MirrorWorld

I reach for him and find only darkness.

I’m out of the memory, which was returned to me by the Dread mole. I can’t see or sense the world around me, but I can feel it in my head. But why would it give that memory back to me? Of all my memories, that poignant moment reminds me of exactly what I lost. What the Dread took from me. And why I hate them. If they were looking for brownie points, they don’t have a very good understanding of what makes people tick.

An image begins to resolve. Another memory.

I’m walking with my son. Just the two of us, out experiencing the world, sloshing through a swamp. He steps up beside me, rubs his head into my side.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Your strength and courage honor me,” I tell the boy.

He bristles with pride. “Now … let’s go.”

We move together, pushing through the mire until we reach the other side, where a desert awaits. It’s flat, brown, and barren. But there has been activity here lately, and I’ve been tasked with understanding it. Walking casually, son by my side, we head for a collection of buildings. They’re new but lack all the other things that normally indicate habitation — power lines, paved roads, and other types of infrastructure.

We stop a mile out, watching the activity in and around the small collection of buildings. And then, at once, the people there leave. A parade of vehicles heads north. Curious, I start toward the buildings but notice my son isn’t following.

“What is it?” I ask him.

“I’m afraid,” he confesses.

“No one will see us,” I tell him. Though he is young, he understands this. He just hasn’t experienced it yet. “You will be safe. They cannot harm you.”

“But I don’t like this place.”

“And you shouldn’t. But we have been asked to understand it. To ensure it is not a threat.”

“Could it be?” he asks.

“They have sought us out in the past,” I tell him. “But they cannot see the world as we do. They are limited and lost to emotion, conflict, and primitive thoughts.”

“Like we were.” My son is intelligent for his age, which is why the matriarch requested his training begin early.

“Yes,” I say. “During the dark years, we … tormented these people. Made them afraid of us. And as you know, some of us still choose this path. But not me. And not you. Understanding is more important than control, and making them afraid of us only draws their attention. Our worlds are connected, but our paths must remain separate.”

My son begins his reply but cuts the thought short with a huff. His head snaps up, eyes wide. He’s sensed something I missed. Danger. Intense and close.

Before I can give the command to run, a distant light blazes on the horizon. It locks us in place, blossoming in all directions, full of raw and terrifying energy, the likes of which I have never seen and have no knowledge about. As the distant buildings are enveloped by the explosive light, I feel warmth on my skin.

No …

I take hold of my son and return us both to the swamp. “Run!”

But it’s too late. The energy rips into our world, boiling the swamp. Anguish fills me, not because of my blistering skin. I have been trained to withstand pain. It’s my son’s agonized wail that stabs my soul. He’s dying, painfully, curled up in the flash-dried muck beside me. Before my vision fades, I catch one last look at my son, his sleek and noble domed forehead, his brilliant green eyes, now flickering. I send him on his way with one last push of affection. Then he’s gone. No longer part of me.

Why? I think. Why is this happening? And then, connected to the matriarch, I send one last request: avenge us.

The memory ends as my life fades. But it wasn’t my life. It was a Dread bull and his son. The location was the Jornada del Muerto desert, better known as the White Sands Proving Ground. The explosion, which I recognize from recordings made of the event, is known as the Trinity explosion. It was the United States’ first test of a nuclear weapon. In 1945. That memory is seventy years old but still feels fresh to the mind of the matriarch. And now it’s fresh in mine.