Free MirrorWorld by Jeremy Robinson Page B

insulin-shock therapies. A horror show, it was closed in 1983. Rampant abuse left patients worse off than when they entered. Those who died as a result of their abuse were buried in the hospital’s cemetery and forgotten.
    This … is worse.
    Not only were these people likely tortured and brutally slain, their corpses are on display. Objects of necro-admiration. At least the patients at the state hospital were put in the ground. Even if these bodies are still being studied, I don’t see why they should be staged in a gallery.
    I turn my eyes to the right. Given the number of empty chambers, Neuro Inc.’s collection still has room to grow.
    The bright glow of the small door’s window beckons me. The voices grow louder. Sliding up beside the door, I peek through the window. The room is some kind of large laboratory. Where Documentum is black and green, the space on the other side of the door is almost pure white, save for the table and countertops, which are black. Cabinets and refrigeration units, all with glass fronts, line the walls. Inside each is a collection of liquids and powders kept in vials, test tubes, beakers, and vessels for which I have no name. I see petri dishes, computer stations, and various scientific equipment. The only one of which I recognize is a centrifuge. At the far end is an operating table and a collection of surgical tools.
    How many of the bodies behind me once lay upon that table?
    Lyons is inside, as is Allenby and a third man I haven’t met. While the two doctors are dressed in long white coats, the stranger is dressed in black battle-dress uniform, otherwise known as BDUs. His hair is cut close—I run a hand over my prickly head—like mine is now. A gun is holstered on his hip. This man isn’t a security guard. He’s something else.
    I look back at the roomful of green glowing bodies.
    He’s the collector, I think, part of some kind of abduction unit, taking these people out of the world and bringing them here. But for what purpose?
    I suspect the answers lie on the other side of the door. If not physically, then inside Lyons’s brain. After what I’ve seen, I have no doubt I can get him to reveal everything. But first, a little recon.
    I grip the doorknob and twist it slowly. It’s unlocked and well-constructed. When the latch disengages, the door opens an inch without sound. Lyons’s voice is no longer muffled. “We’re moving forward.”
    “He’s a wild card,” the stranger says. “He’s dangerous. Unpredictable. You should have told me before bringing him here.”
    “You know why we need him,” Lyons says, his face turning red.
    “And if he doesn’t cooperate?” the man asks. “If he gets violent? Refuses the treatment?” He makes air quotes with his fingers when saying, “treatment.” “How long are you going to let this go, and will you allow me to do what I need to if he becomes a problem?”
    Lyons waves the man off and opens a refrigeration unit. “We will all do what we must.” He reaches inside and pulls out a syringe with a rubber stopper over the needle. It’s full of translucent, yellow-tinged liquid. He holds the syringe with both hands, like it’s the most precious thing in the world, like other people hold newborns. The fridge holds at least a dozen more prepped syringes. Whatever it is, it’s important and rare. He places the syringe into a protective foam holder on the countertop. “It’s taken years and a good number of lives to get this far. If we must resort to force, then we will.”
    “Stephen,” Allenby says, admonishing. “You know that won’t work. He’s—”
    “Someone upon whom subtlety is lost,” Lyons interjects.
    Allenby shakes her head. “People could get hurt.”
    The military man plants his fists on the countertop and leans toward Lyons. “This isn’t just business, it’s war, and people are already getting hurt. If a second augmentation makes him even crazier”—he looks at Allenby—“we’ll do what’s