MirrorWorld

7.

The helicopter races toward the roof of what appears to be a black Mayan pyramid. As we descend, I can see the faint outlines of the tinted windows that make up the building’s flat, forty-five-degree angled walls. At the center of two sides of the building, the smooth slope is divided by what looks like giant staircases, each “step” a story tall, completing the Mayan feel. I count nine levels. The top level is three hundred feet across. Maybe more. The bottom is at least three times that. The building is surrounded by tall pines, and the roof is just below the tree line. Despite its size, the megalithic building would be invisible to anyone on the ground. Not exactly covert since anyone in the air can look down and see it, but the single access road winding through the woods is blocked by a gate. And while I can’t see it, I have no doubt that the entire facility is surrounded by a fence. Anyone interested in the building is going to have a hard time reaching it.

Which begs the question, why am I here?

“You’re not going to assimilate me?” I ask. The pilot, Blair, and Allenby can all hear me over the thunderous rotors thanks to the headsets we’re wearing.

“What?” Blair asks. He’s still shaken up by our experience in Manchester. “I don’t—”

“Resistance is futile,” Allenby says. She slides up next to me and looks out the window. “It does smack of the Borg, doesn’t it? But no worries, the collective isn’t interested in the likes of you.”

I smile at her. “If you were younger and prettier—” I stop as my logical mind puts the brakes on the statement my lack of fear let slip.

Allenby gets a good laugh out of it, though. Slaps my shoulder. “Oh, you.” Her demeanor is casual. Comfortable. I find this strange, but perhaps it’s just a result of being institutionalized in a place where most everyone is afraid of me.

The helicopter touches down on a black landing pad at the center of the roof. As the rotor slows, Allenby slides the door open and hops out. There is no greeting party, just a flat black surface and a halo of pine-tree tops surrounding us. The scent of the deep woods is invigorating. I breathe deeply and step out.

“Follow me,” Allenby says, almost shouting to be heard over the still-slowing rotor blades. I fall in line behind her as we walk across the roof. “Some ground rules. Don’t talk to anyone who doesn’t first talk to you.”

“That’s a strange rule,” I point out. “Kind of old-world parental discipline.”

“It’s just that most people here are working on something, in their heads, even when they don’t appear to be working at all.”

“I see,” I say, but I really don’t. I stop walking.

After a few steps, Allenby notices I’ve stopped. She turns back. “What?”

“Why am I here?”

“To not be there,” she says, and I get her meaning.

“Anywhere is better than SafeHaven?” I say. “I’m not sure I believe that. From what it looks like, once I set foot inside this building, no one will know I’m here.”

Allenby grins. “And if I don’t tell you?”

“I’m going to run.”

“And get caught.”

I shake my head. “I think you know that’s not what will happen. You have five seconds to tell me why I’m here. Five… four…”

Allenby grunts and stomps her foot. “You’re infuriating. Fine.”

I grin, but also note she didn’t wait until I got to one, or until I started running. She believed me. Trusted what I said. I haven’t been given that kind of respect in a long time, and I appreciate it despite the circumstances.

“It’s a drug trial.” She waves her hand at her head. “For your condition.”

“What if I don’t want to be cured?” I ask. “I’ve seen what fear does to people, and I’m not sure I—”

“Not that condition,” she says. “The other one.”

I’m confused for a moment until I realize she’s talking about my memory. “What if I don’t want to remember?”

She turns away and starts walking. “You do.”

“You’re calling my bluff?” I ask.

“We both know you have a horrible hand,” she says, stopping. A square of rooftop before her comes to life, rising up. A black rectangle, ten feet tall, six wide, emerges from below and stops, looking like a futuristic megalith. And then it opens, revealing an elevator. Allenby steps inside and turns around. With a single raised eyebrow and a matching grin, she says, “Coming?”

Stepping out of the elevator, we enter a hallway that defies all of my expectations. Given the stark feel of the building’s obsidian surface, I expected something similar to the SafeHaven floor—stark, gleaming white, and brightly lit. Instead, it’s… homey. Warm hardwood floors. A thick, oriental runner down the middle of the hall. End tables with a variety of lamps. “This doesn’t look like a laboratory.”

“It isn’t,” Allenby says. “It’s the residential level.” She starts down the hall. She stops three doors down on the right. “This is your room.”

I feel like I’m in some sort of strange dream, and peek into the room, which is more than a room. It’s an apartment. From the doorway, I can see a kitchenette, living room, and dining area. The furnishing is comfortable. The brushed metal appliances are modern. The décor is casual, almost primitive, with wooden carvings and emotionally charged, modern oil paintings.

I step inside.

I’m drawn inside.

Immediate comfort washes over me. My muscles relax. “How did you do it?”

“What?” she asks.

I motion to the apartment. “This. I don’t think I could have told you what I would like in an apartment, but… this is it. Every detail feels… right. Like home.”

“I’m not an interior decorator,” she says.

A painting in the living room attracts my attention. It’s a two-foot square of color—thick dabs of red radiate out from the middle to orange, yellow, and a hint of green around the fringe.

“How does it make you feel?” Allenby asks.

“I thought you were a medical doctor.”

She steps up beside me, eyes on the painting. “I’m not evaluating you.”

“Yes you are,” I say. “How does it make you feel?”

“Melancholy.” She turns away and heads back toward the door.

“Well, it makes me hungry.” I turn toward the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by an island. I open the fridge and find it fully stocked. Most of it looks healthy, but hiding in the door, among the brand-new bottles of condiments and cups of chocolate pudding, is a Snickers bar and a can of Cherry Pepsi.

My mouth salivates and both hands reach out, claiming the prizes. The wrapper comes off faster than a male stripper’s pants. I take a bite and moan with pleasure. I haven’t had something this sweet since… well, I can’t remember. While taking a second bite, I pop the soda top with one hand and, before swallowing the mash of chocolate, caramel, peanuts, and nougat in my mouth, drain half the can.

“You clearly don’t fear diabetes, either,” Allenby says.

I raise the can as though giving a toast. “Or sugar lows.” Three more bites, two drinks, and sixty-five grams of sugar later, my meal is done.

“Ready to go?” Allenby asks.

I take a step to follow her. “Actually…” I look around the room and realize that I’m not turning my head. The room is spinning. I grip the island to keep from falling over.

“Whoa there,” Allenby says. I feel her holding my arms, steadying me. “Let’s get you to the couch.”

I let her guide me. The couch is just fifteen feet away, but it feels like I’m walking through knee-deep mud to reach it.

“Okay,” she says, guiding me down. “Slowly. Slowly.”

I fall from her grasp, but the couch catches me. I try to open my eyes but lack the strength. Allenby places her fingers against my neck, checking my pulse. With a sigh, she stands back up and says, “He’s out.”

A door opens and a new voice, deep and masculine, asks, “What did it, the candy or soda?”

“Both, actually,” Allenby says. “He’s going to be unconscious for a long time.”

And then, I am.