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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 shoots 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 and his voice crackles through 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 and, 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 and, holding his arm, 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 practically have to pry myself away from Ethan, I’m squeezing his hand so tightly. 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’s mark 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 was 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.

I look up, and Flynn is smiling broadly.

I vomit on his shoes.

“This way, guys,” I whisper, stuffing the ancient map into my back pocket. I look up, taking inventory of the unfamiliar team. Gloves hadn’t just given the green light for the mission into Tesla. He seemed nearly giddy at the idea of breaking into the Tesla vault. We have leave to grab whatever tech we can get our hands on. He’s wanted to breach the compound for years, but never had a reason to risk it. I’ve given him all the reason he needs. The bribe turned out to be just the icing on the cake.

Nobel is here, of course. If Gloves lets us, and if the gods of manipulation grant us the ability to talk him into doing it, Nobel and I try to commission ourselves on most of the same missions.

“I’m glad you’re here, bro,” I say.

“You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Nobel responds.

I’m always glad to have the two security personnel from the Tower, Bruce and Slap Stick, with me also. I’m sure Sisson is here so she can report back to Claymore about the mission, but I don’t mind because she is very good at recon. The last in our party is Journey. I’m not sure how many missions she has been on, but she loves maps and is an expert navigator. Besides, she’s the one who figured out the location of the Institute by tracking a couple of Rifters back to it.

“I found the entrance to the old coal mine,” Sisson says, not even out of breath despite what must have been a long run through the cramped tunnel.

The mine obviously hasn’t been used in a very long time and now the bushes and trees have grown over the entrance, concealing it from everyone. The bushes grab at our clothing and equipment. The gears on my fake leg chew at the small twigs as I trudge through the thick undergrowth. The team follows my lead.

Once we get closer to the entrance, I feel cold cave air billowing out from the mouth of the mine. It’s moldy, damp, and smells like my hamper back at Wardenclyffe Tower. Sharp crystals poke out of the ground.

“Here you go,” Nobel says. He hands me a small flashlight.

“This is too easy,” Journey says, tucking a loose patch of her wiry red curls behind her goggles. “Why hasn’t anyone found this entrance before?”

“Well, for one thing, it’s been blocked off for years. And for another, who would be crazy enough to risk breaking into the Institute itself?” I chuckle and the team joins me. Good. We need to break up the tension somehow. “Plus, nobody else has had Slap Stick on their side.”

Slap Stick is the most noticeable of the group, partly because of his enormous height and partly because of the ominous belt of C-4 bricks slung across his body. I slap him on the shoulder not covered in explosives and he gives me a half-smile. “So Journey, you find the sweet spot, and then Slap Stick will blow a big old hole in it.”

“Yessir,” Slap Stick says, his Texan accent strong as he rubs his hands together. “I really can’t wait. I haven’t blown up anything for a week now. I’m having major withdrawal.”

Pressing a finger to my lips, I lead my team into the dark shaft. At some point, according to the map, it almost connects with a current steam tunnel. There are only a few scant feet of sandy ground separating the two. I know we’re getting close because I can hear the growl of electric turbines spinning in the chamber above us.

On my signal we stop and wait, pressed against the cool mine wall. Roots emerge out of the walls and ceiling like veins on an old lady’s arm. As we move deeper into the cave the growl fades to a hum, and then dies down completely until the only sound left is the light grinding sound of my prosthetic leg and the hiss as a wisp of smoke escapes it. I’m getting used to the sound, and it’s a small price to pay for not being bound to a wheelchair for the rest of my life.

“All right, here we go,” I say, motioning for them to spread out.

To their credit, not a single member of my team shows fear. In fact, they are oozing excitement, practically vibrating with nervous energy. They drop into place, working more like a well-oiled machine than a group of teenagers on a mission that could conceivably be their last. Each one is a cog in the machine that is the Hollows—all skilled, all prepared, and all full of reckless courage.

“This is so weird,” Journey whispers to me as she taps gently on the tunnel wall, looking, I assume, for a thin spot.

“Why?” Slap Stick asks, his hand twitching over a brick of explosives.

“I think this is the first time I’ve actually done a mission in the field,” she answers, pressing her ear to the wall and tapping again.

“Really?” I ask, immediately rethinking the wisdom of having her with us.

