Extracted

FOUR

EMBER

The scream builds like an explosion in my throat, only no sound erupts. The smoke is thick and black, and I can’t draw a breath. My lungs burn. I blink, wiping the smoke-induced tears from my eyes with my sleeve. Above me, Ethan smiles. He’s calling my name. I reach for him, desperate to escape the heat before I melt. But his face changes. He’s yelling now, and his eyes are angry.

“Ember. Open up.”

I jolt upright in bed, gasping. Along the walls, the gaslights flicker to life.

“Ember!” Ethan calls from the other side of my door.

I moan and throw back my wool blanket, stumbling forward to the brass keypad next to the door. I punch it with the side of my fist, and the door slides open with a rusty groan. On the other side, leaning casually against the doorjamb, is Ethan. His smile is bright, but the mischievous lift of his brow betrays his true colors. Only the barest hint of the bruises from our last mission remains along his square jaw. I sigh, wondering how he manages it. He looks perfect, whereas I look like I’ve been hit by a train. My hand immediately flies to my hair, fighting to smooth the unruly strands.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks nonchalantly. As if I should have been expecting him to be at my door, as if it was totally commonplace. I lean past him, glancing down the hallway in both directions. Finally, I shrug and motion for him to come in. Why not? What’s one more rule broken today?

“I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re all right. The fire—”

He doesn’t have to finish. Without thinking my hand goes to the inside of my arm, to the lumpy flesh there. My scars are old—healed—but the pain is still fresh. I don’t remember the fire, not really. Every so often I get a glimpse, a whiff of smoke or a flash of flame, and it drills into my head like a corkscrew. Something about the first trip through time erases the mind, wiping the memory slate clean. All I remember is Flynn carrying me through the doors of the infirmary. I remember the blistering pain and wishing they would just let me die.

But it healed. I lived, thanks to Flynn. The only reason Ethan knows about it is because once, during a random practice drill, the teachers thought they’d see how we’d handle being thrown into the fire, literally. I’d fallen into a panic and frozen up. I never told him the whole story, never mentioned the nightmares, and he didn’t ask. He just sort of knew.

I shake my head and try for a reassuring smile which, judging by his arched eyebrow, he doesn’t buy for a second.

“I’m fine. It’s just…” The words are replaced by a rush of emotion like a dam bursting inside my heart. Before I can process what’s happening, Ethan is holding me tightly to his chest, and I’m heaving with silent sobs as tears roll down my face.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head and wiping my face on my sleeve. “I was having a bad dream and you were there and…”

“Oh. Dreaming about me again, eh?” he asks, making my head snap up. I sit back, pushing him away.

“No, not like that.”

He holds up a hand. “No. No. I understand it’s all right.” Lots of girls dream about me, Ember. After all,” he begins, walking around my room and running his hand over the collection of old skeleton keys hanging on my wall, making them chime like bells, “I am incredibly handsome. And strong. And brave.” Then, he walks his fingers across the stack of books on my desk. “It’s only natural that you’d dream about me. I’m practically Prince Charming.”

I snatch my books out from under his hand as he smirks. “And humble too, don’t forget humble.”

He holds his hands out in front of him. “And that, of course.”

My mouth twitches. I know he’s joking to make me feel better, but those things are all true, too. Not that I’d ever admit that to his face.

“Whatever you say, Ethan. Just keep in mind it was a nightmare,” I say before carefully putting my books back on the massive wall shelf.

I can feel him walk up behind me and a tingle shoots up my back. “That’s a lot of old, boring books.”

I stuff the last book in its place on the top shelf, and fold my arms across my chest, admiring the books. “Not boring.” Reaching out, I run my fingers down the worn spine of The Picture of Dorian Grey. “These are just my favorites. I’ve read most of the ones in the library.”

Ethan has a look of mock surprise on his face when I turn around, and his hand is over his heart. “We have a library? How did I not know this? I’ve been here for three years. Surely I would have at least accidentally stumbled upon it looking for the bathroom or something.”

