***
The Control Room has 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, while 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 mix with the occasional burst of steam from the more antique components. I break out 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 Nicola 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. 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. 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-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.
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