Sherry Ficklin - Extracted

The ducts are cramped and hotter than the tunnels under the Institute. I don’t like being the second in command, especially to a Tesla kid. Stopping at a slatted grate in the floor of the hard metal duct, Ethan says, “Here it is. My room.”

Following after him, I quietly lower myself onto his desk.

“Lookin’ a little green there, buddy,” I say. From the other side of the room Ethan shrugs, leaning against the wall for support. He really does look like he’s about to spew chunks.

He leans his head back and closes his eyes. “This is your fault. You and those stupid green pills. Why can’t you just use tech to rift like a civilized person?”

I can’t help laughing. “Did you just compare me to a civilized person?”

He lowers his head and looks at me. “Good point. What’s in those pills anyway?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know. But this batch was stronger. There wasn’t a jump date programmed, so it just sort of threw us in. Glad you knew where we were going. Which reminds me—what was Ember saying about breaking your leg?”

He crosses the room and pulls a brass panel cover off the wall, exposing a junction box beneath. “Almost breaking my leg. Believe it or not, your sister can pack a serious wallop when she’s got half a mind to.” He grins, then pulls a wire from the wall and strips the rubber coating off with his teeth. Spitting the remnants on the floor, he adds, “Welcome to my humble abode. Don’t touch anything.”

I make a point to kick an electronic tablet off the edge of his desk as I jump to the ground. “Sorry.”

His room is clean, freakishly clean. Nothing is out of place. On the desk is a handheld video game system, a few books that look like they are about to fall apart, and a multi-tool, which I slip into my pocket.

“I mean it, sticky fingers. Hands off my stuff.”

Rolling my eyes, I put it back. Then, on a shelf not far away, I see a red velvet bag sticking out from behind a jar of metal scraps. Ethan is busy twisting wires together so I take a look. Upon dumping the bag upside down, a small necklace falls into my palm.

It’s a small black-and-white pendant shaped like an hourglass. “A little girly for you, isn’t it?” I say, holding it by the chain.

Ethan snorts. “It isn’t mine.”

“Is it my sister’s?”

“Yeah. Well, sort of. I haven’t given it to her yet. Not by this time anyway.”

I stuff it back in the bag and toss it aside. “What’s the deal with you and my sister?”

He pauses, looking confused. “What? Are you really asking me what my intentions with your sister are? What are you, the key holder to her chastity belt?”

I shrug. “Color me overprotective.”

Ethan cracks a grin. “That’s a bit of an understatement, isn’t it?”

“Hey,” I say, crossing the room to level a glare at him. “I’m trying. And considering you and yours have spent the last five years trying to kill me and mine, I think that’s pretty good.”

He stands, raises his hands into the air and steps back. “Fair enough, I suppose. Your sister and I have been friends since the day she arrived. She’s the first person I’ve ever known who really sees me. The good parts and bad parts. And she accepts them both.” He picks up the bag and dumps the necklace into his palm. He picks it up and lets it spin in the light before putting it away. “When she found you, I knew she was leaving me to get you back. The thought of not seeing her face again or, even worse, facing her someday as an enemy…”

I roll my head to the side, cracking my neck, and grunt. “I get that.”

“So are we good? Can we get this done now? Or should we talk about our feelings some more?” he asks.

“Just waiting on you,” I snap.

“Instead of trying to steal my stuff, you could help me with this panel,” Ethan says, putting me back in my place. He’s right. I’m wasting time being petty. If we survive this, there will be plenty of time to be petty later.

“In my closet there is a phonograph with a remote sitting by it,” Ethan says.

“Do you want me to get it?” I ask.

Ethan scowls at me and points to the closet. I reluctantly meander over to where the phonograph and remote are stored. I notice his closet is organized by color, short sleeve versus long, and leather versus cotton. What a dork.

The phonograph is surprisingly heavy. I put the remote device in my pocket so I can get both hands on it.

“Thanks for letting me manhandle this thing by myself,” I say.

“You are most certainly welcome, good fellow,” he says, sarcasm glazing his words. “Just bring it over here.”

I slide the vintage record player near the door.

“You know how these work?” he asks.

“Are you kidding? We had one on every floor back home. I loved these things.”

“Well this one is special. It works in reverse.” He runs his fingers along the edge of the brass horn piece. “You know Tesla invented the radio?”

“No, should I?”

“This one is my own design. Let me see the remote.”

Ethan takes the brass-button remote box from me and hooks two wires from the freshly dissected wall panel into the back of the phonograph.

“This is going to create radio waves that will jam Tesla. It will disrupt all his active systems on this floor.”

“You know,” I say, fiddling with a piece of metal on his desk. “For a guy loyal to Tesla, you sure have a good handle on how to disable him.”

Ethan shrugs. “When you spend your life under the constant eye of Big Brother and you want to have any privacy at all, you learn to skirt the rules a little.”

He angles the phonograph toward his desk, aims the remote control box back at the horn, and presses a button. Slowly the machine begins to spin beneath the needle, but no music comes out. Instead, the notes are being fed into the computer.

“Okay. It’s activated,” he announces, replacing the panel.

“You mean your brain-in-a-bottle, Tesla, is going to be blind and deaf? Cool!” A reluctant tingle of pride and excitement makes the hair on my arms stand up.

“We have three minutes until the cameras come back online. Put this on.”

He hands me a gas mask from the shelf. The old leather is soft and worn. I slip the straps over my head and adjust the fit.

“If everyone is off training, or whatever, why do I have to wear this?” I ask, rubbing the cloudy lenses with my sleeve and taking a deep breath.

“In case I’m wrong and someone is wandering around. Let’s go.”

The door groans open and we slip into the hall. It’s empty, as he promised it would be. The fact that he hasn’t led me straight into a trap bodes well for his continued breathing. We reach another door where he stops, pulling another panel free. Inside the wires have been crossed and recrossed. Carefully, he touches one to another and the door slides open. I step inside first.

The room smells like her. I remember when we were little, I would sneak out of my room and hide from our nursemaid in her closet. Maria always smelled like warmth and sunshine, but Anya was more like sticky sweet cakes and honey.

Her bed is made, but it’s still messy, as if she just pulled the blanket up over a tangle of sheets. There are energy bar wrappers balled up on the floor around a trash bin, and, like in Ethan’s room, there are piles and piles of books.

She never was a tidy one.

On top of her dresser is a small wooden box with vines carefully carved into the dark surface. Cracking it open, I get a glimpse of what at first reminds me of Mother’s jewels. I pick up a smooth red shard and fiddle with it between my fingers.

“Sea glass,” Ethan says, taking the piece from my fingers. “Sometimes when we get free time they let us go to the beach. She’ll spend hours combing the sand for just one little piece. Just sort of slow and patient. It’s interesting to watch actually. When she finds a piece, her whole face lights up.”