Agents of the Glass (19 page)

“Ah, yes. That is the real issue, isn't it? I'm happy to tell you that twenty years of research and experimentation has paid off. Are you familiar with the term
eugenics
?”

Winter shook her head. “Is it something to do with genetics?”

“It is, as a matter of fact. It is a movement dedicated to the improvement of the human race by…
controlling
certain hereditary factors.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for example, if we wanted to create a race of very tall, thin, blond people, we would match tall, thin, blond men to women with the same characteristics.”

“What if you're not tall, thin, and blond?” asked Winter.

“Simple. We don't let you reproduce.”

“But…how? You can't stop people from having kids.”

“Not the way the world is today. But times change. Besides, that was just an example—that's not what we're after. Eugenicists have been at it for centuries, but they all made the same fundamental mistake. They were all obsessed with how people
looked—
their physical traits. Most of them were crackpots trying to create a race of people who all looked alike. Frankly, I don't
care
what you look like. I'm only interested in
what
and
how
you
think.
NTRP's TV and radio programming is designed to help change the way people think, but it's too slow and too unpredictable. And, of course, some people, like young Miss Huntley, simply refuse to watch. Since my days at university, I have been working on something a little more…immediate, and a lot more
certain.
And now I have it. I'm still perfecting it, but my new process does in seconds what used to take years, and testing shows that it is ninety-five percent effective. My vision is about to be realized: a race of people free from the imperfections that have been plaguing mankind since the dawn of civilization.”

“How is that possible?” Winter asked.

“I call it Operation Tailor,” said de Spere. “As in, I can now
tailor
a person's personality to suit our needs. Simply a matter of a little genetic engineering. Ironically, we have the Agents of the Glass to thank. If they hadn't discovered the presence of the
lumen,
none of this would be possible. I examined the genes of hundreds of people with
lumens
—Syngians, in the terminology of our friends—and I discovered exactly
how
they differed. Once I identified the specific genes involved, all I had to do was figure out a way to target
just
those genes in ordinary humans, the kind who are slaves to their own emotions. Then it's like flipping switches on and off. One minute, you're generous; the next, you're greedy. I started small, just one person at a time. I made mistakes along the way….There were casualties, collateral damage, but that's to be expected in any revolution.”

“What happened to them?”

“It's probably better if you don't know the details. Then came the Halestrom Conference. That was almost a dozen at once—all in all, a tremendous success. But now the process is ready to be used on a much bigger scale. A few hundred. Then…who knows?”

“And so…the concert at Wellbourne? Will the…process be…”

“It's too perfect an opportunity to pass up,” said de Spere. “And the irony of it all is just so
delicious.
You see, the word
eugenics
is from the Greek, meaning ‘wellborn.' And here you have two hundred and fifty model citizens, the cream of the charitable crop at
Wellbourne
Academy, being congratulated for all their good work. We have our own reward in mind. A little
purification.
”

De Spere checked his watch. “We'd better get you back downstairs, Winter. No need to raise any unnecessary questions. I'll be in touch.”

Andy waited a few minutes after Winter and de Spere had left the room before making his move. He followed his trail of bagel crumbs to the right door, but then he somehow missed the turn into the library and ended up in front of the elevators. As he stood there, the door opened and he found himself face to face with Fallon Mishra.

Silas's words came rushing back to him as he stared openmouthed at a ninja warrior poised to take his head off with her bare hands:
ninth
dan
black belt in kendo…utterly treacherous.
She was as surprised by the situation as Andy, and she looked at him as if she couldn't believe somebody was actually
there.
He was frozen, so she grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the elevator.

That's it. I'm dead,
thought Andy.
They're not even going to find my body.

“How did you get up here?” Fallon asked. “This floor is restricted. You really shouldn't be here.”

“I didn't mean to—I was looking for my dad….”

A moment before the door closed completely, somebody in the hall pushed the button and the door opened up again.

This time, it was St. John de Spere. His face expressionless, he scanned Andy's face. He spoke to Fallon without taking his eyes off Andy: “Is everything all right here, Ms. Mishra?”

“Yes, sir. Must be some kind of elevator malfunction. I don't know how else this young man could have reached this floor. I was going to take him down to the security office to fill out a report.” She paused, waiting for a response that never came. “He's one of the visiting students…from Wellbourne Academy.”

“I see,” said de Spere, eyes still boring into Andy's. “And are you enjoying yourself, Mr….uh, Llewellyn?”

Andy swallowed.
How does he know my name?
“I…uh…Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I…don't know how I ended up…I was looking for my dad….He works here, and…” His voice trailed off.

The elevator stopped on the nineteenth floor, and de Spere stepped off without another word. As Andy sucked in a huge breath, he noticed the name tag stuck to the lapel of his blazer:
Andover Llewellyn, Wellbourne Academy.
He couldn't help smiling, even though he still had Fallon Mishra to deal with.

When they reached the ground floor and the door opened, she pushed the button for the sixty-fifth floor and stepped off the elevator.

