MirrorWorld

“Word to the wise, I’m pretty sure they understand English.”

“You think that little thing can speak English?” Katzman says.

“They don’t speak at all,” I say. “Not like us. I said it could understand English.”

“They’re smart,” Dearborn says. “Probably smarter than we think. They just think differently than us. We view them as savages, the same way the first New World colonists viewed Native Americans. But it wasn’t their intelligence that was different. It was culture, and values, and ours most certainly differ from the Dread.”

“Exactly,” I say, offering the lanky man a nod of thanks. “I heard the whispers … in my head. I think it was trying to warn the colony. Or whatever is outside. The bull might have even made contact before the…” I stop myself. There’s no time for an argument. “The point is, if we can disrupt whatever is coordinating the Dread from the colony, they might stop instigating this little rebellion.”

“But there’s no way to test your theory,” Allenby says.

I grin. “There’s one way.”

30

“Are you sure about this?” Allenby hands me a freshly loaded magazine, which I tuck into a pouch on my belt. I’ve got two more just like it already in place next to the black sound-suppressed P229 handgun on my hip. But the rounds aren’t for that gun, they’re for the .50 caliber Desert Eagle handgun on the countertop. Like everything else in this armory, it’s made of oscillium. Even the clothing and body armor I’m now wearing were created using thin fibers of the stuff. It’s flexible and light, but strong, and because of the ease with which it changes string frequencies, it will shift between dimensions without any extra effort, which is good because we won’t have a bodiless suit running around revealing my location.

After stowing three magazines, I slap a fourth magazine into the Desert Eagle and slide it into a chest holster. “Would it matter if I wasn’t sure?”

“I might worry less.”

I pick up my machete and inspect the weapon. There isn’t a knick on it, in any frequency. I run my thumb across the blade. Razor-sharp. The encounter with the bull’s armor and thick bones didn’t leave a mark. Oscillium is tough stuff.

“Were we close?” I ask. “Before all this?”

“Yeah,” she says. “We were. When you were young.”

“And after that?”

“You … grew up. Joined the military and got serious. Saw things no one should see. Did God knows what, too. We — your family — didn’t know what you did. Not really. Not even Maya. It wasn’t until after Simon was born that the old you began to resurface. Then, the Dread happened, and Neuro, and suddenly we were all brought within the fold. Lyons’s idea, but you supported it. Some of us had skills or experience that helped. I was a medical doctor. Your father was an engineer. Helped design this building. But the others, your mother, Hugh, Maya, and … Simon, who was just a baby at the time; they were supposed to be safer…”

“For what it’s worth,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

She offers a weak smile. “We all are.” Her eyes find mine. “Do you think it will help?”

I sheath the machete on my back and start perusing the automatic weapons for something powerful but mobile. “What?”

“Fighting them. Killing them. Does vengeance ever help?”

I pause to look at her. “I thought we were defending ourselves? Defending everyone.”

The armory door opens before Allenby can respond. Katzman enters, dwarfed by the rifle he’s carrying. “I have what you asked for, but I think it’s a stupid idea.”

I can’t contain my smile when I see the sound-suppressed 20 mm Anzio Ironworks mag-fed rifle. It’s a beast with a five-thousand-yard range, low recoil, and enough power to reduce a man to red Silly String. And its three-round magazine means you can fire three shots fairly quickly, putting the fear of God into an enemy, whether they’re in the open or in a tank. The downside is that it’s nearly seven feet long from butt to barrel, but I don’t need to be mobile, I just need to turn a few Dread into chunky stains and be on my way.

“You want to get your people out of here, we need to disrupt the mob. That means injecting some doubt. If I can pick off a few Dread, the rest might head for the hills. If not, it might still be enough to create an opening.”

“I don’t like it,” he says.

“Is any part of war likeable?” I pick up two World War I trench knives — foot-long blades with knuckled handles — and attach them to my belt. A sound-suppressed KRISS Vector CRB .45 ACP assault rifle goes over my shoulder. It’s a high-tech, mobile, and hard-hitting automatic rifle with essentially no recoil. Three spare magazines go in my vest. I finish arming myself by reclaiming the compound bow and a fresh quiver of arrows. I smile at Katzman. “Except for weapons. I think I like weapons.” I look at Allenby for confirmation. She’s nodding. “These weren’t mine, too?”

“We knew your preferences,” Katzman says. “Anything else?”

“A question,” I say. “Microwaves.”

“What about them?” he asks.