Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

“Time.” Lyons turns his attention from Cobb back to me. “The changes made to your DNA were made four years ago. You stuck yourself with that needle, too, though it was a far more informed decision. You volunteered.”

Of course I did. A lack of fear is sometimes the worst enemy of sound decision making. Even now, the revelation that I’ve been part Dread for four years hardly fazes me. I don’t appreciate the not knowing. The lies. My feelings of right and wrong begin to fuel a smattering of righteous indignation, but the ramifications of being not fully human for years don’t rattle me. The biggest reaction I can manage is a simple question. “How did I not know?”

“When we took care of your memory,” Lyons says, “we also inhibited your new genes. The drug you injected, the one we let you believe was important and irreplaceable, simply unlocked those latent abilities. It’s why you felt them right away.”

All of this makes a strange kind of sense. I get what he’s telling me. But it doesn’t answer the original question. “What I meant was, if you can’t really see or interact with the Dread out there”—I motion toward the Documentum room—“all you had was mathematical theories, and I hadn’t yet been… altered, where did you get your original DNA sample?”

“That… came from you, too.” Lyons stands above me. Points at my chest. “Do you remember how you got that scar?”

I glance down. There’s a large round scar from a puncture wound in the meat between my shoulder and heart.

“One of them slipped partially into our world and put a talon in your chest. It was aiming for your heart. But unlike you, it had no experience physically killing a human being, let alone a fearless special-ops-trained CIA assassin. You rolled, took the blow to your chest, and then removed the digit with a knife. The whole encounter lasted just seconds and left us with a Dread finger. Once in our dimension, separated from the body, the finger remained. You packed it in ice, brought it to me, and voilà, Dread DNA. That moment was like a quantum shift for Neuro. Physical proof at last. It changed everything.”

“You said the Dread avoided entering our frequency physically,” Cobb points out.

“I said it was rare,” Lyons says. “Not impossible. In this case it was likely the lack of a fear response that instigated a reaction.”

Something in me wants to argue this history lesson. It feels too simple. Too clean. But I have no memory, so how can I argue? “The severed finger didn’t have a negative effect on the people who saw it?”

Lyons shakes his head. “Once fully in our world, the Dread’s effect on the human psyche is mostly negated, at least to a point where it can be overcome and recovered from. Some of the fear projected from a Dread comes from the way they vibrate. Their frequency. When so close to our reality, we can feel their presence in the very strings of reality, like the universe is suddenly out of tune. It makes us uncomfortable, disoriented, and, most often, afraid. But there is something else. Something more. We don’t understand it yet, but they are able to magnify, and even direct, that fear response. To fully enter our frequency of reality, the Dread must be in sync with it. So the natural fear created by their presence is negated, and when they’re dead, well, they can no longer push fear at anyone.”

“Are you sure about that?” I ask.

Dearborn raises his hands, eager to share. “Not all myths are about specters and demons. Some include physical confrontation.”

“Couldn’t they just be ancient ‘big fish’ stories made up to get into a girl’s pants… or tunic?” Cobb asks.

“Since many of the stories end with the heroes’ death, I’d venture at least some of them were genuine confrontations. There is Humbaba the Terrible, an ancient Mesopotamian beast whose job was to inflict human beings with terror. It had a face that looked like coiled entrails, or a lion’s, depending on which hieroglyphs you believe. The monster was confronted by Gilgamesh and slain. Then there is Scylla, the Greek cave-dwelling sea monster described as a ‘thing of terror.’ The monster was slain by Hercules, who is undoubtedly a creation of legend, and recent information obtained by Neuro suggests the true slayer of the monster was a man named Alexander.

“These are all mythological battles with creatures that I believe were likely”—he raises a finger—“real, physical events.” He raises a second finger. “Lacking any real knowledge of the Dread, ancient peoples attributed those events to already-existing myths, or brand-new ones conforming to whatever belief system or religion was prevalent at the specific time and place. And, of course, there is always a good amount of embellishment, or legend, that is added to these things over time. A Dread bull with no horns might have the huge horns of a Minotaur after two thousand years of oral tradition. So all we can really glean is that physical confrontations with Dread, while rare, have occurred in the past—in your case, the recent past—and the human involved had the wherewithal to fight back. Ipso facto, the fear effect generated by the Dread is negated or substantially reduced when they’re fully immersed in our frequency of reality.”

Dearborn’s depth of knowledge is impressive, but is he overreaching? Who’s to say that all those stories about monsters weren’t just created by the ancient horror authors of the time, spreading their tales through oral tradition rather than the printing press? “Maybe it’s just that a dead finger isn’t that scary? Or the mythological heroes who fought back were born like me. I can’t be the only one in the history of mankind to be born with deformed amygdalas.”

The old man twists his lips back and forth, which I now know means he’s thinking. “I believe we’ve answered enough questions for now.” He stands over me, breathing.

“You sound like Darth Vader,” I point out.

He grins. “Most overweight men do.” The operating table groans when Lyons leans over and uses it to support his weary-limbed girth. “Now then, tell me what you saw.”

While I haven’t been told everything, Lyons has been forthcoming. I decide to keep the exchange of information going. “I can see them in several different ways. First, in our world, or dimension, or frequency. Whatever you want to call it. Then there is the world between. It looks similar to the real world, but is intercut by glowing green veins, which also cover the Dread. I think it’s blood, like an external vascular system. The sky is purple. There are also black trees, some intermingling with the trees from our world. Basically, all the really solid, immovable stuff from both sides is there.”

“It all matches his previous description,” Katzman says.

“Yes, yes,” Lyons says, nodding quickly, moving his hand around in circles, urging me to continue on. “Stationary objects of concrete reality tend to stretch between frequencies further than living, moving matter, overlapping with the next fully realized frequency. We know all this already.”

I pick up the ice packs on my stomach, flipping them over one by one. They’re getting warm.

Lyons loses his patience. Snaps his fingers at me. “The mirror dimension. That’s where you went, isn’t it?”

“I killed it there, yes.”

Lyons steps back a bit, finds a chair, and sits. He doesn’t seem surprised, and I think I know why. Despite his claim that all the specimens were trapped while entering Neuro, some of them came from me. I’ve killed them before. “Good,” he says. “This is good. Give me details.”

“I’ll give you the whole story,” I say, and I break the details down for my entranced audience, telling them about the trail of green blood, the veined trees and earth, and my crash with and travel through the pine tree, and the muddy landing in the Dread’s world, which I describe in detail. I tell them how I killed the bull but leave out the pugs and colony. We’ll get to that soon enough. I finish with an explanation of how my pendant made the leap between worlds with me, confirming that all matter can change frequencies; oscillium just does it more easily.