I’m staring at him as he talks, but I’m not really hearing what he’s saying. I’m too busy noticing something else.

“Your eyes are really blue,” I blurt out like an idiot.

He looks stunned, then flattered. “Yes, they are. A handsome, manly blue.”

I can’t suppress the snort. “No. I mean most of the time they’re kind of light. But they aren’t now. They’re like midnight-blue.”

“Yes,” he agrees, wagging his eyebrows. “You can go write a girly poem about them if you’d like. Be sure you mention my rugged jaw, too.”

I roll my eyes and step past him, sorry I’d said anything. “I’ll call it ‘Ode to an Egotistical Tool.’ Now, if you don’t mind.” I point to the door. “Get out.”

He grabs my arm, turning me to face him. The humor in his face is gone, replaced by an intensity I rarely see when we aren’t on an assignment. He pulls me close, clasping my hands in his. I have to hold in a shudder, which is odd because I’m really warm. Like really, really warm all of a sudden. Maybe it has something to do with the way Ethan is staring at me with those dark-blue eyes. How have I never noticed the subtle change of color before? And why is it getting really hard to breathe?

“Before I go, I wanted to give you this.” He stuffs his hand in the pocket of his vest and pulls out a silver chain with a heavy pendant hanging off the end. I hold out my hand, and he drops it into my palm. It’s an ebony-and ivory cameo on a chain, only instead of a silhouette of a person, it’s an image of an hourglass.

I’m too stunned to form words. It’s so beautiful. I close my fingers around it and clutch it to my chest.

“I came across it a few months ago in a wardrobe,” he says, “and it made me think of you.”

“You stole it,” I finish for him.

He shakes his head. “You could just say thank you.”

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” I say, my heart dancing its way into my throat.

“It’ll be all right, Ember. I promise. Whatever the nightmares are about, whatever’s bothering you. It’ll be all right.”

He’s so confident, so sure, that it’s impossible not to believe him. I smile and nod once. He steps back and looks me over. “Now go get changed. You look like crap. And it wouldn’t kill you to run a comb through that hair, either. Seriously. Have a little pride.”

Well, that didn’t last long. I sigh and roll my eyes.

He just blows me a kiss. “Go talk to Flynn, and I’ll meet up with you after, okay?”

“Sure. Whatever.” I move to flip my hair back, but it’s too matted, and my hand just sort of sticks in it. So I settle for an awkward head scratch.

He walks toward the door, looking back over his shoulder at me for a second like he might have more to say, then turns and leaves the room.

As soon as he’s gone, I can breathe again. I feel flustered and uncomfortable, but mostly, there’s a deep sense of dread in the pit of my stomach at the idea of facing Flynn. For a minute, I debate just crawling back into bed. Yeah, right. If I don’t go to Flynn, no doubt he’ll come looking for me. And I’d rather be dressed for that particular conversation.

The Control Room has got to be my least favorite place in the whole building. It’s the central hub of the Tesla Institute and is filled, floor to ceiling, with computers and monitors. Unfortunately, it’s also about six stories underground and built like an old bomb shelter. The concrete walls are stained with ugly brown streaks dripping down from metal gas lamps screwed into the surface. The door itself might have been taken from an old bank vault—it’s the ultimate padlock, easily three feet thick with brass beams that, when closed, fill holes in the walls themselves. At least the upper levels try to give the illusion of being outside. Not this room. Everything about it makes me feel like I’m walking into a dungeon. I slip through and make my way beyond the workbenches in the outer room. Passing one, I’m drawn to a small metal spider-looking creature. Its bulbous head is full of red liquid. One sharp pincer is attached to the front and a tiny chainsaw-looking limb sits next to it on the table. Reaching down, I poke at the machine.

“In here, Ember,” Flynn calls from the next room. “And don’t touch the Peacekeeper.”

Inside, moisture clings to every surface, and it’s almost unbearably hot despite the many churning fans. The low hum from the computers mixes with the occasional burst of steam from the more antique components. I break into a sweat almost immediately.