I look at her more closely. She might be fourteen, at most, and is still green around the gills. Mentally, I curse. The last thing I need is to get distracted trying to save a rookie.

“Relax, I do stuff like this all the time,” Sisson adds from across the room.

I want to say something—something profound and wise that will inspire my team—but nothing comes to mind.

Nobel runs ahead thirty yards and sets down a device that we call Miss Liberty. She has a face made out of gears and her torch is a small windmill. As the windmill turns with the slight cave breeze, the face gears click, indicating that she is functioning. These gears activate a small projector. The camera lens illuminates the floor with white light.

I approach the apparatus and hear Nobel talking to his machine.

“Good girl, that’s it, keep going,” he whispers.

The white light takes shape into the form of an arrow and points down the mine tunnel.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is our compass,” Nobel announces with great pride.

“So all we have to do is follow the arrow?” Bruce asks. My metal leg is nothing compared to the overhaul he got after an explosion on a subway a few years back. He was supposed to go in and grab a kid, a Rifter like us, whom Claymore had located. He got the kid, but neither of them came out completely intact. One arm is made of brass, and half his face is metal burned into skin. A large monocle covers one eye, and his ear is missing on that side. In its place is a tiny transmitter that allows him to hear by echolocation, like a bat.

“Well, sort of,” Nobel replies. “The arrow points to Tesla kinda like how a compass points north. So we need to pick the tunnels that head in that direction.”

“We’ve input all the data from my maps into her memory,” Journey adds proudly.

At every intersection and fork in the mine tunnel, Nobel sets up Miss Liberty. She keeps our bearings. Finally we find it—the sweet spot. Miss Liberty’s light shines on a section of wall that’s partially caved in.

Journey presses her ear against the rock and taps, then gives Slap Stick a thumbs up. We all run down the dirt tunnel a ways as he sets the charge. He’s whistling when he joins us. We crouch and cover our ears. Slap Stick’s whistle hits a high note that echoes through the chamber a second before the blast.

* * *

Everything is going smoothly. Too smoothly, I realize. We’re creeping silently through the old cargo tunnel. As we turn the next corner, the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. Journey’s earlier words echo again in my head. Too easy.

“Guys, stop,” Sisson whispers harshly. “Did you hear that?”

As if by unspoken command, we all douse our lights. Bruce nods, and Sisson doesn’t hesitate. Her mini Steam Cannon crackles in the darkness as she pulls it from her thigh holster. Donning her night-vision goggles, she takes off down the tunnel to recon, able to navigate her way through the pitch darkness easily.

We hear the sound of her body hitting the ground, and then all hell breaks loose.

The darkness becomes a war zone. A blast of air blows past my face and I jerk to the side. Rapid puffs fill the tunnel. Then more familiar sounds—tiny metal legs running in our direction, and dirt crumbling from the walls around us.

“Lights!” I yell and the cavern around us illuminates as we reignite our lights.

My mind races. Forward or back? Do we push farther into Tesla or retreat now with my team mostly intact?

“Fall back.” I give the order even as Journey is running forward, into the line of fire. Journey is at Sisson’s side, pressing two fingers against her neck.

“She’s still alive,” Journey yells back into the chaos. “She got hit with a tranq dart.”

“Get her out of here,” I order. “Rift her back to Wardenclyffe!”

Journey complies, dragging Sisson past our line and back into the tunnel. Bruce shoves a Contra into Sisson’s mouth.

Journey pulls a Contra from a pocket on her shirt and swallows it quickly. The two girls vanish to safety.

“Take cover!” I order to the remaining team.

Bruce jumps behind a mound of rocks and packed dirt. Slap Stick kneels in the middle of the passageway and holds up a homemade pipe bomb, silently asking permission to light it. I nod as the first wave of Gear Heads crawls up the walls of the dirt cavern.

“Do it!” I yell.

“Good thing we packed the heavy artillery!” Bruce grins, tossing me a telescoping electric baton. I flick my wrist and it expands to four feet long. A small ball at the end crackles with electricity. I mouth, “Thanks,” just in time to hear Slap Stick cry out.

He slumps to the floor with the unlit explosive still in his hand. I don’t have time to think. I quickly slide to where he lies and press my index and middle finger against his neck. He still has a pulse.