“I washed out?”
“You were noticed.”
“By who?”
“Who do you think?”
“Lyons,” I say. “What is this place, CIA?”
“Once upon a time,” she says, “as were you. Your skill set made you the ideal operative.”
“My skill set…” I say. “What did I do?”
“In the Rangers, and Delta, you fought alongside some brave and highly skilled men, and one woman if I’m not mistaken, but your willingness to take on any assignment and do whatever insanity was required to get the job done set you apart. You went into the darkest places and saw the vilest aspects of humanity, and somehow, on your own, came to understand something that Lyons had already hypothesized; that there were monsters in the world, just beyond our experience but influencing it.”
If what Allenby is telling me is accurate, I was a fearless, highly skilled soldier who could experience horrible things and not be forever changed. That information, combined with my mental filing cabinet overflowing with ways to inflict pain, extract information … and kill, forms a picture in my mind. I know what I was. Who I was.
“Assassin,” I say.
“The best,” Allenby says. “The CIA would never confirm this, of course. Assassination isn’t a sanctioned activity, you know. And it’s not the best career choice for a husband and new father. Lyons, like you, worked for the CIA once upon a time, but the company specializes in international affairs, not … what we do. So Neuro was formed as an off-the-books black operation with limited oversight, and you signed up, in part because Lyons was already your father-in-law, but also because that skill set of yours made you even more qualified for what Neuro was tasked to research, and not just as a warrior. Threat assessment was part of our job, but we were also tasked with uncovering any natural resources that might exist just out of reach. Our research had the potential to change the world.” She watches my face, judging my shifting expression. “What’s confusing you?”
“It’s just hard to believe I’m who Maya married. Who Lyons let her marry.” Who would let their daughter marry someone who killed for a living?
She smiles. “First, it’s the twenty-first century. She did what she wanted. Second, that’s the part that confuses you? Really?” She shakes her head, still finding the humor in it. When I don’t reply, she continues. “Well, I can’t speak for Lyons. He knew who you were. What you did. Honestly, my best guess is that he saw you as the best man to protect his daughter. He knew you loved her. Everyone did. A lack of fear can be disastrous, but it can also be romantic. You were never afraid of telling the world, or Maya, how you felt about her.” She smiles, remembering something. “You were good friends for a time, through Lyons. And then one day, at a party, you approached her, said with your usual boldness, ‘You’d make a good wife. Want to get married?’”
“That worked? Sounds a little old-fashioned.”
She laughs and wipes a tear from her eye. “She thought you were joking. Said yes, not knowing you were serious. But that boldness of yours is something she came to love. Working backwards, you then asked her out on the most nonromantic date imaginable. Really, who takes a girl bowling on the first date? But … it worked. And you got her a ring. And gave her a son.
“As for why Maya married an assassin, your lack of fear also meant you had no qualms about hiding the details about what you did. She knew you worked for the CIA, like her father, and understood that secrecy was part of the job. She didn’t ask. You didn’t tell, and you never had a problem with it, or the work, until you had a son.”
“And then?”
“Neuro. Lyons had been at Neuro’s helm from the beginning, some twenty years before you were brought on board, but the discoveries made with your help turned the once-small operation into what you’ve seen. Your job shifted from ending lives to being the point man for Neuro’s … explorations. What you saw out there, it was our world. The Earth. But it wasn’t the Earth as we know it. Another world, but not. What’s important to know is that it’s real. They’re real. They might sometimes appear as a shadow, a hint of something in the dark, or a feeling of something near and impending, but they are physical beings. They’re simply beyond our perception. And they’re the source of all this fear that’s eating up the world.”
“But not me.”
“Not you,” she says. “And that’s why Lyons wants you here. Why he always wanted you here. He eventually brought both sides of the family into the fold. Said it would be safer that way.”
“And all this is funded by the U.S. government?”