Swallowing hard, I make my way toward the man at the main interface in the center of the room. Sitting in a high-backed, brown leather chair is Flynn. Only a small scratch on his chin mars his long face. He adjusts his glasses and waves me in. Beside him, in the interface panel, resides what’s left of Nikola Tesla. A round window, built into copper paneling and filled with green glowing liquid, houses the last remains of our leader. His brain floats there, suspended from tubes and wires hanging in the tank. To the right of the brain, in a box, a life-sized copy of Tesla is projected onto a wall of thick steam. He’s like a ghost, glaring at me.

“Ember. You owe us an explanation,” the projection demands, though its voice doesn’t come from its mouth but from tiny speakers hidden high in the ceiling.

“Yes, sir.” I take a deep breath. “I know you ordered me not to go after the boy, but I had to. It was instinct.”

It’s Flynn who responds. “Ember, I understand the urge to save another’s life. But you have to remember that Tesla gives you orders for a reason.”

“Those plans weren’t worth that little boy’s life,” I say so defiantly it surprises me. Flynn snaps his mouth closed and stares at me as if he’s trying to decide what to say.

“Of course they were,” Tesla breaks in. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of one.”

On the interface to my left, a screen flickers to life. It’s a newspaper report—VonWeitter’s obituary, dated nine months after the Fair. He killed himself after having his research funding pulled.

“And as for the boy you pulled from the flames…” Tesla says with a pause. An image flashes onto the screen. This time it’s a police report. “The young man you saved lived only five more years. He was killed by police officers after robbing an elderly couple on the street. As soon as the fire began, I was able to calculate the ripples it created in the timeline. If the boy’s life had been important, then I would have seen it. But in the end, it was not.”

I feel my mouth drop open. “How can you say that? Every life—every single one—is important. Maybe not to you, but to someone.” My hands ball into fists at my side. I know I shouldn’t speak to him like this, but I can’t help it. A cold fury is building inside me, and suddenly the room doesn’t seem so hot after all.

Even though his tone is still neutral, I can feel the sting of his words. “I can see beyond your tiny scope. I can see all that would have happened if the plans had been salvaged. The lives they would have changed, the discoveries they would have led to. They would have helped people in ways you cannot hope to fathom. Are those lives less important to you because you have not seen them for yourself?”

I look to Flynn, not knowing what to say. How could doing something that felt so right be so wrong? His face is sympathetic as he walks over and drops his arm across my shoulders. “I know it’s hard, Ember. But you have to learn to have absolute trust in Tesla. He knows what he’s doing.”

I look at the steamy ghost of Tesla. For all that he is, I know he’s doing what’s right for all of us. He’s trying to make the world a better place. I get that. I respect that. It’s what we all want, the whole reason we’re here. It’s why we train and use our abilities. Still, I can’t get that boy’s face out of my mind. In saving one, I failed so many others. My friends, my team, and countless faceless people I will never know. My stomach churns at the thought.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Tesla’s voice never alters, nor does his expression change, but the threat still sends a shiver of dread up my back. “Your duty is to preserve the time stream at all costs. Sometimes that cost is high. But you must not turn from it. If you ever again disregard my orders, I will cast you out. Is that clear?”

“I understand. It won’t happen again,” I say, glancing once more at the police report. But even as the words leave my mouth, they feel like a lie.

They don’t seem to notice my deception. The Tesla projection vanishes, and Flynn squeezes my arm. “Let’s go get that bump on your head looked at, shall we?”

I nod and let him lead me out of the room.

“So, tomorrow is your final Trial. Are you excited?” Flynn asks.

“Nervous. Petrified, to be honest.” I’m rambling now, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “I mean, not scared or anything. Just, more like, you know. Anxious. Like before Christmas. If Christmas was terrible and possibly deadly. Like that kind of Christmas.”

