MirrorWorld

“Never heard of it,” I say.

“No one has. It’s a mix of nickel, aluminum, and titanium, along with a few things I’ve never heard of and don’t care to remember, formed into whatever we want and bombarded with intense bursts of laser light, which is what turns it black. You were part of the trial-and-error program that created it.”

I’m starting to feel like I’m living in my own shadow and I’m getting pretty annoyed with my past self. I have more questions, but the alarm keeps me focused. I look the machete over, admiring the fine blade forged from some top-secret exotic alloy. The ridiculousness of the situation is not lost on me. “So what are we fighting then, werewolves? Is this alloy like our silver bullet?”

“That would be easier,” she says. “Oscillium is important because of the way it vibrates, or oscillates, hence the not-so-creative name.”

“So, the machete vibrates?”

“Not in any way you’ll ever feel,” she says. “I’m not a physicist, but the way I understand it is, all matter vibrates, but at different speeds. Different frequencies, from very low to extra high. Normally, people might talk about atoms and electrons, but around here it’s all about string theory, which basically says all matter is composed of teeny, tiny strings that vibrate at different frequencies. And like the frequencies of sound waves, there are vibrations we can detect as physical matter, or light, or heat, and some we can’t. What you thought were hallucinations are simply frequencies of reality that are normally undetectable and intangible to humanity and most common elements on Earth.

“Think of reality as musical notes. Each note on the scale is as audible, as real, as the next, but vibrating at different frequencies. The world as we experience it is an A. But the Dread experience the world in a different frequency. To them, reality is a B. On the same scale, the same planet, but distinct. The difference is that they are longtime musicians, able to move between notes, whereas we are still children, striking only a single note. Unlike us, or even the Dread, oscillium can vibrate in a single frequency, or multiple frequencies, and it can shift back and forth with ease.”

“And how does that work?” I ask, unwilling to hide my sarcastic tone.

“Bioelectromagnetism.” The confidence of Allenby’s voice says she’s up to the task of facing my scrutiny, but this is starting to feel new-agey. “The magnetic field generated by a human being pulsates up and down between .3 and 30Hz. The field measured at the hands matches the field measured in the brain, all of which can be affected by the mind. It’s been shown that people can change their field simply by focusing on it. At the low end of the spectrum, the magnetic field will pull the oscillium fully into sync with our frequency. On the far end of the spectrum, the oscillium will shift out of our frequency. Everything in between will have no effect.”

“Is that dangerous? Can’t the Dread affect the frequency?”

“Even if they knew it was possible, their bioelectromagnetic field is different from our own. The frequency shift only works for people, and even then only with practice. Once you know what the bioelectromagnetic field shift feels like, you can change the frequency of oscillium just by thinking it.

“The weapons you see here, like the walls and windows of this building, were designed to oscillate between A and B so quickly that they exist in both frequencies at once. But they can also be in one or the other, depending on the electromagnetic field of the person in contact with them, though there has never been a reason to not have the weapons exist in both worlds. It allows us to attack them without moving between frequencies like they do and keep them out of the building. Theoretically, all matter can make the jump between worlds with a shift in frequency, but oscillium does it naturally.”

“Here, there, and everywhere,” I say.

Allenby pauses. Sighs. “Your uncle used to sing that song to me.”

“Sorry.”

She forces a smile and waves off her sudden melancholy. “It’s a horrible song, but an accurate description of the alloy.” She holds the machete out to me, the blade resting in her open palms. Back to business.

I accept the offered weapon. When my fingers wrap around the handle and the machete comes up in my hand, a smile creeps onto my face. “Was … this mine?”

She grins and nods. “Tokugawa Ieyasu, the first shogun samurai of Japan, once said that the sword was the soul of a samurai. The relationship between weapon and warrior, forged in battle, could never be broken.” Her smile fades. She puts the scabbard in my free hand. “Too bad that didn’t also work for family, eh?”