Agents of the Glass (33 page)

The new, criminally apathetic Jensen had rattled Andy; any existing doubts about NTRP's ability to tinker with the human mind were erased the moment she'd said,
Cut the
drama,
Andy
. The old Jensen would have pulled out her own fingernails before uttering those words.

You're probably wondering about the zebra finches. Well, there's a simple reason I keep them, a reason that St. John de Spere will never truly understand. Biologists are baffled by them because they do something incredibly rare in the animal kingdom: They engage in cooperative behavior. In an experiment that is a form of the very famous prisoner's dilemma, zebra finches had a choice: If they pressed one button, they got a single seed. If they pressed a different button, their mate got three seeds. Guess what? They chose to help others, even though they got no benefit. Pretty amazing, huh?

So, the next time someone tells you that compassion is a human-only characteristic, tell them about zebra finches.

Silas's watch alarm buzzed. Mrs. Cardigan was expecting an update, but at the moment, his hands were tied—literally—ensuring that he would miss his second consecutive check-in. When she didn't hear from him, the backup plan would go into effect. He felt foolish for sending that text message prematurely, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that at least he'd kinked the plastic hose to slow down the flow of gas into the auditorium. If he was lucky, that would be enough to cause NTRP's plan to fail.

St. John de Spere paid him another visit, checking the ties and propping up a tablet in front of him. He typed in a few commands, and a live video feed from the auditorium appeared on the screen.

“Now you'll be able to see and hear what's going on,” he said. “After all the work you've done, I would hate for you to miss it,
Roger.
”

“That's the second time you've made a point of calling me that and then flashing that creepy smile of yours. Is there something you want to tell me?”

“I'm just being friendly. Ask anybody—I'm the nicest guy around.”

“Except when you're killing lab animals or brainwashing a bunch of kids.”

“Somebody's been watching too many movies from the fifties,” said de Spere. “Brainwashing?
Please.
Give me a little credit. We are so far beyond that—”

“So you don't deny that you're planning permanent damage to those kids out there?”

“Tomato, tomahto. You say
damage
, I say
improve.
Clearly, you haven't been paying attention to the NTRP publicity. Don't you know that we are all about envisioning a better world? It's finally becoming a reality. Well, I need to get back upstairs. Are you sure you don't want to tell me your phone password? That way, I could respond to these rather serious-sounding messages you're receiving and let your friends know that you're all right.”

“No thanks, I think I'll keep it to myself.”

“Suit yourself, Roger. Enjoy the concert.” And he disappeared again.

Kids began arriving at Wellbourne between five-thirty and six. Fueled by an endless supply of free food and soda, their energy level spiked upward for the next hour and a half, the atmosphere in the auditorium growing more electric by the second. With each announcement counting down the time to the start of the concert, the crowd grew louder and louder.

Winter was the first to spot Andy's dad as he came through the doors, and she ran to greet him. “Mr. Twopenny! You actually came! Is this the coolest thing ever, or what? Did you come by yourself? Can I show you to your seat?”

Howard, eyeing her warily, considered her questions for a second. “Yes, yes, and yes.”

“I'll take him up,” said Andy, taking him by the arm to the side stairs that led to the balconies above the stage. “Look, Dad, I can't tell you why right now, but I need you to be Howard Twopenny tonight.”

Howard examined his son's face closely, searching for signs of trouble. This was a side of Andy he'd never seen—confident, taking charge—and he liked it. “All right, then. I'll take your word for it. Howard Twopenny is officially…in the building. Of course, he's only here so he can make fun of the whole experience on Monday's show.” He winked at Andy. “Before you go, can I give you some advice?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Stay away from that Winter girl. I don't care how pretty she is. There's something not quite right with her. Don't know what it is. Those eyes…you can just tell.”

“Okay. I will. After tonight…well, things will be different. I hope.”

“Is that someone you know?” Howard asked, pointing down at the main entrance. “I think he's waving at you.”

“Detective Cunningham, the cop I met when I turned in the money. And that's…Huh, I wonder how they know each other? Zhariah Davis. She's a reporter.”

Winter escorted them to the same balcony where Andy and his dad were and showed them to their seats. “This is you, A5 and A6. Right next to Mr. Twopenny. I'm sure you've both heard of him.”

