Extracted (29 page)

“Um, what year is it supposed to be?” Stein asks, putting her top hat back on.

“It should be 1898,” I answer slowly.

I step forward onto the corner of Broadway and Houston Street, into the very heart of New York City. A large hovering police car zips past, nearly taking me out.

“I think somebody got their wires crossed,” Stein offers smugly.

For a second I think she’s right. Those stupid pills must have dumped us in the wrong place.

The sound of hooves clopping on cobblestone makes us both turn. A large coach pulled by four brown horses trots by. The driver is dressed in leather skins and a cowboy hat. I’m staring after them when Stein elbows me.

She points down the road. Crossing Houston Street is a young woman from what looks like the 1950s, judging by the poodle skirt and saddle shoes, chatting with an older gentleman whose long, button-down coat and top hat put him in the early 1800s.

“What is going on?” I ask.

“I think it’s our fault,” Stein whispers. “It’s the paradox. It’s leaking time.”

She’s right. It’s as if every moment of time that ever happened in this place is overlapping, the stream touching in places it shouldn’t.

“On the upside, at least we don’t have to change clothes,” Stein says with a smile. She tosses the garments back into the alley.

“The plan is still the same. We recon the building, then go after the Dox.”

“Agreed.”

“The building should be just up there a block or so,” I say, gesturing with my hand.

We move out as casually as possible, passing two robotic street sweepers that remind me of metal trash cans with legs, one lost-looking guy in an old sailor’s uniform, and two men having an Old West shootout in the middle of the street. Finally, we stop across the road from the building.

It’s tall, at least five stories, with a single entrance at the front. Parked outside the large arched stairway is a small motorcar. Two men are loading trunks onto the back while another stands guard from the doorway. Even from a distance, I can tell it’s a young Flynn. He pulls a pocket watch from his vest and checks the time, saying something to the men before turning to go inside.

I forget to breathe for a second. He can’t be much older than me, tall and handsome in a bowler hat and striped pants. I wait for the familiar pang of longing to hit me, but it never comes. He’s not a friend. He’s an obstacle. Something we must overcome to achieve our mission.

“This is the right time at least—1898—just before Tesla packs up and moves everything to his new lab in Colorado. They must be packing the first of the boxes. The tech will be the last to go, since Tesla will want to travel with it,” I tell Stein who is looking around. “The man by the door is Flynn. He was one of the first Rifters Tesla discovered. They move to Colorado so they can more quietly pursue his abilities. If Flynn is here, the other original Rifters may be here, too.”

“Do you know who the others are, or how many of them we can expect?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No. All I know is that right now they are all close and very devoted to Tesla. The Hollows don’t split off for another few years. Right now Tesla’s lab takes up the entire top floor. I have no idea what’s on the lower floors, but there’s a private elevator in the back that only Tesla uses.”

“Okay, I think they’ll be milling around for a few more hours, so let’s go up there,” Stein says, pointing to the rooftop of the building next to us. “It’s a few stories taller. Maybe we can get line of sight into the windows there. See what we’re dealing with.”

The building across the street is empty. There’s a paper notice on the door announcing the dedication for it next week. It’s going to be a luxury hotel. Stein crumples the paper and tosses it into the street. A robot quickly sucks it up just as a dark green 1930s Cadillac blows the corner and crashes into the bot, shredding it to pieces. A man in a hat sticks his head out the car window, producing a Tommy gun, and opens fire into a group of people decked out in 1980s ripped leather and lace and zipped parachute pants. The popping sound is eaten as a hovering fire truck flies down the street with sirens blaring.

“You know, not long before now this whole area was known as Murderers’ Row. Now they are building a fancy hotel here. In the next hundred years this building will be everything from a doctor’s office to a Subway restaurant,” I say while I get to work using my small lockpick.

“Allow me,” Stein says, gently putting a hand on my shoulder.

Without another word of warning, she spins and lets out a ferocious kick that knocks the door off its hinges and drops it flat into the building with a puff of plaster dust.

“That’s how we Hollows do it,” she says, stepping into the main room.

