Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

She looks uncomfortable with what comes next.

“I can handle it,” I tell her, only half believing it. But I have seen and survived worse, including what she’s now explaining. If I keep reminding myself, maybe I won’t curl up on the floor.

“They basically raked the surface of your brain in the regions controlling memory. And they caused trauma to the areas responsible for transmitting those memories. They couldn’t really destroy the memories without killing you, so they forced your cerebrum to do the job itself, creating vast amounts of memory-blocking glial scar tissue.”

The news makes me uncomfortable, but since it happened to a version of me I can’t remember, it doesn’t feel any different than if I’d read about it in a magazine. “And you’re going to what, remove the scar tissue?”

“In a way,” she says. “We’re going to turn those glial cells into functioning neurons, which will reopen neural pathways to the portions of your cerebral cortex that have been segregated.”

“How?”

Stephanie sighs. “Seriously?”

“It’s my brain.”

“It’s not going to sound fun.”

I stare at her until she complies.

“Fine. We’re going to inject the glial cells with a retrovirus.”

She’s right. That doesn’t sound fun at all. “You’re going to give my brain a virus?”

“Retroviruses can—”

“I know what they can do,” I tell her. “I’m part Dread, thanks to a different DNA-altering retrovirus.”

Stephanie just shakes her head. “Well, this retrovirus contains the genetic code for the NeuroD1 protein, which, in the hippocampus, turns reactive glial cells into nerve cells. The virus can’t replicate for long. It doesn’t destroy healthy cells. And it can only infect glial cells. The rest of your functioning neurons will remain intact.”

“That… doesn’t sound too bad, but I’m not sure I want my memories back. I forgot them for a reason, right?” I turn to Allenby. “You said that life had become so painful I opted to erase my memory rather than live with it. What good will come from me regaining memories so painful that even my fearless self couldn’t handle them?”

Allenby is suddenly in my face. “Because pain hones us.” She shoves my chest. “It gives us purpose.” A solid slap across my face staggers me back. “It makes us stronger.” She slaps me again. I try to dodge, but she’s fast and I’m on the defense. “Pain teaches us lessons.” She swings hard once more, but this time I catch her wrist in my hand. She glares at me. “And sometimes, if we’re lucky, or brave, pain can push us past our fear.”

She yanks her hand out of my grasp. “You can’t run away from your past, and I don’t think you ever intended to.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Why would a man without fear run away? Sure, it hurt. We lost your parents, your son, who happens to be my nephew, and we lost my husband. I’ve been living with that pain all these years. It’s what drives me to keep fighting. But you… you retreated from it? Bullshit. That’s not you. It never was. You wouldn’t have gone through with it without a good reason. Or a bad one. It wasn’t the loss of your family you were meant to forget, it was something else.”

“What?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” she says, “but I hope you remember.”

Looking at Allenby, this fifty-five-year-old woman whose small stature belies a powerful resolve, I’m inspired. She has suffered deep loss, is fully aware of the kind of enemy we’re facing, and is willing to stare defiantly in the face of fear. But can I find that strength in myself, even with my memory returned? I’m not sure. Fear is new to me, and it will be new to my old self, too. I have no natural defenses against it or coping mechanisms to help me recover from its effects.

And what if I’m an asshole? What if my memories return and the thing I wanted to forget was something horrible I did? I already know I was a CIA assassin, but what if I was a murderer? What if I enjoyed killing? Who knows what my past self did. I have trouble believing it was anything but horrible.

I clench my eyes shut against the tide of what-ifs.

Allenby is right. It doesn’t matter who I used to be. Or what I’m afraid is going to happen. With countless lives and an outright war with the Dread looming, any help I can offer should be given without hesitation, even if it hurts. Even if it frightens me.

I turn to Stephanie. “How fast will it work?”

“It will be a slow spread as the retrovirus works its way through the damaged areas. The change will be one cell at a time.” She holds her hands up. “And before anyone complains, this is a good thing. Picture a lifetime of memories like a lake. Right now, all that mental water is dammed and frozen. We’re going to be thawing the ice, but we’re also removing the dams bit by bit. If it happened all at once, the flood of information would overwhelm your mind. The effects could be catastrophic.”

“Total time,” I say. “How long? Months?”

“Oh, no.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Days.”

“What’s it going to feel like?”

“If I could ask the lab rats, I’d be able to… tell…” She looks at my wide-eyed expression. “Probably should have left that detail out, huh?”

“Probably,” I say, but try to ignore that we’re talking about a procedure that’s only been done on lesser mammals. “When it’s done, if it works, will I still be me?”

“You mean, will you still be Crazy with a capital C ?” Allenby asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “You’ll still remember the past year, so those experiences will shape who you are, but you’ll also be Josef, too.” She takes my hand. “Look, I know I’ve painted an unappealing image of your old self, but you really weren’t… I’ve been angry at that man for a long time. For running away. You were a good man, and a great father, despite your previous occupation. If I didn’t think bringing the old you back would help, I wouldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

She pats my hand and steps back. “If you really did volunteer to forget, with the intention of never restoring your memory, I’m not sure you’ll be happy to remember.”

“So you’re counting on Crazy to balance out Josef?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay,” I say, and climb on the table. “Let’s just do this so you don’t have to draw that gun behind your back and force me to.”

All eyes turn to Allenby. She offers a fake apologetic smile, draws the weapon from behind her back, and moves to place it on a countertop. She stops halfway when the door behind her opens.

Winters steps in. “Just what the hell do you all think you’re doing?”

Allenby swivels around, leveling the gun at Winters.

The one-woman CIA oversight committee / psychotherapist doesn’t even blink at the weapon. She glances around the room, at who’s there, at the equipment, then at Allenby. “Let me help. He’s going to need someone… close… to help him transition when he wakes up.”

“Wait, what?” I ask. “What do you mean, wake up?”

Allenby nods to Cobb. “Do it.”

I feel a pinch on my neck, hear a whispered apology from Cobb, and then drift into a dream.

Heads shift about randomly, a mix of dark hair and darker-colored abayas. There’s no pattern to the clogged marketplace, just movement as thousands of people buy, sell, and steal for their families. They don’t call the Chor Bazaar the “thieves market” for nothing. There are as many stolen goods being sold as there are pickpockets working the crowd.

My view is from far above the action, a half mile away and sixteen stories up, on the roof of a hotel that provides a line of sight straight down Mutton Street, right in the middle of Muslim-populated Mumbai, India.