Extracted by Tyler H. Jolley & Sherry D. Ficklin
***
Flynn stands in the center of the room, his glass high in the air. “It’s time. If the new Rifters would please join me in the main lab?”
I swallow hard. In all the excitement, I’d almost forgotten about this step, this final initiation. Goose bumps erupt along my arms. Kara moves to Ethan’s other side and takes his empty hand. She looks radiant in the glow of success, not a hint of fear or hesitation on her face.
“Relax, Ember. It’s like getting a tattoo.”
I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at her. As if she has any idea.
Ethan chimes in. “Yeah, Ember. Just like a tattoo. Only instead of ink, it’s acid. And instead of a cute unicorn skipping across a rainbow, it’s Tesla’s personal seal of approval. How bad could it possibly be?”
I frown. Just what I need. One more scar. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“Don’t be such a whiner, Ember. Suck it up. Everyone does it. It’s just a symbol, a reminder of our oath to Tesla,” Kara says, tugging Ethan and me forward.
Her tone is joking, but there’s an underlying tension, too. Deep down, I bet she’s just as nervous as I am.
We drop hands to follow the crowd to Tesla’s main lab. It’s one of the largest rooms in the facility, which is saying something. About the size of a six-car garage, it holds ten workstations—long tables covered in equipment. As we walk past, I absently reach out, running my fingers over bits of metal. Bad idea. A sharp bit slices into my finger. Blood rises quickly, pooling on the surface of my skin. I swear and bring the wound to my mouth, sucking on it gently before wrapping it in the hem of my dress. Ethan glances over at me, but I shrug. I’ll live.
I have to hand it to Tesla—lots of scientists in history have been obsessed with immortality, but he’s the only one who’s managed it. At least, so far. I can’t help wondering if in some dark future there are millions of them, people whose lives have been reduced to brains in jars. As we pass a table of empty holding tanks, I can’t help but cringe.
I’d never want to live that way.
I hate this room. It’s the same place Tesla chewed me out after my botched mission to the World’s Fair, and even with all the extra people in here now, it’s still creepy. My eyes are drawn to Tesla’s brain floating in the wall. His tank is designed so that, in the event of a breach of the facility, Tesla can be removed and taken to safety. I wonder for a moment whose job that is, removing that tank. Then I blink, bringing myself back to the reason I’m even standing in this room, and the goosebumps reappear. Beside me, Ethan wraps his fingers in mine. Kara takes hold of his other hand, shooting me a glance that isn’t nearly as cocky anymore. I can’t blame her. This whole place is creepy.
Flynn hits a switch on the wall and holographic Tesla sparks to life. On the ground is a small vent that blows steam upward, giving the hologram a sort of screen to be projected on. The image of Tesla smiles and holds his hands out toward us. He looks so freaking weird like this. Sure, the brain in the jar is pretty bad, but this is worse somehow. His black hair is parted in the middle and slicked down on either side of his head. His features are sharp, his nose is long, and a disturbingly thin mustache rides his upper lip. It’s the smile that’s bothering me, I realize. It somehow doesn’t fit his face—it’s too small and too forced to belong there. He speaks, his voice crackling through the speakers in the walls.
“My friends, I am so pleased to welcome you here. You have worked hard and passed all your Trials. Now you stand with the others of your kind, and you will take your place among them.” His smile falls away. With a wave of his hand, Nurse appears from the corner of the room. It’s holding a brass tray full of metal syringes. Flynn holds up the first and moves to stand in front of the first Rifter, who holds out his left arm and recites the oath. As soon as the words are spoken, Flynn stabs the large needle into his forearm and presses the plunger. The boy doesn’t make a sound, but I can see from the immediate sheen of sweat on his face that it isn’t pleasant. As soon as Flynn withdraws the needle, the boy shudders. Holding his arm, he walks to stand beside the other Rifters. I stare at him, watching fat tears roll down his cheeks.
The urge to move, to run, is nearly overwhelming. I don’t want to do this, I realize. Not that I don’t want to be a Rifter—I do—but this all seems too much, too barbaric. Like, Tesla is claiming us as his property, branding us like cattle. It’s all I can do to hold still and keep my face impassive. Only Ethan’s hand in mine keeps me grounded. Keeps me sane.
The process is repeated until Flynn reaches me. I’m the first of my friends to take the oath. I’m squeezing Ethan’s hand so tightly I practically have to pry myself away from him. I step forward, swallowing hard as I hold out my arm, palm up. At first, I’m afraid I won’t remember the words, but they tumble out seemingly of their own accord.
“I hereby swear loyalty to Tesla and this Institute,” I say, my legs shaking like violent little earthquakes are rippling through the muscles. “I promise to defend the time stream, this place, and Tesla himself to the last breath in my body.” I take another step. “I will not falter or hesitate. Willingly do I give my life to this service.” I step forward again, sure that my knees will buckle and I’ll fall on my face. But I don’t. “Freely, do I give my word before these witnesses. This is my binding oath.” I’m right in front of Flynn now, and I’m shaking all over. It’s not the expectation of pain that’s bothering me so much. It’s the idea of Tesla on me, inside my skin. I try not to gag. That’s the idea. This chemical burn will remind us of our loyalty, the cost of failure, and more importantly, that Tesla is always with us.
The prick of the needle isn’t what hurts. But the liquid inside burns like acid, as Ethan predicted it would. My eyes water as it sears through the veins in my arm, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from crying out. I expect it to continue to spread into my shoulder, but it doesn’t. It’s contained in the white skin of my forearm. Seconds feel like hours as I fight to breathe through the pain. Soon, the burning sensation begins to swirl and my flesh mounds as if a small creature were burrowing beneath it. It’s not a scar, exactly. Neither is it a tattoo. Only a few shades darker than my skin, but raised, it’s an inside-out brand. The pain fades, and all that’s left is a perfect sun emblem. The symbol of enlightenment—the symbol of Tesla.
When I look up, Flynn is smiling broadly.
I vomit on his shoes.