MirrorWorld

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.

“All the weapons here are made of oscillium,” I point out, “which can hit a target in another frequency—if you can see it—but everything here is conventional. Bullets and blades.”

Katzman gives an impatient sigh. “Did you have a question?”

“Why don’t we have microwave guns?”

“They don’t work,” he says. “In any capacity. The military has developed several directed-energy weapons using microwaves. MEDUSA, the mob excess deterrent using silent audio, interacts with a person’s head. Creates a scream no one else can hear, unless they’re in the target zone, too. Then there is the active denial system, which is basically a pain gun that made people think they were being cooked. Both were deployed and then recalled for safety and humanitarian reasons. But the flaw with all microwave weapons is that the target either needs to be standing still and cooperating, or the beam so broad that a blast of microwaves large enough to kill or injure a Dread would have the same effect on both worlds.”

“Anyone in the target zone would go poof,” I say.

He nods. “And the target zone would have to be large to kill something like a bull. They’re tough. And fast.”

“Unless they’re trapped in a foyer that’s actually a microwave oven,” I say.

“Exactly.” He heads for the door. “I’ll be on the roof when you’re done getting dressed for your funeral.”