MirrorWorld

22.

“Not possible,” Lyons says. He sits behind his office desk, elbows resting on the mahogany surface. The room, like the living quarters, looks more like a cozy home office than something in a vast corporate, black budget headquarters. The only real aberration is that there are no windows. The office is located on the fourth floor, perfectly positioned at the building’s core. I glance around the space, looking for something expensive to destroy. And there is a lot to choose from. Ancient weapons from cultures around the world cover the walls, desktop, and shelves. It’s like a “history of warfare” museum. And it’s all tied together by a framed quote behind Lyons’s desk chair:

“Please don’t break anything,” he says. To show that he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does—even though he does—I listen and take a seat across from him. Allenby, behind me, breathes a sigh of relief. Katzman stands beside the desk, not taking sides in what started as a request for answers. And yeah, you could probably call the kicked-in door, my loud voice, and thrust index finger a demand, but I was holding back.

“Why isn’t it possible?” I say.

“Because…” Lyons thrums his fingers over the desktop, three strokes of four. He stops and looks me in the eyes. “Telling you the truth now will set you on a path I’m not entirely convinced you can handle.”

“From what I’ve seen today, it’s not something you’re capable of handling, either.”

He nods slowly. “Setbacks are to be expected. Every war has its risks.”

“War?”

“War,” he repeats, nodding just once. “Did you know that this world has never really known peace? Not once? At every point in history, somewhere around the world, war has raged. Even today. Especially today. Here in the States, the population is insulated from this reality. We read about it. Watch it on the news. But only a select few really get their hands dirty. Men like you. And me. It becomes a part of you, mingling with your DNA, changing you from the inside out. When war rears up again, men like us see it coming before anyone else. And we can react first. Fight and win. It’s what we do.”

“I thought you were a scientist,” I say.

“In the modern age, science is capable of killing far more people than brawn.” He leans back, supporting a grim, heavyset brow. “War isn’t coming. It’s here.”

“You make it sound like Neuro is fighting this war alone. What about your bosses at the CIA? The government will—”

Lyons picks up a TV remote. Aims it at the flat screen mounted to the side wall. “I don’t suppose you’ve watched the news this morning?” He hits the power button and the TV comes to life, already tuned to a news channel. There are no pundits talking, just a news ticker at the bottom, scrolling tidbits of violent clashes around the world and clips of recent events. Soldiers in an eastern European city I can’t identify open fire on a crowd, gunning them down. Instead of fleeing, the mob rushes through the bullets, swarming over the men while armored units roll in. These are soldiers fighting the people they’re supposed to protect. The video changes to a studio. A tired-looking reporter with disheveled hair sits solitarily behind a desk like the last bastion of cable news. “That was the scene in Kazakhstan earlier today. We now take you to the White House, where the president is making a statement already in progress.”

Somewhere in the White House Frank Paisley, the president of the United States, standing behind a podium, appears on the screen. “… have taken all possible steps to prevent domestic casualties, but no promises can be made if civil unrest continues. Make no mistake, in the defense of innocents, who are peacefully residing in their homes or places of business, the National Guard has been authorized to use lethal force. If you are in one of the twenty-three counties currently under martial law, please obey the curfew, and the property and personal rights of your neighbors. On the matter of international tensions, we are doing our best to quell fears of an imminent attack. While Russia has invaded many of its former Soviet states, we maintain a strong alliance with our border countries and are working to maintain the longtime bond with our fellow NATO members, despite unproductive rhetoric. On the subject of China, we stand behind our Japanese allies and have urged China to stand down its aggressive naval—”

Lyons turns the TV off. “The United States government currently has more tangible threats to manage. Civil unrest. External threats. Global strife. We’re at the tipping point of World War Three.” I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up his hand. “And the powers that be can’t be fully trusted to act accordingly. They, like the rest of the world, have already been affected and influenced by the Dread’s prodding fear, directing humanity towards a precipice like a herd of panicked cattle. Further exposing men like the president to the Dread could spiral things out of control even faster. Ultimately, involving outside government agencies is Winters’s call, but I have made my case to her as well, and she agrees. Neuro was tasked with handling what we call the mirror world and its residents and that’s what we’re going to do. We’re the front line in this war, and you will either be part of finding a solution or wait the crisis out from the confines of your apartment upstairs. Or SafeHaven if you’d prefer. But I can’t have you punching any more holes in my building. You could undo everything.”

