MirrorWorld

As I climb over the roof’s short wall, I shout, “Hey!” but the man doesn’t turn. He’s locked on target.

I run at him, taking aim with the ceramic knife. It’s a nice blade. Sharp. Well balanced. But it’s not a throwing knife. The odds of hitting the man with the blade are fifty-fifty. But I only need to hit him hard enough to get his attention.

The pipe comes up in sync with Allenby raising her arms. The defensive posture will save her life from the first blow, but she’ll have two broken arms for the effort. Twenty feet from the man, I throw the ceramic knife. The man doesn’t see it coming but twists just right as he steps over Allenby, and the blade sails past. The second knife is in the air a fraction of a second later.

The pipe descends.

The butt of the knife strikes the man’s right shoulder, knocking his strike off center, but the pipe will still connect with one of Allenby’s arms.

Except it doesn’t.

She surprises the attacker and me by rolling to the side at the last moment and kicking the man’s knee. He yelps in pain and jumps back but isn’t deterred. He raises the pipe for another strike but never gets the chance.

My shoulder strikes the man, midspine, as I ram him, lift him off the ground, and then slam him to the roof. There’s a loud crack as all my weight is transferred to the man’s spine via my shoulder. He screams in pain, still alive, but when I stand up, he’s not moving anything below the neck.

I turn to Allenby, who is now on her feet. “I knew you were military.”

She turns for the chopper. “Once upon a time.”

“Better hurry,” I say, pushing her along. “The next person has a gun.”

The helicopter lowers as we approach, allowing us to board by stepping on the skid and climbing in through the side door. Blair helps Allenby inside but leaves me to climb in by myself. As I find my seat and slide the side door shut, bullets punch into the metal where my head had been a moment before.

The pilot takes us up and away, blinding the gunman with a cloud of dust and roof grime. As we ascend, I lean to the window and look down. It’s Manchester, New Hampshire, all right, but I’ve never seen it like this. The streets are alive with people. Vehicles and some buildings are burning. The mob rushes forward. Ahead of them, a line of riot police, each holding a clear bullet-resistant shield, wait.

Molotov cocktails sail through the air, accompanied by rocks, and then bullets. The police respond with tear gas, water cannons, and then bullets of their own. War indeed.

“Hard to believe,” Allenby says.

Not really, I think, except for one detail. While scenes like this have played out all around the world for one reason or another, this is New Hampshire. It’s 90 percent forested, has a culture of holding people accountable for their actions, and the lowest murder rate in the country. How could this level of violence seep into one of the nation’s quietest states? Even more pressing, how can a city I don’t remember visiting be so familiar, and why the hell do I know so much about New Hampshire?





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.