“I'll take care of the report,” she said. “You go back with your group. And no more wandering. Got it?”

“Yes, ma'am. I promise.”

Thirty seconds after stepping onto the sixty-fifth floor, he ran into Jensen. From the look on her face, he
almost
wished he were back on the elevator, taking his chances with Fallon Mishra.

“Where were you?” she hissed.

“I…got lost. I took a wrong turn and ended up in another room…and I couldn't leave 'cause this lady was right in the middle of a speech. I didn't want to be rude.”

Jensen examined his face closely, looking for signs that he was lying. “Why should I believe you? How do I know you didn't sneak off with your girlfriend someplace? If I find out that you two have been working on some secret story behind my back, I am going to—”

“We weren't together,” said Andy. He pointed to the windows behind Jensen. “She's right there.”

“Who's that woman she's talking to? Let's go check it out.”

“Hey, guys!” said Winter. “Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you. This is Jill Clermont, one of the founders of 233dotcom.”

Suddenly, Jensen was very interested, and a transformation occurred before Andy's eyes: Jensen Huntley the sullen teenager became Jensen Huntley the serious journalist.

“I have some questions for you,” she said, setting up the video camera and microphone, “about 233 and NTRP, and what's going on in school libraries. And the old books—can you clarify what is happening to them? Could you do an interview? Right now?”

“I'm sorry, I really can't,” said Jill. “I'm late for an appointment across town already. But here's my card. Send me an email, and I promise you an interview. Deal?”

Jensen grunted. “Okay. You guys heard her. She promised.”

On the way back to Wellbourne, Winter looked across the limousine at Andy and pointed at his shirt pocket. “What happened to your pen?”

“What?”

“Your pen. It looked like a nice one. I noticed it in your pocket on the way there this morning.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I guess I, uh, lost it someplace. It was nothing special. I think it came from the radio station. I didn't give it to you, did I?” he asked Jensen.

She scowled. “No. I didn't take your pen. You must have lost it when you disappeared for half an hour. Thanks again for that, Sandy.”

“Hey, check this out,” said Winter, pulling a chartreuse NTRP T-shirt out of her goody bag. “It's even the right size. There's a hat, too!”

Jensen dug her shirt and hat out of the bag and threw them at Winter. “They're all yours. Like I'm gonna be a walking ad for those mouth breathers. In fact, take the whole thing. I don't want anybody questioning my integrity because I took ten bucks' worth of trash from them.”

Andy peeked inside the canvas tote bag that he'd been handed on his way out the door of the NTRP building. He laughed as he held up his T-shirt for Winter and Jensen to see. Splashed across the front was a silk-screened photograph of Howard Twopenny, his mouth wide open in mid-rant, his eyes wild with anger.

“ ‘Howard Twopenny tells it like it is,' ” read Jensen. “
Niiice.
Now,
that
I would wear. Trade you for…Let's see, what else is in here? A giant chocolate bar? Just what I need. A flashlight…that doesn't actually work?”

“Here you go,” said Andy. As he handed the shirt to her, something at the bottom of the bag caught his eye. It was his pen—or, to be accurate,
Silas's
pen—the one he had dropped into the screening room. “What the—”

“What's the matter?” Winter asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Oh…nothing. I was hoping for…one of those chocolate bars, but I got peanut brittle instead. I hate peanut brittle.”

It was after two-thirty in the morning when Silas finally arrived at his apartment. He let the finches out of their cage and dropped into his lone chair to stare at the painting on the easel. He hadn't touched the painting in days because his dreams had been more incomprehensible than usual, filled with disturbing images that evaporated from his memory the second he opened his eyes—except for one, of a girl about six. The face seemed so familiar that at first he was sure he was seeing a reflection of himself as a child, but something was not quite right. The girl in his dream had an odd expression, her mouth forming a smile but her eyes not quite cooperating.

“One more night,” Silas said to the finches. “If I can get another look, maybe something will click.”

As the finches chirped in agreement, he opened his laptop and clicked on Howard Twopenny's website in order to listen to the show recorded that morning. He'd received a message from Reza Benali that Howard had mentioned the concert at Wellbourne and Karina Jellyby.

Howard was in fine form: “Listen up, folks! Uncle Howard has some important news for you. I know you've all heard of this god-awful singer that goes by the name of Irena Jellyroll. No, wait, my producer Wally is shouting in my ear that that's not right. What? Karen Jellybean? No? Rena Jelly…bee? No
n
at the end? Are you sure? He's nodding. All right, then, Karina Jellyby. What the heck kind of name is that? Irregardless, a few weeks ago, this no-talent slacker started a contest to find the country's biggest losers. As if spending two hours a week working for nothing weren't punishment enough, if you want a chance to attend a ‘special concert' with the Jellybean, you have to write a warm, fuzzy essay about your experience, too—about how those two hours a week helping losers changed your life. The poor schlub who has to read those sweet-as-sugar essays is probably in a diabetic coma someplace.