The plaster walls are still bare, no paint or decorations, and the lamps are in crates along the floor. The banister up the grand staircase isn’t even close to being assembled. It would take even the most dedicated group weeks to finish everything. Of course, with time hemorrhaging all over the place, things like deadlines might be moot.

I follow Stein up the stairs to the roof access door. By the time we make it to the top I’m panting and my calves burn. We’re seven stories up and the stairs are short and steep, making every step ache. We burst into the open air. I take a deep breath, watching as Stein steps dangerously close to the edge and puts her hands on her hips. Watching her, I totally get why Lex is so crazy about her. She’s kind of amazing. He deserves someone amazing. I just never imagined things working out this way.

“You know he loves you, right?” I say into the wind.

“I know. He did rip time apart to save me.”

“So why are you giving him the cold shoulder?”

She twists her black hair into a bun and sticks a pin in it to hold it off her face.

“It’s just hard to reconcile. The Lex I knew, my Lex, died in that rift.”

I understand. He was my brother, too.

“He really is the same person, you know.”

“I know that here,” she says pointing to her head. “But it’s here that it gets muddled.” She moves her hand to her heart. “I almost feel like I’m betraying his memory.”

I have to laugh. Not because I think it’s funny, but it’s such a silly position we have found ourselves in.

She laughs, too. “I know. It’s crazy.” Then she pauses. “Also, I’m sorry about before. For trying to kill you and all.”

I crack a grin. “Bygones. Besides, I would have beaten you to a pulp if you hadn’t run off like that.”

Now it’s her turn to grin. “You would have tried.”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “This whole thing is crazy. But I do think that, if you love him, this him, then you have to let go of the past and hold on to right now. If we’ve learned anything from this, it’s that the future isn’t written in stone. Especially for us.”

Stein and I watch Tesla’s lab across the street. I can see most of the top floor through the windows. It’s pretty open, not a lot of walls or separation inside. Flynn is carefully boxing up books. I count three other people—the two people from the street, and one woman who’s wearing an elaborate red dress. The front is sort of plain and high-necked, but a large bustle hangs from her lower back. The sleeves are long, ending in black lace cuffs. Her dark hair is coiffed at the top of her head, creating a hat-like bun. I don’t recognize her immediately, but when she turns to the side, the silhouette is unmistakable.

“Mistress Catherine,” I mumble to myself. Like Flynn, she’s young, sixteen at the most. Her face is smooth and unblemished. I’ve often sat in class and wondered what she looked like when she was whole. Now that I see it, I realize she’s stunningly beautiful. She gracefully kneels next to Flynn, putting a hand on his shoulder for balance. It’s hard to believe that, only hours before, I stood over her grave.

Stein comes over to the ledge and squats down.

“Can’t bend at the waist in that corset, can you?” I mumble.

“What’s that?” Stein asks.

“Oh,” I nod to the building, “Mistress Catherine, the Headmistress at the Institute, is over there, too.”

“Didn’t we just—”

I cut her off. “Yeah. We did.”

After a minute Stein confirms what I’d witnessed. “Looks like four inside total.”

“All right,” I say. “This time we use the lock pick. Your break down the door method won’t be the best way to go unnoticed. And don’t forget, don’t just grab the Dox. We need to find the instructions and copy them down.”

“Why don’t we just take the original notes?” Stein asks, still watching the lab. “I mean, things are already going to hell in a handbasket. How much worse could things get?”

“Because they need to be able to recreate the design; otherwise, the Dox we stole will never exist in our time. It could make the paradox even worse. At this point, caution is the better part of valor,” I explain as I double-check that the lockpick is still tucked into the small case strapped to my belt.

“Okay, I think I’m ready. As soon as the coast is clear we’ll head over.”

Stein hands me a Contra. “In case we get separated, we meet back at the Tower.”

Just the sight of it makes my stomach roll, but I take it anyway, stuffing it in my vest pocket. Night is falling, and from this place I can see the entire dome of the sky above us. In this time where lamps are still dim and the gross light of civilization has not yet become blinding, I can see the stars.

