MirrorWorld

Attacker number three stops in his tracks. At first, I think he’s taking stock of the situation or waiting for his injured teammates to collect themselves and rejoin the fight. He’s either smart or chicken. When he puts two fingers to his ears, I realize there is a third scenario. He’s receiving orders.

I have no intention of allowing him to fulfill those orders. A quick leap back plants my feet atop the coffee table. The backward motion confuses the man just long enough for me to jump forward and up. He tries to defend himself, but it’s not only too little too late, it’s a really bad idea, because I’m not throwing a punch. I’m kicking. Hard. The forearm he’s blocking with snaps. I don’t hear the sound, but I can feel it in my foot — resistance and then not. The man topples back into the haze.

His partner, the one I struck in the gut, takes his place. Punches and kicks come with brazen ferocity. But like his comrade with the broken fingers, I don’t always avoid the blows. After his seventh swing, I appear to be on the ropes, but since I feel no fear, there is no such thing. Fear is subtle that way. I only back down if I choose to, not because I’m compelled to.

A subtle shift in his stance reveals he’s about to kick. I jump back, just before he does, putting all of my weight onto the back of the living room’s reclining chair. The hard footrest swings out with the strength and weight of a giant’s foot. With one foot sailing through the air where my head should have been, the man doesn’t see the chair bottom snap out. But he sure as hell feels it when the slab of wood slams into his kneecap, repositioning it three inches above where it’s supposed to be. He drops to the floor like he’s been shot.

I stand on the chair, looking for the man with broken fingers. If he’s any kind of real fighter, the break will just slow him down. But there’s no sight of the man.

The windows all around the living room shatter. Someone shot them out.

A breeze kicks up.

The chemical fog begins to dissipate. I glance up. The ceiling fan has been turned on. Do they think fighting me in the clear will be any easier? When the haze dissipates enough for me to see the kitchen, I have my answer.

Ten men, all armed with assault rifles, fill the open-concept doorway. The red beams of their laser sights are visible in the lingering miasma. Each is locked onto my body. Behind them I see Cobb looking concerned and Shiloh, held in place by two more armored men. They seem oblivious to the fact that she’s weeping and shaking. I want nothing more than to set her free, but there isn’t any amount of fearlessness that can escape this shooting squad. So I lower my guard and wait for the mist to subside.

I allow the three injured men to limp from the room. The big man on the ground behind me is still out for the count. I turn slowly sideways, like I’m preparing to take a fighter’s stance, but keep my body relaxed. Moving slowly, I dig into my pocket.

The smallest of the armored men lowers his assault rifle and takes a step forward. He lowers his weapon and pulls off his mask.

Katzman.

He speaks. I can’t hear him, but I can read his lips. “You can still come in alive.”

I remove the headphones.

“You can still come in alive,” he repeats. “But I would prefer to kill you, so please, by all means, decline the offer.”

“You won’t kill me,” I say.

“Sure about that?” he asks.

I’m not, but there’s no way to see that on my face. “Pretty sure.” I lift the plastic syringe case in my left hand. “Because you need this.”

Katzman eyes the syringe and seems to be weighing his options. A measure of calm seeps into his eyes. He reaches out a hand. “Please. Give it to me and you can just walk away. It was a bad idea to bring you in, and I’d be happy to see you leave.”

I consider the offer. It’s a fair trade. My life in exchange for the mystery syringe. But one look at Shiloh’s face, now placid from the effects of a sedative, whittles my options down to one. With the last of her lucidity, she looks me in the eyes and mouths the words, “Find Simon.”

Simon? The name is as foreign to me as an alien world. I file it away for later and turn my attention back to Katzman, whose patience is wearing thin.

“Take it,” I say, tossing the plastic case to Katzman.

By the time he catches it, realizes it’s empty, and looks back up at me, I’ve already depressed the syringe’s stopper all the way down, emptying the liquid into my thigh. Katzman says something, but I can’t make out the words.

My mind is exploding.

16

I scream.

This alone is highly unusual. I don’t scream. When people are injured, and all that air gets shoved against their vocal cords, it’s not the pain that does it.

It’s fear.

Of death.

Of injury.

Of deformity.

But not the pain itself. For the most part, shock wipes the agony away better than any painkiller. At least at first. But the knowledge that something has gone catastrophically wrong sets the imagination ablaze, and adrenaline-fueled fear blossoms like a nuclear mushroom cloud.