“Once you and Lyons had physical evidence for the existence of other realities sharing this world, he received all the funding he asked for. Off the record. If something went wrong, the government wanted deniability. It was real, but it was still fringe science. But the possibilities for energy, environmental, industrial, and military applications are vast. That said, most employees here have no idea who they’re really working for, or what the true scope of Neuro’s research is. Our only true oversight is Winters, who reports to the director of the CIA. Whether or not information gets passed on to the president, I have no idea, but I’d guess that he’s happily in the dark.”
I tap my fingers on the tabletop, weighing what to ask next, and realize that Allenby hasn’t asked me a question in a while. Her job probably ended when she confirmed I could see whatever that was outside the window. Her last statement about the dark reminds me of my mother’s supposed last words. “What is it? The darkness. The shadows.”
“We call them the Dread,” she says with no hesitation, looking up at me. Apparently, this is information she’s been cleared to give. “Capital D. You’re immune to the fear they can instill in people, and the resulting influence on our actions, but the rest of us…”
“I’m officially confused.”
“You should be,” she says. “Showing you might be easier than telling you. Do I have your word that you won’t punch, kick, or otherwise maim anyone you might encounter outside of this room?”
“As long as no one tries to kill me again and you keep telling the truth, we won’t have a problem.”
“Good enough for me,” Allenby says, and then shouts, “Katzman, it’s okay. We’re green. Pack it up.”
The doors to the second bedroom, bathroom, and several closets open at once. Men dressed in riot gear and armed with an array of nonlethal weapons file into the apartment and out the front door.
The last man to emerge is Katzman. His eyes linger on me for a moment and then swivel to Allenby. “You sure about this? We’ve got a handful of men in the infirmary already.”
“You need better men,” I say.
Katzman stops behind me. I can hear the barely controlled anger in his every breath. But he doesn’t act, or even address my comment. I have to give him credit for self-control. I would have punched me.
“It will be different this time,” Allenby says.
“How can you be sure?” Katzman asks.
“Because this time, we’re telling him everyth—”
An alarm interrupts. It’s the same alarm that sounded when I escaped. I lift my hands off the table. “I didn’t do anything.”
Katzman puts a finger to his ear, pressing the barely visible earbud down tight so he can better hear the voice on the other end. The anger melts from his face as his listens. It’s replaced by fear, an emotion I’m getting really good at recognizing.
Allenby stands. “What is it? What’s happening?”
Katzman pulls his finger away. Turns toward Allenby. “Incursion. Third floor.”
“Here?” Allenby nearly shouts the word. “How could that happen?”
Katzman looks down at me. I’m positive he’s going to blame me, and to be honest I wouldn’t even argue the point. There’s no doubt my actions have compromised the security of this building. But that’s not what happens. Instead, he swallows his anger, and maybe some pride, and says, “We’re going to need your help.”<
br />
20.
Boots thud down the carpeted hallway as the men dressed in riot gear storm toward a neighboring apartment, two doors down. I follow Katzman with Allenby on my heels.
“Copy that,” Katzman says, hand against his ear. He turns back. “It’s in the west stairwell. Headed up.”
I catch his arm and stop him. “What is?”
He looks from me to Allenby. She gives him a nod.
“The enemy,” he says.
“One of the Dread?”
Katzman glances at Allenby, eyebrows raised in question.
“It worked,” she says. “He saw one on the building. It must have found the broken window. Got inside.”
He yanks his arm from my grasp. “You will either do what I tell you or stay out of the way.”
While Katzman storms away, I turn back to Allenby.
“There isn’t time to fully explain the situation,” she says. “It’s complicated. And strange. I promise you will get answers, some probably sooner than others. What you need to know now is that you’re going to see something that doesn’t make sense. And when you do see it, I want you to kill it.”
I stare at her.
“You’ve done more for less in the past.”
I frown. “Fine.”
