MirrorWorld

The level outside the elevator is easy to identify. There are bullet holes in the wall, a sheet of black covering the window I leapt from, and a familiar set of doors. While Lyons turns left, I head the other direction, for Maya’s room.

For my wife’s room.

I look down at my ring finger. There isn’t even a hint that I wore a ring on that finger. Assuming we married before having a child, the ring would have been there for at least eight years. But it’s been a year since the ring was removed. There must have been a mark before, but I just never thought to look, and whatever indentation the band created has since faded.

“What are you doing?” Lyons asks.

I ignore him, open the door to her room, and step inside. She’s lying in bed, just like she was the first time I saw her.

This is my wife … The concept is surreal. As distant from me as the solar system from the galaxy’s core. And though the urge to free her remains, I have no memory of her, no feelings for her. How would that make her feel?

A shuffle of feet announces Lyons’s arrival.

“Does she know?” I ask.

“Know what?” Lyons asks.

“That I don’t remember her.”

The man shrugs. “I’m not sure what she does and does not know.”

“Because she’s out of her mind, or because she’s sedated around the clock?”

His face seems to melt, some invisible force tugging his lips into a frown. This is his daughter. “Both, I suppose.”

We stand there for a moment, watching the motionless Maya. Once upon a time, the two of us were a part of her life, but now … now she’s an anxiety-ridden, self-mutilating vegetable and I’m what? I’m a mystery. Time for some answers.

“I’m done,” I say, and leave the room.

He lingers for a moment but then follows, overtakes me with the awkward shuffling walk of a man whose knees don’t work well anymore, and heads for a pair of doors I recognize. We stop in front of the Documentum door. He swipes his key card and we enter.

The vast, dark room glows dully from the light provided by the glass tubes. The space looks the same as it did before, a collection of dead people floating on the left, empty vessels awaiting occupants on the right.

I’m confused when he stops. “I’ve already seen this.”

“You have seen the victims,” he says, motioning to the bodies. “Like Maya, they got too close to the other side, saw too much, or were driven to madness for any number of reasons I can only guess at. You’ve witnessed the effect the Dread can have on people who lack your fearless nature, which is nearly everyone on this planet.”

Lyons waves his hands at the empty tubes. “But did you see the collection?” He looks at me. “Granted, all I can see is empty containers, but you…”

He wants me to look with my new senses. I blink, shifting my view. Invisible icicles impale my eyes, the pain like brain freeze, but far worse. The jolt makes me flinch, but I’m ready for the pain this time and look beyond it, peeking, once again behind the veil. When I do, Lyons steps away from me a touch but says nothing. And I pay him no heed. I can’t. The sight before me is unholy and captivating.

Lyons walks up to one of the tubes, which to him appears empty, and raps it with his knuckles. “The glass, like the windows on the outside of this building, is laced with oscillium.”

All but seven of the tanks contain a Dread. I see three bulls, crammed inside their tanks, several of the smaller pugs, and another four or five different types, all dead but without any obvious wounds. Like the living Dread, they’re all shades of dark gray and black, but the mesh of glowing veins is now the color of rotting spinach.

“If you can’t see them, how do you know they’re here?” I ask.

“The goggles you saw earlier filter and shift frequencies, allowing us to see them. Only partially. Like shadows,” he says. “Unless they’re already close to our frequency of reality, then they become clear. But even in death, viewing them for extended periods is not advisable.”

I remember the effect a quick look in the stairwell had on Katzman. “Because you might go nuts.”

He nods. “In death, the Dread no longer actively project fear, but there is residual … discomfort created by viewing their frequency of reality. Researchers who have spent even a short amount of time studying the corpses are far more susceptible to their influence. As a result, we have very limited data on their physiology and haven’t been able to perform any experiments of note … aside from you. I have only looked once. Those who have risked more … Well, an excess of fear can break the human mind. It’s what happened to the people you see in this room. It’s what happened to Maya.”

“You knew her well,” I say, luring him toward honesty.

“Who?”

“Maya. Not even Allenby used her first name.”