Agents of the Glass (31 page)

“I—I'm just trying to do what's right.”

“Yes, I know. And that's a wonderful thing.” Mrs. Cardigan paused, collecting her thoughts. “I'm getting old. I can't go on like this forever. Oh, don't worry—I'm not going anywhere for a while. What I'm trying to say is that you have given me hope. Hope that when I do step down one day in the not-too-distant future, Brother Lucian's dream of a better world will be in good hands.”

A chill ran up and down Andy's spine, and he had to look away for a moment.

“Some final words of advice for tomorrow,” said Mrs. Cardigan, breaking the silence. “The same advice I gave your mother twenty years ago. It's the advice I give Silas every time I send him out on a new mission. You're here tonight because of this advice:
It's all in the eyes.
Everything you need to know about a person is revealed through them. People can learn to beat lie detectors, they can pretend to be lots of things they aren't, but they can't fake the qualities that the letters on that glass circle stand for: Dignity. Loyalty. Integrity. Intelligence. Discipline. Humility. Courage. And most of all, that
C
at due north: Compassion. You have known the truth about Winter from the moment you looked into her eyes. You just weren't
certain
until we told you some things and you saw some for yourself. If the eyes truly are windows to the soul, then Winter's soul is a bleak place, empty of humanity. The hard part is learning to trust your own eyes and instincts when it comes to people. Penny and your Lucian Glass are helpful, but sometimes you really are on your own.”

“Do you think that tomorrow…”

“I wish I could tell you what to expect besides the unexpected. But whatever happens at that concert, it will be only the beginning of a long and difficult battle. NTRP has amassed an army of its own, with weapons that we know little about.”

“That's not exactly encouraging.”

“I want
your
eyes to be wide open—literally and figuratively. You'd better be on your way. Try to get some sleep—tomorrow's going to be a long day.”

Andy glanced around the Loom, taking it all in once more before turning for the door.

“What is it?” Mrs. Cardigan asked. “You have the strangest expression on your face.”

“It's just…all this…and everything that's happened since that day at the bank. It's kind of hard to explain, but I've never really felt like I…
belonged
anywhere. Until now.”

Mrs. Cardigan's eyes glistened as she handed him a small brown paper bag. “Open it. These are for tomorrow. I guessed at the colors. I hope you like them.”

Inside was a pair of wool socks—blue with two narrow yellow stripes.

Meanwhile, on the east side of town, St. John de Spere stood on the terrace of the Neales' apartment, ignoring the chilly north breeze as he raised his glass of champagne. “To our success.”

Winter's mother echoed his words and clinked glasses with him while Winter gazed out at the park, sipping sparkling water from her champagne glass.

“What's wrong, Winter?” de Spere asked. “This is it. Humanity gets a do-over, starting tomorrow night. And you're the one they'll be looking to for inspiration, for guidance.”

“She's probably a little overwhelmed,” offered Fontaine Neale. “You're putting a lot on her shoulders.”

“I'm fine, Mom,” said Winter, mildly annoyed that her mother was making excuses for her. “I can handle it. I could have handled it when I was six.”

“You know, I believe you could have,” said de Spere. “But I'm glad we waited. The process is ready for prime time, if you will. The Halestrom Conference was the technological equivalent of stone knives and twisting a stick to make fire, compared to what you will see tomorrow. It's practically perfect.”

“Practically?” Fontaine asked.

“Well, there's always room for improvement,” said de Spere. “As technology improves, so will the process.”

“How does it work?” Winter asked. “I mean, I know the concept, the general idea, but I want you to explain the science. How does this machine of yours change people without even touching them? And don't talk down to me. I hate it when adults do that. Explain it as if you were talking to a new laboratory assistant.”

“Have you learned about ions yet?” de Spere asked.

“I've heard of them.”

“It's pretty simple, really. Most of the time, an atom has the same number of electrons and protons, and they balance each other out—that is, there is no electrical charge. But if that atom picks up an extra electron, it's no longer neutral—it becomes an ion with a negative charge. Now, the thing about ions is, because they're
charged,
they are attracted to particles with the opposite charge—in this case, a
positive
charge.”

“Where do those come from?”

“Ah, a good question. Positive-charged ions occur when a particle
loses
an electron. In other words, it has one more proton than it has electrons. Still with me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Now comes the fun part. Have you ever noticed how attracted you are to the Llewellyn boy? Even though you no doubt find him ridiculous?”