When I step inside the apartment two doors down, I feel like a kid who has just stumbled across Santa’s workshop. It’s not an apartment at all. It’s an armory. The room is a mix of modern weapons, bladed weapons, nonlethal armaments, armor, and high-tech gadgets. The men in riot gear stop as I enter, watching me with suspicious eyes.
Katzman points to me. “Dread Squad, this is Crazy.” He sweeps his hand toward the seven men. “Crazy, Dread Squad.”
While the tough-looking men of “Dread Squad” go back to their business, arming themselves with a variety of weapons, I scout the room. A machete mounted on the wall catches my attention. The twenty-inch cleaver blade is straight with a chisel tip and the back side, which slopes in a smooth line back to the handle, is wickedly serrated. The entire weapon is black and slightly textured. Like Teflon. But it’s not just the machete. A case of knives, bayonets, and less-brutal-looking swords are all black, too. A nearby Dread Squad member loads fresh rounds into a magazine. The bullets are black. So are the guns.
“It’s made from an alloy called oscillium,” Allenby says. She lifts the machete and its sheath off the wall.
“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?”
I slide the blade into the scabbard and slip the weapon over my back. Katzman approaches holding a belt with a holstered sidearm already in place. I identify the weapon with a quick glance: a black SIG Sauer P229. “What’s inside?”
“Point forty cals,” he says as I take the belt and strap it in place. “Try not to shoot any people. Your … senses are still adapting, so your target will most likely look like a shadow, but just because you can see through it doesn’t mean you can’t shoot it.”
“Oscillium,” I say. “Right.”
He nods. “There is a chance it could also appear as something more substantial. If that happens, try not to let this throw you.”
“Nothing throws me. Figuratively, though literally is also doubtful.”
Not amused, he heads for the door. “Two teams! Alpha, hit the west stairwell, work your way down. Take your time. Beta, elevator down and come up from below.” I’m sure he’s going to leave me out, let me tag along, see how the big boys do it. It’s the kind of silverback macho stuff you expect
from a short man dressed for war. But that’s not what happens. “Crazy, you’re with Alpha. On point.”
“Katzman,” Allenby complains.
Katzman opens the door. The four-man Beta Team rushes out. “It’s why he’s here, isn’t it?”
Allenby racks the slide of her own handgun. Holsters it on her hip. She’s got two black knives on the other hip. She quickly grabs the wild poof atop her head that is her hair and pulls it back into an elastic that rolls off her wrist, there all along, waiting for duty. “Fine.”
Katzman motions to me. “Follow the hall to the right. All the way to the end and left. The stairwell door is straight ahead.” With that, he lowers a pair of strange round goggles over his eyes. The rest of Dread Squad does the same. I turn to Allenby to ask, but she’s pulling a pair over her own eyes as well.
“They let us peek between frequencies, but just a peek is sometimes too much. You won’t need them. Hopefully.” She flashes a grin. “Move it, soldier.”
With a confidence born of obvious naïveté and lack of fear, I head out of the room and turn right. I feel a flash of déjà vu. It’s not the hallway that feels familiar. It’s the anticipation. Of battle. Of facing chaos and reining it into control. I’ve done this before. What does it say about me that I can remember this feeling, but not what it’s like to have a son and lose him?
“Cut the alarm,” Katzman says behind me, talking into his hidden mic. A moment later, the blaring whoops fall silent and I can hear the heavy breathing of Dread Squad’s Alpha team behind me. They’re not winded already, just amped. Or are they afraid? If they are, they’re pretty good at hiding it.
Eight apartment doors later, we reach the end of the hall and turn left. The stairwell entrance is forty feet ahead. I don’t know if anyone lives in these units. Maybe just the Dread Squad guys. Either way, the doors don’t open. No curious eyes peek out. Could be that the residents have been trained to hunker down when they hear that alarm. Could be that they’re just afraid.
I stop by the stairwell door, draw my weapon, and flick off the safety. Katzman stops next to me. “I hope Lyons is right about you.”
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