He grins and hits the keypad. The door to the hospital slides open. The rest of the center is always a little cold, but this place is sterile. It looks more like a really clean mental institution than a hospital. I feel the goosebumps breaking out across my arms.

“Is that why you look like you haven’t been sleeping?” he asks, his voice concerned.

I bite my lip. Did I dare tell him about the dreams? The truth is, I haven’t slept a full cycle in months. I’ve been training for almost a year, and now it’s time for the test that will either carry me from recruit to operative or send me packing to whatever corner of the time stream they want to drop me in if I fail. Of course, those are the most optimistic outcomes. The odds are, if I wash out, I’ll just die.

Then the dreams started. As time went on, the dreams grew more detailed, more intense, until I realized they weren’t bad dreams at all. They are my memories surfacing.

Some deep sense of self-preservation keeps me from going to anyone about it. Mostly I’m afraid they’ll take them away again. I hear rumors of recruits who begin remembering things. Supposedly, the Institute has a way to fix that, though no one is exactly sure how.

And I want to remember so badly.

I didn’t even know how badly until the dreams began, but now I cling to each new nugget of history like a lifeline. I mentally file the pieces away until the day I can put my old life together.

“Ember, relax. You’re grinding your teeth so hard they’re going to be stumps when you finally open your mouth again.” Flynn smiles and pokes me in the cheek. “Oh, that reminds me. I have something for you.”

From his pocket, he pulls out an old-fashioned skeleton key. It has a brass and green patina with a small leaf design on the tip. The keys are sort of a thing between us. He gave me the first one when I woke up in the hospital right after I arrived. He’s been bringing them to me ever since.

“Thanks,” I say earnestly, just as Doc arrives to bandage me up and send me on my way.

Back in my room, I’m still flustered. We have training today, and after the monumental beating I received yesterday, I’m not sure I can muster up the strength. I sigh, picking out one of the sparring outfits from my large closet: black sweatpants with a single red stripe up each side, a simple grey shirt, and add a soft brown vest with lots of pockets and hooks for my various tools. The vest isn’t strictly part of the uniform, but it’s comfortable so I put it on anyway. I pull on a pair of black-and-gold-striped arm warmers and strap the brass cuffs on over them. My stomach gives me an angry growl. I thought the pangs had just been guilt and nerves, but now I realize I’m hungry. Like, haven’t eaten in a month hungry. Maybe I can grab a protein bar and a juice before class.

I button my vest, just about to sprint for the cafeteria, when a knock at my door makes me jump. The doors have a chime if someone is requesting access—the tap is metallic and hollow-sounding by comparison. Ethan and Kara are standing there in full sparring gear—sweatpants and loose grey T-shirts—ready to head to class. Kara looks almost as colorful as I do, and the bruises from our battle with the Hollows are in full bloom along her jaw.

“Hurry up, slacker. We’re going to be late,” Kara chastises playfully. I know full well she’d just as soon miss class altogether. Today, I would be tempted to ditch too, but I’m already skating on thin ice.

I snort. “I thought we were beyond the reaches of time.”

Ethan shakes his head. “Time moves everyone, Ember. Even us. Maybe especially us.”

I can’t argue with that.

My breath comes in short, shallow bursts. I can feel the warmth of Ethan’s body radiating like a tuning fork against my back. In front of me, there is only darkness. I strain, listening, waiting for the next wave of attack. The leather straps holding up my suede harness dig into the skin of my shoulders, but the ache only sharpens my focus. The urge to turn around is strong, though I know better. Months of training have taught me exactly what happens when I turn my back to the darkness. So I listen, honing my senses until I catch the sound of Ethan taking a small step forward, away from me. My eyes are useless, so I close them. Knowing my attackers are well paid for their ability to move in silence, there is little hope that they will give themselves away. We need another strategy. As if reading my mind, Ethan picks up the conversation we were having earlier.

“All I’m saying is, maybe you need the extra practice,” Ethan says, his tone mocking. Even without being able to see him, I can sense him moving, beginning to circle counterclockwise. I know he’s trying to draw them out, to bring the fight to him. It seems like a sound strategy, so I jump on board.

