***
By the time we get to her, Sisson is lying in the time stream flat on her back. Her clothes are ripped, and she’s bleeding. She’s unconscious. White strands of the time stream have cocooned her, woven into her hair, and are drawing the color from it. Two small robots with glass dome heads are attached to her waist and foot. We hurry over to her and pull her from the invisible hammock. I’m afraid I’m going to pull her arm out of her socket, so instead, I bear hug her and start pulling. Frantically, we work, not knowing what damage the time stream has done to her.
“She’s breathing.” Nobel shakes his head like he’s surprised. “I think the time stream has protected her somehow, kept her alive. That’s why she’s wrapped in that stringy stuff.”
“Can she swallow, though?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Nobel replies. “We need to get these Gear Heads off her.”
Using my fingernail to pierce the hard gel covering of the Contra pill, I pry Sisson’s mouth open and carefully drip the contents under her tongue.
Then I pry the claws of one mechanical creature off her foot as Stein wrestles with the lasso that the other hand has wrapped around her waist. We let them go, and they are blown away. Lost in the time stream.
Good riddance.
I pop the pill into my mouth just as Nobel and Stein do, and we all grab hold of Sisson.
In a blur of motion and color, we are pulled from the time stream. I hold my breath, because returning home always has the sensation of walking under a waterfall without getting drenched. Gloves is already here as we materialize into the common room. Some of the same Hollows who watched us spar are also here, staring with concerned expressions. Low voices whisper to each other around us. Silence sweeps through the room as they see Sisson’s limp, bloody body. Moving quickly, I lay Sisson on a tattered Oriental rug in the center of the room. Nobel holds her head, I kneel at her side, and Stein stands behind me with her arms folded.
“This should take care of it,” Gloves says, taking a gas mask, with a blender attached to the mouthpiece, from a compartment in his wheelchair.
Nobel must know the routine because he takes the rubber mask and slips it over Sisson’s head, securing the leather straps. Gloves turns on the blender and pulls some shimmering, gear-shaped items from his blue conductor’s coat pocket. With Sisson’s head laid back, he starts tossing the gears into the blender.
“She’s inhaled too much of the time stream. Remaining in it that long isn’t good for the lungs. This should help flush her system. These nanites will eat the remaining Contra from her blood,” Gloves says over the sound of metal grinding metal.
Sisson convulses, but Gloves puts one white-gloved hand on her forehead and secures the blender with his other.
I see a yellow powder fill the eye ports of the black rubber gas mask. Sisson’s chest heaves in and out as she gasps for air. I can feel my pulse quicken, and it takes all my self-control to not knock Gloves over and tear the mask off. Then her breathing normalizes.
“It’s done,” Gloves says.
I quickly unstrap the mask and watch Sisson’s eyes flutter open. She is mumbling. Stein bends down and strokes Sisson’s sweat-filled hair out of her eyes.
“You’re safe now,” Gloves says.
Sisson reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small vial of black liquid. With shaking hands, she presses it into Nobel’s palm.
As soon as she lets go, her eyes roll back into her head, and she passes out