Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

“I don’t know. My access was pulled two days ago. I was given a new assignment…” She lowers her voice like someone is listening, which could be the case. “But I think the answer they were hoping for is no.”

Huh, I think, and then the elevator stops.

“So there is no way to access that file now?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not for me, but all my results were inconclusive. You wouldn’t learn much about yourself that you don’t already know.”

“You might be surprised,” I say.

“Right.” A sheepish smile emerges. “No memory.”

The doors slide open. I take a step toward the waiting hallway and stop. “You seem like a good person. Not afraid to look where you want. Didn’t lose your mind when I fell through the ceiling.”

“And the floor.”

“I respect that. We friends?”

“You available?” she asks.

“Married,” I say. “Not that I can remember it.”

“Then yes,” she says. “We’re friends.”

I lean closer to her. “Then as your friend: get the hell out of here. I don’t think it’s going to be a safe place to be for much longer.”

“O—okay…”

“Now.”

She takes off her white lab coat and hands it to me.

“I don’t think it will fit,” I say.

“Tie it around your waist.”

I do as instructed, making myself a little more appropriate, and step backward out of the elevator. She gives a wave, and the doors close.

Alone in the hallway, I turn toward the sound of voices. A door before the Documentum room is open. I pad my way over, bare feet silent on the floor. It’s a security center. Everyone from the lab, minus Cobb, is there, huddled together, backs to me. Monitors display images of the inside and outside of the building. But a large screen at the center of the display shows an angry mob. They’re watching the news?

“Hey,” I say.

The group turns around as though one entity with a unified mind.

“Where were you?” Winters asks. She sounds genuinely concerned.

“Sixth floor. Then fifth.” I turn to Lyons. “You were right about the laws of physics. They definitely work the same on the other side.”

“You fell two floors down?” Allenby asks.

“One at a time,” I say. “But yes.”

“Awesome.” Dearborn grins. “Our very own demigod.”

“Hardly,” I say, and point at the monitors cycling through images of the building’s interior. Stephanie appears on screen, talking to some people, a smile on her face. Probably joking about me. “You should have seen me on the screens.”

“We were distracted.” Katzman sounds tense. A little angry, which is nothing new, but you’d think he’d also be impressed. I did just fall through a solid floor. He motions to the angry mob on the big screen. Like the march in Manchester, I see protest signs, masks, and weapons. The people in whatever city this is plan to get violent.

“Where is this?” I ask, thinking it must be somewhere in New Hampshire. Concord or Nashua, maybe.

Lyons, red-faced, eyes like an angry bull’s, rounds on me. “This is right outside our doors! In the parking lot!” He leans toward me. “What didn’t you tell me?”

I’m about to explain that I came across pugs in the colony to the south and that the Dread understand English. Probably all human languages if they’ve been around for as long as Lyons thinks. But when a security guard enters, pale with fear, freckled face dripping sweat, I don’t need to.

“They’re here!” the man shouts. He’s hysterical. A real mess. Right up until the moment I punch him in the face. He drops to the floor, out cold.

“Whoa!” Dearborn says, raising his hands and stepping away, like he might be next.

“Hey!” Katzman yells, shoving me out of the way as he assesses the damage.

“Josef,” Allenby says. “You promised!”

She’s right. I did promise her I wouldn’t knock anyone out. But the guard isn’t just a guard.

“You have a security problem,” I say to Lyons.

“No kidding,” Katzman says, glaring up at me. He turns to Lyons. “He’s out of control.”

“Stop,” Winters says, stepping between Katzman and me, but the emphasis is directed toward me. She knows that if an altercation is unavoidable, I’ll act first, and that I’ll win. She also knows that’s not going to help anyone. “Please, everyone stop and think. We all know he’s impulsive, to say the least, but he never does something without good reason… or at least what he thinks is a good reason.” Looking back and forth between Lyons and Katzman. “You’ve read my profile of him. You both know this. So why not have a little talk before resorting to violence, which we all know is going to end poorly for anyone who isn’t a fearless world-class assassin, who, may I remind you, can move through solid objects.”

In the silence that follows, I whisper to Winters. “Thanks for calling me Crazy.”

“It’s what you prefer right now.”

“So you wrote a profile on me?”

“Part of my job is to psych eval the people that—”

“Do you normally sleep with—”

She puts her hand on my chest. Speaks quietly. “I know you have no fear, and that leads you to say whatever is on your mind, but that’s not an excuse to be inconsiderate of others. What we had… We both needed it.”

“Sorry,” I say. She’s right. And though I have no memory of what there was between us, the tension that exists when we’re together says that some part of me remembers. The feel of her hand on my chest is…

Distracting.

I lift her hand away. “Later.”

Lyons and Katzman still haven’t made up their minds, so I decide to give them a visual aid. I kneel down next to the fallen guard.

Katzman is giving me a “don’t you dare touch him” stare, but he should know that such tactics have no effect. I turn the guard’s head away from me.

“Did you notice how the guard—what’s his name?”

“Magnan,” Katzman says. “Mike Magnan.”

“Did you notice how Mike was acting when he came in the room?”

“Squirrelly,” Dearborn says, and I think he already understands what the others have failed to grasp. When he takes two steps back, I’m sure of it.

Katzman motions to the video screen showing the angry mob, who is now encircling the building. “Everyone in this building should be afraid.”

“Mike was a security guard here. Trained to deal with tough situations, yes? With the Dread?”

I take Katzman’s lack of reply as confirmation.

“But he was acting like a panicked mouse. I don’t know the man, so I’m just guessing, but that’s a bit out of character for Mr. Magnan.”

“It is,” Katzman says. “You think the Dread got to him.”

“I know they did.” I stand up and turn to Winters. “Help Katz stand Mike up.”

She listens, and the pair hoists the unconscious man up.

I walk behind them. “Try to keep him still or I might not be the only person with a part of his brain missing.”

“Wait, wh—”

Ignoring Katzman, I slip into the world between, focusing past the pain. The small Dread, like some kind of headless bat with hooked talons on the ends of its leathery, red-veined wings, hovers in the air, little tentacles lowered into Mike’s head. Whether the tendrils are making physical contact inside his head, I can’t tell, but it looks that way. I snap out with my hand, grab hold of the Dread, and yank. It comes free in my hand, flailing without a sound. The thing has no mouth.

Clutching the Dread in both hands, I slip back out of the world in between, focusing on the little creature, feeling its frequency resisting my influence, and then bending to it. I’m winded, tense with pain, and once again naked except for the plastic pendant. I really need to start trying to bring my clothes along for the ride.