“Oh, yes, because it isn’t like she turned around and kicked the crap out of you, too.” I’m mimicking his movements now. My voice is flat, free from emotion, and my words are empty. I can’t see him moving, but I can feel him, as if we’re connected by a million invisible threads.

“How am I supposed to just punch a girl?” Ethan asks. “And I was tired from taking the guy out like five seconds earlier.”

“She isn’t a girl. She’s more like a pissed-off kangaroo in a top hat. She has a nasty right hook, I’ll give you that.”

I hear the sharp whip of air as a bamboo pole cuts through the darkness, headed toward my face. Even with our phony argument going on, I’m able to hear it coming before it lands. I bring up my hands and block the blow with my forearms. The impact stings, bruising the bones there, but better my arms than my face. With a movement perfected after one too many blows to the head, I grab the pole and pull it aside, dragging my attacker with it. As he closes in, I drop the pole and lock arms with Ethan. I flip over his back and kick out, knocking my attacker to the mat. As he struggles back to his feet, Ethan spins into my place, delivering a secondary kick that sends the man flying into the wall with a dull thud.

“Yeah, but she’s scrappy,” he says.

“Scrappy? Is that boy code for you couldn’t stop staring at her rack?”

Behind me, I feel Ethan duck a blow, then land one of his own before pressing his back against mine. “I…that’s not…I didn’t even…I mean…” he sputters.

I smirk. Busted.

Footsteps approach, but we keep sparring. I bend over, using my attacker’s own momentum against him as I put my shoulder into his gut and stand, propelling him over my head and onto his back on the mat. I don’t need to see my victory to realize what the maneuver has cost me. A muscle in my lower back seizes, and it’s all I can do not to drop to my knees in agony. I clench my fists until I feel my fingernails cut bloody crescents in my palms. There is no way I’m going to be the weak link—no way I’m going to let Ethan fight alone. Back-to-back, that’s how Rifters are trained to fight. And Ethan always has my back.

“Don’t feel too bad. She was pretty scrappy after all,” Ethan mumbles. “It’s a girl thing.”

“Hold up, what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, stiffly regaining my footing as my back screams in protest.

As usual, Ethan turns to check on me. “Nothing personal, Ember.”

Not wanting him to get slammed for it again, I grab him by the shoulder and pull, returning us to our starting positions just as the first attacker flips back onto his feet and lunges. He would have taken me in the stomach, but I bring up my knee just in time to block his advance, then kick him in the face. There is a loud crunch that sounds like breaking bone. I hear him hit the mat with a groan. The lights flick back on, and Mistress Catherine blows her whistle.

Normally we spar with off-duty guards, since most of them have military training of some kind. They know how to take a hit and how to deliver one without doing too much damage. We might be lowly recruits, but Rifters are rare, and our lives are precious.

But as the man whose nose I have just broken pulls off his black ski mask, my heart falls into my shoes. Flynn is staring up at me, and his face is covered in blood.

“Nice hit, Ember,” he says as blood drips from his nose and onto his white shirt. Mistress Catherine hands him his horn-rimmed glasses and shoots me an amused smirk. Behind me, Ethan snickers.

Great. And here I was thinking this day couldn’t get any worse.

Reaching down, I offer Flynn a hand up, which he accepts with a smile.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter, but he waves it off.

“Catherine told me you were really coming along. I wanted to see for myself.”

The others are shuffling out, so I turn to grab a towel and follow them, but Mistress Catherine closes the door behind a worried-looking Ethan, presses her back against it, and narrows her eyes at me. I used to think it was hard to look menacing in a beige brocade top, but she radiates power. It might be the stern pucker of her thin lips, or the way her greying hair is knotted tightly at the nape of her neck. She resembles a librarian, except for the long, jagged scar that runs from her left temple to the cleft in her chin. Well, that and the spider-shaped iron shoulder harness permanently affixed to her upper arm.

