fire. The light glints off the two emerald eyes set above one-inch golden pincers. The back is covered with diamonds. Funny that the things that make it valuable are the only things Gloves won’t find interesting about it. He turns in his wheelchair and chugs toward me. I hold the scarab steady in the palm of my hand. The presentation is perfect. The liquid in the tail end of the beetle seems to light up like a firefly.

“What might this be?”

“It’s a scarab brooch. I picked it from the Amber Room. I think it’s some kind of rifting serum. It can be yours for a very small favor.” I sound like a game show host, I know.

“Yes. I believe I know what it is, thank you.” He holds out his hand.

I quickly stuff the beetle back in my pocket and lean on my cane, looking at Gloves. His face is covered in soot and sweat, and his clothes are filthy, except for his gloves. He looks like he’s been sleeping in a pile of coal—come to think of it, maybe he has. I can see the indecision playing across his smudged face. Finally, he squints, making his thick eyebrows meet in the middle of his forehead.

“What’s the favor?”

“All I need you to do is have Claymore commission two operations for us and then supply us with the Contra we’ll need. I think he’ll let it fly if it comes from you.” I find a pile of coal and sit down. My new leg is aching and my back is tight from compensating for the limp.

“What’s the mission?” he asks, still hesitant.

“We need to break into the Tesla Institute and steal some tech from them. That is the first one. Then we are going to go back to where we lost Stein. I want to save her and use the tech to prevent a paradox.”

“Ah. The Dox. I remember it. Untested, as I recall. Very dangerous. “Hmm. Let me see the brooch again,” Gloves says, holding out his white hand. I stand so that he knows he won’t be able to just take the beetle from me. Slowly, I reach into my pocket. I hesitate, watching the reflection of the furnace fires in Gloves’s eyes before I hand it to him.

Using the back of his pristine white gloves, he polishes my oily fingerprints off the beetle. He holds it up to the light and inspects the liquid. As he stares at the brooch, a large smile spreads across his face.

“And you’re sure you can get the Dox to work?” he asks, not looking at me, as if he’s no longer all that interested in me or my deal anymore.

“I’m sure, sir,” I lie. But I’m confident that, between Nobel and me, we’ll be able to figure it out.

“Then you have a deal. I’ll make your Contra and talk to Claymore later tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you, Lex.”

Gloves turns the brooch over and over, letting whatever the strange liquid is in the beetle lap back and forth. With this mission a go, I feel a slight sense of relief. Finally, I can let go of all the sadness and helplessness I’ve been feeling and just focus on getting her back. Before he can change his mind, I follow the red locomotive toward the exit.

“Wait…” he yells after me. I turn, half-expecting him to throw something at me. “Rifting back into the time stream, to a place where you already are, could create a huge paradox. So if you can’t get your hands on that tech, the deal is off.”

He tucks the beetle into the inside pocket of his soot-covered jacket and turns back again to his trains. I back slowly out of the room, feeling like I’ve just gotten off very easy.

The door chime echoes in my room, but I don’t get up to answer it. I’m already hunkered down in the corner of my room, a copy of
Persuasion
by Jane Austen in hand.

“Go away,” I holler, but the door chimes again. Probably Ethan coming to drag me to the party. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to celebrate.

What I want is someone to talk to. But that’s impossible here.

I want to tell someone about the Trial, about my guilt and the terrible thing I did. But I can’t.

Because he’s listening. He’s always listening.

I’m not sure I even realized it until now.

Ever since the Trial, I’ve wanted so badly to tell Ethan about what happened in the cafeteria. I want to get his opinion and have him tell me everything is going to be all right, but I don’t dare. Somehow, my alternate self managed to get in and out without Tesla becoming aware. It’s why the computer was frizzing out. Her visit—her warning—was a blind spot in Tesla’s all-knowing vision. I don’t dare reveal the truth now, when I have no idea of the damage it could cause. If only I knew, if only I understood my intentions. Crossing my own timeline is such a risk. And for what? I don’t know. I might not know for a very long time.

The chime goes off again, so I climb to my feet and hit the keypad.

The door slides open and Kara is standing in the hall. Her hair is in a twist on the back of her head and she’s wearing one of her prettiest outfits—a simple, green velvet mini-dress and tall, black boots. I sigh.

“I’m not going,” I say before she can get a word out.

She steps inside and the door slides closed behind her. “Of course you are. It’s mandatory.”

The Time Travelers’ Ball is an annual tradition in the Institute. It’s where all who didn’t die in the Trials get to celebrate the fact that they’re still alive and swap stories about their missions. I don’t feel like sharing. Or celebrating. Or putting on shoes. I shake my head and slump back into my corner. “I don’t care.”

Sitting on the side of my bed, she narrows her eyes at me. “You’ve been acting weird, Ember. First, the thing at the cafeteria, now this. It isn’t like you. What happened?”

I shrug and toss the book on my desk.

She grabs one of my pillows and clutches it to her chest. “Remember that time I snuck out with Crevin, and then rushed here to tell you all about it?”

“Second Base Crevin?” I laugh. “Yeah. I remember.”

She hesitates before she speaks. “I made it up.”

“What?” I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d sprouted a third arm.

“It was just, you were new and shy and I really wanted, I dunno, someone I could talk to. A girlfriend. So I made it up as an excuse to spend time with you.”