“It’s time,” she says, pointing to the entrance of the building. Four people exit and drive away.

We slink down to the street, completely focused on the task at hand. The street is crawling with men on horseback, cars from various times, and hordes of tourists with cameras snapping photos.

* * *

Unlocking the door takes longer than I expect. Leave it to Tesla to be the only person in 1898 to have a triple deadbolt. Luckily, we don’t draw any attention to ourselves and the door finally gives way.

Nothing decorates the tiny room except for some holes in the crumbling plaster walls. No mailboxes or elevator doors exist in this part of the building. There’s another door leading to the stairwell, and this one is more easily manipulated.

An old iron and wood staircase is our welcome mat to the mad scientist’s lair.

Climbing as fast as we can and fueled by curiosity, we burst into a reception area. No one is here, of course. There’s no electricity to speak of, no lights or generators, nothing to make working at this hour possible. We should be alone.

“All right, let’s make this quick. We just have to find one Dox and we are out of here,” Stein says.

I’ve already entered the only hallway and found the office. We grab oil lamps and light them. The room glows faintly around us.

“It has to be in here.” I push on the solid wood door and it swings open. The office is a mess. Piles of books and papers everywhere. I wonder if it’s messy from the move, or if this is Tesla’s insane idea of a filing system.

“Piles. A man’s method of organization,” I mutter from the threshold of the office door.

“Either try to find the Dox, or clues to where it might be stored,” Stein says.

We slowly start to rummage through the papers and textbooks to see if we can find clues to where the Dox would be, or maybe even directions on how to use the stupid thing. After a few moments of slow reading and searching, Stein loses her patience and begins to ransack the room like she’s robbing the place. I stare at her for a second, trying to decide whether to protest.

“What? He’ll just assume the place got robbed. Happens all the time in New York City.”

It seems like a solid point so I pick up the pace, hastily rummaging through the office and throwing papers to the ground. Trashing the place turns up nothing. I stand back to get a good look at the working over we gave Tesla’s office. “We totally rock-starred that room,” Stein says as we leave.

I have to kick a couple of books back into the room so I can close the heavy door.

We search the door at the end of the hallway; to no avail, it’s just a glorified broom closet. The door in between the office and the closet is the last one to check.

“Let’s see what’s behind door number three,” I say, motioning for her to work her larceny. She grins widely and kicks it in.

The door hangs askew on one hinge, welcoming us into the room with the smell of ozone and the crackle of static electricity.

“It sounds like someone’s frying a big pan of bacon down there,” Stein mumbles. I grunt in agreement, wishing we had more than lamps to use to maneuver in the darkness.

Beneath the grated walkway, we can see sparks. I look over the railing and gasp in astonishment at the size of Tesla’s actual lab. It isn’t just the top floor as I’d thought. It’s the entire building, the fourth floor being the catwalk. Looking from our vantage point, I see three dull grey cylinders in the left corner. Electricity shoots out in all directions from the top of them. This is where all the sound is coming from. No one’s home, but someone left the stove on.

Between a control room and a sitting area, there is a conveyor belt with a large robotic arm at the end. It’s cocked at the elbow like a cobra ready to strike, but nothing is active.

Under the arm is a trunk full of small cylinders. Sitting on the stalled belt are some small glass cylinders that look like the exterior of the Dox. For the first time I’m excited. It must be here. We must be close.

A large vat full of milky green liquid is next to the bottom of the stairs. Lights from the bottom of the vat illuminate the liquid, giving it an eerie, otherworldly glow.

“That thing has to be two stories tall,” Stein says, pointing to the vat.

“Any idea what that is?”

She shakes her head.

To the far right there is a carpeted area with a chair. A hefty wooden bookshelf crowns the plush sitting area.

We scan the room one more time to see if there’s any activity aside from the loud hissing vases in the far corner. Slowly, we descend the grated stairway to the floor of the lab.

I stare at the enormous vat. The tank wears a bracelet of windows, smudged with slime, at its base. I press my face up against one.

Something slithers through the liquid.