Not sure what’s going on, I freeze, yellow towel in hand. Before I can say anything, I feel something moving behind me. I manage to move to the side just as a wooden staff comes slamming down against the spot where I’d stood a heartbeat earlier. I turn and see Flynn grinning, blood still dripping off his chin. He spits before whirling the staff like a windmill in front of him.

“What I don’t understand,” he says, circling to my left, “is how that Hollow got the best of you. According to Ethan’s report, Kara had no problem with her. And Catherine here tells me that you mat Kara at almost every practice now.”

I have no idea what to say. Does he think I let her beat up on me? Just then, my legs are swept out from under me. I fall to the mat, but rolling swiftly backward I bounce up onto my feet. Catherine has a staff, too, and comes toward me from the right. I hold up my hands and back up slowly. In the corner of the room, a vent erupts in a cloud of steam, and Tesla’s image appears but says nothing.

“Look, I didn’t let her get away,” I say. “If that’s what you’re implying. She was strong. And fast.”

Catherine shakes her head. “You are strong. And fast. And clever.”

“I’m sorry!” I blurt out when my back hits the corner, and they are still coming at me.

I don’t think Flynn would ever hurt me, not really, but Catherine, well…

Without another word, they both attack. I manage to duck one blow, but take another in the ribs before I decide to make a break for it. Jumping as high as possible, I’m able to get a hand on the chain attaching one of the punching bags to the ceiling and hoist myself up. I leap over Flynn and roll as I hit the ground behind him. They’re quick, though, and have me surrounded again in seconds.

It’s easy to forget that they are trained Rifters, too. Catherine doesn’t rift anymore, but Flynn is still active, and still in really good shape. They aren’t holding anything back, either. Flynn lands a blow to my lower back, but when Catherine moves in, I’m able to grab her staff and force it from her bad arm. Suddenly, time is moving in a blur. I’m not thinking about my next move anymore. My body is reacting of its own accord.

I’m not sure how it happens, but I blink and Catherine is on her knees. Flynn is standing in front of me, and I have the two staffs crossed at his neck. He’s holding up his hands and saying my name.

I drop the sticks and step back. The muscles in my arms and legs are twitching like I’ve just run ten miles.

“That’s what we mean,” Catherine says, climbing stiffly to her feet. “You could have taken the Hollow girl. So, why did you hesitate?”

I close my eyes, calling the fight to the front of my memory. There was something about the girl. She was beautiful, for sure, but that wasn’t it. There was something else, too. Something I can’t put into words. I look up and they’re staring at me, waiting for some kind of answer. I can feel Tesla glaring holes into my back, watching me like one of his little science experiments. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Flynn sighs and holds his hands out to me. I take them without hesitation. “Ember, I know it’s hard. I know you don’t like hurting people. It’s against your very nature to harm someone or let someone suffer. But you are too important to risk losing. Understand? Sometimes, you have to put someone down—or let someone get hurt or even die—to save yourself and your team. You can’t hold anything back.”

I take a deep breath. “And what if someone dies because of me? Because, for some reason, my life is worth more than theirs?”

Flynn lowers his head, looking me in the eye. “That is a burden you will have to learn to carry.”

My stomach is churning by the time I make it to my next lesson, which is already in full swing when I slide into my seat. After a few minutes, a wadded-up wrapper hits me in the side. I turn and Ethan is staring at me.

He mouths, “What happened?”

I roll my eyes and mouth, “Later.”

Lucky for me, Kara has somehow managed to smuggle in a few pieces of chocolate from who knows where. She passes me a few while Professor Mortimer scribbles on an archaic chalkboard. Good thing chocolate works on hunger and on nervousness.

Mortimer teaches time manipulation studies. Across the board, he has scribbled a list of names. One of them jumps out at me.

“Can anyone tell me who these people are?” he asks, tugging his striped vest down over his rotund belly.