“That possibility exists whether you answer my questions or I start looking for them,” I say. “I can see them now.”

“And they you from what I’ve heard.”

I nod.

“You won’t last long on your own,” he says.

“Can we please stop with the bravado?” Allenby asks. “I expect it from him, but not from you.”

With my back to Allenby, I’m not sure who “him” and “you” are, though I suspect I am the “him” in question.

Lyons takes a laborious breath. “I will answer your questions. All of them. But first, a request.”

“What?” I say.

“Clean up your mess.”

“My mess?”

“Security was compromised because of your paranoia-fueled egress yesterday.” He motions around the room with both hands. “This building’s natural defenses—”

“The tinted windows.” I guess. It’s the same odd tint I noticed in the ice creambulance.

He nods. “The glass is laced with oscillium particles. Not impenetrable, but solid in either world. Several of them were shattered and have yet to be replaced. The Dread typically try not to be noticed. They prefer subtlety. They won’t force their way through the windows, but the breaks already made in floors not protected by the shielding you saw on the ground level must have been too tempting. And we didn’t anticipate a situation where a window higher than the second floor could be shattered.”

“Cracks or no cracks,” Katzman says, “it was brazen for the Dread. We’re running out of—”

Lyons holds up a hand, silencing the Dread Squad leader. “I want you, Crazy”—he has to force himself to use the nickname—“to track down the injured bull and kill it before it can relate what it found to the colony.”

“On his own?” Katzman looks equal parts surprised and offended.

Lyons swivels around toward Katzman and, with something close to a growl, says, “You have other matters to focus on.”

Katzman just purses his lips and nods.

Lyons’s chair squeals as he swivels back toward me. “The bull has a fifteen-minute head start, but I’m told you wounded it. The nearest colony is an hour south, on foot. If it’s moving slowly, you’ll be able to catch it in time.”

“And if I don’t?”

Lyons’s face grows dark. “You have cost this organization a great deal. Never mind the dead men lying in the stairwell. You’ve exposed us to the enemy. Provided a chink in our armor. Even worse, you have given our enemy advance warning.”

“Of what?”

He raises a single eyebrow and points a finger at me. “Of you. Imagine if Japan had advance knowledge of the atom bomb. Do you think the B-29 bomber would have reached Hiroshima unscathed?”

“You’re… comparing me to an atom bomb?” I’m seriously starting to wonder what kind of a man I was before losing my memory.

He shrugs. “Perhaps closer to the Enola Gay, the B-29 that carried the bomb. Either way, the choices you make will have an impact on a war that most people aren’t aware of but are feeling all around them. There is no insulation from what’s coming. We will prevail and live or lose and die. That is the nature of war, and your actions will have very real and long-reaching consequences. I need you—we all need you—to take this seriously.”

I look to Allenby, knowing she’ll give it to me straight. “Is he serious?”

She looks from me to Lyons and then back to me. “There is no doubt that the Dread are attacking the human race. What I would like to know is why. I would prefer a peaceful resolution, but that doesn’t seem likely, and if they continue on track, with no resistance from us, it’s going to be an easy victory.”

“That’s enough for now. Time is short.” Lyons says. “If you want answers, they will be given when the bull is dead, and only if you decide to grace us with your presence.”

“And if I decide to leave?”

“You can watch the world burn on your own.”

I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but if these Dread are behind the turmoil around the world, they need to be stopped. Though I don’t fear them myself, I’ve seen the effect they have on people. If they can turn three trained soldiers against each other, they can turn a crowd into a mob or a protest into a riot. Maybe even a misunderstanding into a war.

I stand from the chair. “I’ll kill it.”

“You’ll try,” Lyons says.

“And when I do,” I say. “No more secrets?”

Arms open wide, he says, “I will be an open book.” He turns to Katzman. “See about the windows. I want every crack, ding, and scratch repaired within the hour. We cannot afford another incursion.” Then to Allenby, “Get your nephew whatever he wants. I expect him out of our doors in five minutes.”

“He’s sustained some injuries,” Allenby says.

Before I can wave off her concern, Lyons says, “Pain focuses the mind. He can heal if he comes back.”

“When,” I say. “Not if.” But as I turn to leave, a strange sensation washes over me. It’s not fear. It’s a lack of confidence. For the first time in my short memory, I’ve just talked straight out of my ass, and everyone in the room knows it.