Sherry Ficklin - Extracted

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.