I raise my hand. Kara and Ethan exchange bored looks. I swear I hear Ethan mutter, “Overachiever.”

“Ember?”

I lean forward over my desk, swallowing the last of the chocolate quickly. “Survivors of the Titanic?” I say.

“Correct.”

“So what?” Kara asks sarcastically, twirling her long loose hair around her index finger.

Mortimer points to the third name on the list. Molly Brown.

“This name wasn’t on this list last year.” He lowers his chin, looking at us over the top of his bifocals. I’m about to ask how that’s possible, but then it dawns on me.

The Hollows.

He must be able to read my face because he nods. Point made.

In the back of the class, slacker-boy Roy raises his hand for the first time possibly ever. “So what happened? I mean, what changed?”

“Everything, according to Tesla. The ripples caused by the change in the event were far-reaching and unstoppable. That one minor change affected history for the next three hundred years. Can you imagine if they had done more?”

“More?” someone asks behind me.

“He means, like, what if they had prevented the ship from sinking altogether?” Kara answers, still managing to sound vaguely uninterested.

I consider her words. “It would have been like setting off a nuclear bomb in the time stream.”

I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until Mortimer agrees.

“You are very close to being literally correct. The fabric of time is fragile. Every ripple is a small tear, if you will, that weakens the stream. That’s why we are so careful with our assignments.”

It’s a lecture I’m all too familiar with. Behind me, others groan in unison. He turns back to the chalkboard and a wad of paper whizzes past his head, bouncing off the wall and landing in the trash. Kara snickers and holds her arms up over her head mouthing, “Three points.”

“So why don’t we send a few Rifters back and stop the Hollows from saving her?” Marcia asks from the seat behind Ethan. I turn to look at her. Her gaze is hard. She’s one of the kids we call arcs. They are more brawn, less brain—quick tempers and fists to match. Marcia is one of the few Rifters taking the Trial this year besides Ethan, Kara and me, and she’s the odds-on favorite to wash out.

Behind her, Liam is chewing his cuticles nervously. He falls into another group which Kara has affectionately dubbed the nerdlings. They are the polar opposites of the arcs: super smart, and mostly unable to hurt a fly. Tech heads. We don’t see them much. They tend to hang out down in the labs. They are nice enough, just not really my speed. No, I’m perfectly content with my little trio. Across from me, Ethan smiles.

“We did. They failed. It happens often, unfortunately.” Mortimer sweeps his gaze my way, and I flush. Glad to know I’m not the only one who botches missions, but I still feel unbelievably guilty. He continues, “We only get one chance to set things right.”

“Why is that?” Ethan asks. “I mean, why can’t we go back and try again?”

“Good question,” Mortimer says. “Does anyone know why we can’t go back to the same time more than once?”

I raise my hand again. “Because you already exist there. If you come into physical contact with yourself, you create a paradox in the stream.”

“So send in another group of Rifters,” Kara offers thoughtfully.

“Not a good idea, either,” a voice from the back of the class chimes in. I glance over my shoulder to see who it is, though I could have guessed. A shorter, dark-haired boy with glasses sits two rows back. Riley. He’s one of the few people in the class who can give me a run for my money in the testing scores arena. If the nerdlings had a king, he would wear the crown. “With a team already in play, the stream is vulnerable. You risk other, unintended alterations to the timeline. It becomes almost impossible for Tesla to work out the calculations at that point.”

“Correct, Riley,” Mortimer says. “The Tesla computer can calculate millions of ripples—minor alterations in the time stream that don’t change the overall course of history. But when you have multiple teams on the ground, those ripples become more like tidal waves. Even his system can’t keep up. We risk serious timeline changes and the chance of creating a major paradox.”

Paradoxes aren’t something we mess around with. We’re not really sure exactly what they do, and we’ve been very careful to never create a paradox in the time stream. At this point, the paradox is just a mathematical theory that has never been tested. To test it would mean creating a paradox intentionally, and the effects of doing so could be catastrophic.