Winter squirmed a bit in her chair. “I don't…He's not…”

“Don't be embarrassed,” de Spere said with a wave of his hand. “You can't help it. Just like your father couldn't resist your mother. Those matchmaking companies that are always talking about the ‘chemistry' involved in finding your perfect match don't even realize how literally right they are. Early in my research, I studied thousands of individuals using the most sophisticated medical instruments available—CAT and MRI scanners and even a brain-wave scanner invented by the Russians—and I made the discovery that changed everything. I found the real difference between people like Andy and your father and people like you and your mother comes down to a unique positive ion. Some people—your father, for instance—have it; you do not.”

“What do you mean? Where is it?”

“In moments of extreme emotional distress, such as when a person is feeling compassion for a starving puppy, the body starts releasing this compound that is carried by the bloodstream to the brain and causes the person to
act
on those feelings.”

“So you're saying that doesn't happen in my body?” Winter asked. “Why not?”

“The simple answer is that you're more evolved. Human evolution didn't just stop when we got to modern man; it's still happening.”

“Why are you so sure it's
us
who are more evolved?” Fontaine asked. “Isn't it just as likely that it's
them
?”

“It's common sense, really,” replied de Spere, a bit put off by the question. “Clearly, compassion and other useless qualities are doing nothing to ensure the survival of humans as a species—and that's what evolution is all about. Evolve or go extinct. And if mankind continues on its current path, I don't need to tell you where it's headed. Well-meaning people, like those fools, the Agents of the Glass, love to preach about having a ‘moral compass' that keeps them pointed in the right direction, but I assure you that the only direction they're headed is for extinction.”

“Okay, so I get it so far. That explains the difference between them and us, but how are you turning the Andys of the world into, you know, people like me?”

“It's a two-step process. In order for it to work, the part of their brain that feels compassion has to be working at maximum capacity. We do that with pictures of suffering people, especially children and animals—whatever we can throw at them. Mixed in with those are thousands of bright flashing colors that help to trigger even more brain activity, which is key for reasons we don't entirely understand. Then we hit them with Compass Ion gas—get it? Compass Ion,
compassion.
Basically, it's a synthetic version of the gas their body produces, but it's a
negative
ion. The molecules seek out the positive ions, neutralizing them, and then…well, that's it. When they snap out of the trance they're in, they feel exactly like they did before.”

“And that's it—they're changed forever?”

“We've been keeping an eye on everyone who has been through the process, and so far the failure rate is only about one percent, which may simply be a matter of upping the dosage of the gas the next time. As I said, we're constantly tinkering.”

St. John de Spere set his glass on the table and stood up to leave. “Thank you again for hosting tonight, Fontaine. And for the lovely champagne. A perfect night.”

Winter said her good nights and went to her room as Fontaine walked with de Spere to the door. “Do I have your word that she's in no danger? I may not be in the running for mother of the year, but she is my daughter. I would be…unhappy if anything were to happen to her. Is…
he
still snooping around?”

St. John nodded, and a section of his long silver hair fell across his left eye. “After tomorrow, your brother will no longer be a problem.”

Friday. Officially, Karina Jellyby Day at Wellbourne Academy. From seven-thirty to two-thirty, it was a regular school day, but by two-forty-five, serious preparations were under way and Silas was already inside. His visitor's badge identified him as a member of the band's road crew, responsible for setting up the sound and light systems—not that he knew the first thing about either one. With the brim of a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, a fake beard, and thick-framed glasses, even Andy didn't recognize him at first.

One of the side effects of NTRP's broadcast of Winter's interview with Karina was that Ms. Albemarle assigned the same team of students to create a behind-the-scenes video of the concert, including all the before-and-after work by the crew. This gave Andy complete, unquestioned access to the auditorium and allowed him to keep a close eye on Winter. Luke Toller, the freshman with the crush on Winter, had volunteered to be her camera operator, but Ms. Albemarle came to Andy's rescue, giving him the job and assigning Luke to another reporter.

“Looks like it's you and me again, Andy,” said Winter, so close to him that he smelled her minty-fresh breath as he stared up into her peculiar pale eyes.

It took everything he had, but he finally willed himself to look away, remembering Mrs. Cardigan's advice:
It's all in the eyes.

“Uh, yeah…Are you ready? Where do you want to start?”

Winter checked her watch. “Let's head down to the service entrance off the alley. We need to hurry.”

“Why? What's there?”

“That's where they're bringing in all the equipment. We can get some shots of that, and maybe talk to one of the roadies. They look…interesting. They have
lots
of tattoos.”

She wasn't kidding about the tattoos, but her actual motive for hanging out near the service entrance was to be there when the CO
₂
arrived. A young man in coveralls wheeled in a hand truck with two large tanks of compressed gas strapped to it. Andy examined them from across the room. He had seen tanks used to make soda, and these looked like the real thing to him. They were plain metal tanks, five feet tall and ten inches in diameter. Both had labels identifying them as carbon dioxide, with the usual warnings about the contents being under pressure and to avoid breathing the gas and so on. Except for a single stripe painted around the top of each tank—one in green, one in blue—the two tanks were identical.

