MirrorWorld by Jeremy Robinson

needed, whatever that might be.”
    They’re talking about me.
    I’m the one who might get violent.
    He’s right about that, I think. Also about being dangerous and unpredictable, as they’ll soon discover.
    “Katzman, please . Just stop.” Allenby paces, eyes on the ceiling, head shaking back and forth. Lyons has a cold streak beneath that grandfatherly exterior, but from what I know of Allenby so far, she doesn’t belong in a place like this. What are you doing here? As I watch Allenby, her head lowers, and her eyes track toward me. She freezes when we make eye contact through the glass, but then she just looks annoyed. “You just couldn’t stop yourself, could you?”
    Katzman is fast, but he’s also the closest to the door. As he spins around, gun rising into position, I kick the door as hard as I can. The metal door strikes the gun barrel, twisting the weapon out of the man’s grasp. I’m on him in a flash, but this isn’t like knocking out Winters or assaulting the security guards. This man is a skilled fighter, and he blocks my first three blows, all of which would have ended the fight before it began.
    The problem for my opponent is that I’m equally skilled—somehow—but nothing is holding me back. When he begins his counterattack, I dodge the first two punches, but when he launches into a spinning kick, I block it—with Allenby. I take her by the shoulders and rotate her into my position. Katzman’s kick connects with Allenby’s head with all the force intended for me. She slams into the door and falls to the linoleum.
    When the soldier sees what he’s done, he reels back in shock. “Shit!” He looks at me. “You motherfu—”
    My fist on the side of his jaw cuts him off. Even the most seasoned warrior can be slowed by the sudden realization that they’ve just injured a friend. He spills back onto the counter, knocking the syringe to the floor. The foam case fails to do its duty.
    Glass shatters.
    Liquid spills.
    Lyons shouts, “No!”
    I pull my fist back to pummel Katzman into submission, but the first blow did its job. He slides across the counter, pulling a computer keyboard and mouse with him, and falls to the floor.
    “What are you doing?” Lyons shouts. He should be backing away from me. He’s not a threat, but he’s standing his ground.
    I rub my foot through the spilled liquid. “This is important to you?”
    “Yes.” The word comes out as a gasp. He’s clutching his chest, falling back. He slides down against the counter, suddenly out of breath.
    I recognize the signs of a heart attack but make no move to help the man. Instead, I open the refrigerator and take out the remaining vials, shattering them on the floor.
    Lyons fumbles to open a pill case, which I’m assuming contains medication that could save his life. He stops when I lift up the very last syringe. His eyes go wide. Desperate. Revealing its worth. “Don’t.” I lower the syringe, looking at the liquid within. This is my insurance policy.
    When I put the syringe in a protective plastic case and slip it in my pocket, he starts digging for his pills again. He’s not going anywhere fast—maybe nowhere ever again if he can’t get his pills—so I leave him there on the floor. I recover Katzman’s gun and head back into the Documentum room, mentally planning for how I’ll retrieve the Shiloh woman and get us both out.
    That’s when the alarm sounds.

 
    11.
    The Shiloh woman is still out, despite the blaring, high-pitched shriek of the building’s security alarm. She looks frail. I consider leaving her behind, but it would be like abandoning a wounded bird in the clutches of a house cat—death would only come after drawn-out torture. The bruising and fresh scars on the woman’s arms suggest that she’s been tormented long enough already.
    But can I keep her safe during my escape? It seems unlikely, but I picture her floating in green liquid, just another face in the death gallery, and know I can’t