Mortimer looks at me and I realize I missed something he said. I play it off and tune back in as he goes on. “But consider this. Time is a living thing, and it will always try to heal itself. So in a scenario where two versions of a person exist in the same space and time, time would have to either eliminate one version or break the stream itself into two separate pieces.”

He pauses, giving us a minute to absorb what he’s saying before he continues. “Either way, the damage caused would be unthinkable. Our best way to prevent the Hollows from damaging the timeline is to stay one step ahead of them.”

“How exactly are we supposed to do that?” I ask, almost growling in frustration.

“Their numbers are superior to ours, that’s true. But you will always be vastly superior to them. Tesla selects only the brightest, strongest Rifters to bring here and train. Be assured, you were all chosen to be here for a purpose.”

“How?” I ask before I can stop myself. “How are we chosen? How did Tesla know what we were, what we could become?”

Mortimer tugs at the collar of his shirt and stands, moving back to the old chalkboard. “I don’t know how he finds you, but I do know that the key to your abilities is in your genetics. So the fact that you are here tells me your genes are very strong.” He takes a deep breath and begins furiously erasing the notes from the board, creating a cloud of white dust. “In the end, I’m confident that we will prevail,” Mortimer adds over his shoulder before turning back to the board.

He finishes erasing the names on the board and turns back to us. Clapping his hands together, he creates a small cloud of chalk dust.

“When are we going to learn about something cool?” A voice I don’t recognize floats up from the back of the class. One of the arcs, no doubt.

Mortimer sits on the edge of his desk, looking surprised by the question. “And what, pray tell, would you consider cool?”

In front of me, a hand shoots up. “What happened to the Lost City of Atlantis?”

Mortimer flicks his hand. “It never existed. It was a literary object lesson.”

Another voice calls out from the back of the room, “Who was Jack the Ripper?”

“A woman named Christine Lafourche. Interesting story, that—” Mortimer begins, but he’s cut off.

“What happened to the Lost Imperials of the Romanov Dynasty?” Riley shouts.

“How exactly is any of that cool?” Ethan asks, not bothering to raise his hand. “I mean, seriously. Who cares? About any of this.” He makes a swirling motion with his finger in the air. “Shouldn’t we be spending more time tracking down the Hollows?”

“Ethan has a point,” Kara cuts in. “I mean, why all the history lessons? Everything we need to know, Tesla will tell us in the field.”

“The story is legend.” Riley’s voice is shrill with excitement.

Mortimer clears his throat. “How did you hear about this story, Riley? I’m sure there are no references in the library.”

A sudden flush rushes to my cheeks, making my ears and neck burn. I’m getting light-headed. I grab my desk and hold it tightly, struggling against the waves of nausea threatening to bring up my chocolate. Out the corner of my eye, I can see Ethan staring at me. He reaches over, but I shake him off.

“Yeah, and why is that, anyway?” Riley asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “The Russian Tsar and his entire family were slaughtered by the Bolsheviks. Only one of the Tsar’s daughters and his son escaped. It’s a huge unsolved mystery. Supposedly the family was told they were going to take a photograph, and then a bunch of gunmen opened fire on them.”

I can feel prickles of ice climbing up my back and shooting up my neck as he goes on. I’m struggling to breathe as my lungs constrict. “Wow, nerdling. Do you dream of books?” Kara scoffs.

“I came across it on one of my missions. They made, like, a dozen movies about it. Anyway, it got me curious, so I did a little digging. A few women surfaced after a while claiming to be the missing princess, but they were all phonies.”

Mortimer interrupts, trying to regain the student’s focus. “Yes, thank you for that, Riley. Now, as I was saying—”

“But the real story is much more interesting,” Riley interrupted. “Some people say the women didn’t die from the gunfire because they’d sewn their jewels into their corsets, and they kept deflecting the bullets. The Bolsheviks had to chase them down and cut their throats.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I blink, trying to focus on Ethan’s face, but everything goes dark, and in the darkness, I hear a scream.

I think it’s mine.