The delivery guy looked around, then pulled a slip of yellow paper from his front pocket. “Hi. I've got the gas for the soda machine. I'm supposed to talk to…Winter Neale.”

“That's me,” said Winter. “You can just follow me to the concession stand.”

“Why is he asking for you?” Andy asked, trailing a few feet behind her.

“Dr. Everly asked me to take care of it,” Winter lied. “She knew I'd be here, and I was on the refreshments committee last year for the spring concert, so I know where stuff like that goes.” She stopped at the concession stand door and turned to him, her head tilted in a way that reminded Andy of Penny. “Why do you ask?”

Andy shrugged. “It just seems weird, that's all.”

“Just being helpful.” She pulled the door open and held it for the guy to wheel the hand truck through. “The machine's over there.”

He went right to work, disconnecting the old tanks and wrestling the new ones into place. After removing the plastic cap that protected the threads, he connected the gas line to the top of the tank with the blue stripe and tightened it with a crescent wrench. “You're all set. Just sign here.”

“Andy, can you take care of that?” Winter said as she pretended to be reading an important message on her phone.

Andy was not thrilled with the idea of having his name connected to whatever was in those tanks. He glanced from her to the delivery guy and asked, “Is this okay? I mean, since her name was on the order?”

“It don't matter,” the guy said as he strapped the two empty tanks to the dolly.

Andy scribbled something that didn't resemble his signature at all and handed the paper back.

“Thanks,” said Winter, holding the door for the guy and pointing the way out. She turned to Andy, smiling mischievously. “Come on. Let's make sure it's working.”

“Make sure
what
is working?”

“The soda machine, of course.” Winter slipped behind the concession counter and filled two cups with ice. She pointed the soda gun at Andy. “What can I get you, sir? Your usual—a root beer, with extra ice?”

He looked around nervously. “Uh, are you sure it's okay?”

Winter waved off his concern. “It's just soda, Andy. And we're not stealing. When you put on a new tank, you have to run it for a few seconds to clear the lines. Everyone knows that. Besides, one of the sponsors is paying for all the food and soda. All the kids at the concert get to eat and drink all they want for free.” She handed him the cup, overflowing with foamy GoodTimes root beer. Then she filled her own cup with cola and raised it to him in a toast. “What should we drink to? To the future. I think today is going to be a
very
special day.”

Their next stop was backstage, where a heavy black tarp with the NTRP logo covered an object nearly as tall as Winter. A thick steel cable running all the way from the middle of the auditorium's ceiling disappeared under the tarp, which carried this warning:
EXTREMELY FRAGILE
!
TO BE HANDLED BY AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
!

“What's
that
?” Andy asked, his eyes following the path of the cable.

Winter shrugged. “Speakers, probably. C'mon, let's interview the roadies. I'll bet they have some great stories.”

When she turned to look for Karina's road crew, Andy lifted a corner of the tarp with his toe. He caught a glimpse of shiny metal and glass, lots of wires, and something that looked like a lens sticking out before Winter nudged him and motioned toward the guy taking guitars out of their cases and setting them in stands.

“I'm going to talk to this guy. Why don't you try
him
? He looks important.” She pointed across the stage at Silas, who was checking items off a list attached to a clipboard.

“Oh, okay,” said Andy. “Catch up with you in five minutes.”

He went to Silas, who led him to the far side of the stage, out of Winter's sight. “Anything to report yet?”

“A guy brought two big tanks into the concession stand,” Andy whispered. “I think it really is just CO
₂
, though. He hooked one up to the soda machine, and it's normal. At least it tasted normal to me.” He burped loudly, as if to prove his case. “Sorry, I had some root beer….”

“You said there were two tanks.”

“That's right.”

“Where's the other one?”

“They're right next to each other.”

“And they're identical?”

“Yeah, exactly. Except—”

“Except what?”

“Each one has a stripe painted around it at the top. One's green, the other's blue. He hooked up the tank with the blue stripe.”

“Got it. Blue stripe. Is anyone in the concession stand now?”

“It was all clear about five minutes ago.”

“Okay, good work. Anything else?”

“Just that thing,” said Andy, pointing at the black tarp. “I peeked under the cover, but I still don't know what it is. I've never seen anything like it. Lots of wires and some lenses, I think.”

“Yeah, I've been watching. It's going up to the ceiling—some kind of projector.”

“Kind of scary-looking. Like something from a science fiction movie.”

“Except this is real. Go on, you'd better get back over there with Winter. Report back here in exactly one hour. And take it easy on the root beer. That stuff will kill you.”