MirrorWorld

“You are not alone,” says a whispering voice. The matriarch. She’s still in my head. “Delay them.”


I search the eyes of the Dread Squad soldiers, stopping on a familiar face kneeling down, opening a backpack. “If you set that thing off, you’re killing the world.”

Katzman pauses. Meets my gaze until Lyons’s breaks it, saying, “Finish your job.” The words propel Katzman back into action. He takes out a large black device with a black, domed top. The microwave bomb.

“We are liberating this world,” Lyons says, “one colony at a time. And when they lose this colony, they’ll lose control of colonies across the continent. They’ll also lose control of the hundreds of millions of people they’re affecting in North America alone. Don’t you see what that means? Riots will end. The government will rein in control, easing tensions. We’ll be saving the world. That you think otherwise is—”

“Educated,” I say. “That’s not how this works. The moment that bomb goes off, the matriarch will trigger nuclear Armageddon. You will destroy the world. And for what? Because you pissed your bed every night when you were a kid? Because the big, bad Dread made noise or moved things, made you feel a little screwy in the head?”

Lyons growls and flexes his fingers. The fingernails pop off, replaced by sharp, black talons. He’s oblivious to the change.

“It doesn’t matter what happened in the past,” I say. “Genocide isn’t an acceptable solution.”

“Genocide?” He laughs. “They’re not even human.”

“I’m not sure any of us are really human anymore,” I say, motioning to myself and the Dread Squad. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? Look at your hands.”

He lifts his thick fingers up, inspecting them. He flinches upon seeing his sprouted claws. He looks confused, but it’s just for a moment. Whatever discomfort he feels about his physical transformation is replaced by a wicked smile. The change has got to be altering his mind, too. This is no longer the Lyons I knew. No longer the man who was Maya’s father. “I am becoming more than both races. I am … evolving.”

“You’re a monster,” I tell him.

When he looks down at me, the sides of his head bulge, split with a slurp, and open, revealing a second set of eyes. “Monsters both.”

“Sir,” Katzman says. “It’s ready.”

“Start it,” Lyons says.

“Don’t!” I shout, but am quickly silenced by claws raking across my chest. The powerful and sharp-tipped hand tears the armor away from my chest, leaving faint, paper-cut-thin slices in my skin. Had I not been wearing the armor, I’d be missing my chest.

“Help is coming,” the matriarch whispers in my head. “In the cavern.”

Rippling energy courses through me. It’s Lyons, pushing his fear, hammering it down on me like a weapon. I fall to my knees, clenching my fists, shaking and hissing through my teeth. A sob bursts from my mouth, embarrassingly loud.

“How does it feel? To experience fear after a lifetime of not knowing it?” Lyons steps closer, reaches out for me.

“They are ready and will follow your lead,” the matriarch whispers.

“Actually,” I say to Lyons, “I couldn’t tell you.” I turn my head up, not a trace of fear in my eyes, and smile. Turns out I’m a decent actor, though I have my short time as a fear-feeling person to thank for the authentic, trembling sob. Despite Lyons’s inhuman appearance and increasing size, I feel nothing beyond the desire to beat him senseless. I didn’t realize it at first, but then I picked up on the signs. Acting without thought. Disregard for bullets. A steady heartbeat. When the matriarch restored my mind, she didn’t just return my memory but my fearless nature as well. “Surprise.”

I slip out of the mirror world and into the real-world cavern. While I once again feel no fear, I have what might be the single largest “holy shit” moment of my life. And then I smile.





59.

The cavern is full of Dread crocs, all standing still, waiting.

For what?

For me, I realize. The matriarch has given me my own army.

There are at least thirty of them. Maybe more. The combined glow of their exposed yellow veins illuminates the space, allowing me to see the water-smoothed floor and craggy ceiling for the first time. The nearest of the crocs, a massive specimen, steps closer and leans its snout down. It’s just a foot away. I can smell its warm, fishy breath. Had I still been able to feel fear, I might piss myself.

I reach out and put my hand on its head. “Let’s go.”

I push through frequencies, stretching the fabric that separates dimensions, and then, all at once, I pop through.

And I’m not alone.