Introductions followed, followed by some uncomfortable laughs as Howard told an inappropriate joke about a priest, a rabbi, and a policeman.

Andy was finally able to pull the detective off to the side and point out Jensen, sitting in a balcony seat across the auditorium from them.

“What the…Is that who I think it is?”

Andy nodded. “She's acting like the whole thing was no big deal.”

“She say where she was or what she's been doing?”

“Not really anything that makes sense. She's like a different person.”

“I guess we should be happy that she's safe and home. In my business, that counts as a win.”

At seven-thirty, the kids were finally allowed to take their seats in the auditorium, where they found their new 233dotcom e-readers, fully charged and pre-loaded with a selection of classic novels. Karina Jellyby, dressed in jeans and a two-sizes-too-small Wellbourne blazer, ran onto the stage and shouted, “How's everybody doing?”

The screamed response was so loud that Andy covered his ears and, in the basement, Silas felt the wall behind him shake.

Karina continued, “Well, that's good, because you are in for one very special night. Those people out there who still don't believe in global warming haven't met you yet. The world is a
much
warmer place, thanks to all of you. We challenged you to help ‘thaw' things out by donating two hours a week of your precious time, and you not only met that challenge, you exceeded our wildest dreams.”

Lots more wall-shaking screaming as the four members of the band ran onstage. “There are a few people we all need to thank for making this possible,” said Karina. “First, a big hand for Deanna Decameron from NTRP. Stand up, Deanna! There she is. Deanna is the director of NTRP's brand-new education broadcasting division, and she has promised to knock all our socks off tonight during our break. You are going to be the first to see some new technology that is going to change the way you learn and watch TV and play video games
forever.
And, of course, Wellbourne's own Dr. Everly! When she heard about our contest, she reached out to us and…here we are! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” As the lights dimmed, she added: “And now…let's get this show on the road!”

Back in the basement, Silas listened and waited, wondering how long it would take de Spere to realize that something had gone wrong with his master plan.

On the floor in front of him, the tablet streamed images of the stage and, occasionally, the audience as Karina launched into her first set. She opened with “Save Yourself,” an old-school rock anthem from her first album, which got all two hundred and fifty kids on their feet at the sound of the opening chords.

Across the basement, a door squeaked on its hinges, then clicked shut—the unmistakable sounds of someone trying very hard to be quiet. Footsteps getting closer. Silas held his breath and waited for the final blow. Like Ilene Porter, he was a loose end, and her fate was proof that NTRP didn't like loose ends.

“Fallon Mishra,” he said. “I should have known you'd be here.”

She stopped short when she saw him, shrinking back half a step.

It made perfect sense, Silas admitted. Who better to tie up a loose end than a ninth
dan
black belt in kendo? She probably knew fifteen ways to kill without leaving a mark. He couldn't stop himself from smiling at the irony of being killed by the woman who once occupied the Discipline chair.

Instead of snapping his neck like a twig or yanking out his heart by reaching down his throat, however, she did something even more surprising as they made eye contact: She put her finger to her lips. Then she reached out and turned the tablet facedown on the floor. Silas tensed as she moved behind him—
This is it
, he thought—but she surprised him again by cutting the plastic ties that bound him to the pipes.

He climbed quickly to his feet and faced her, looking completely dumbfounded. “What—”

“Shhh. De Spere may have this place bugged. We need to get you out of here. Quietly. Come on.”

“How do I know I can trust…”

Fallon bent down and lifted her jeans a few inches so Silas could see her socks. Wool, of course. Dark green with two narrow purple stripes. The very ones that Mrs. Cardigan had been knitting the night of Andy's first visit to the Loom.

“But…all this time…you
betrayed
us.”

She shook her head. “I've never been disloyal. Mrs. Cardigan orchestrated the whole thing to get me inside, to get me close to St. John de Spere. I had to do a lot of things, including following you the other night, to maintain the illusion. If de Spere walks in right now, it's months of work gaining his trust down the drain. Look, I don't have time to explain it all right now, but there's one more thing that might help to convince you. Remember the day Andy was at the NTRP building and he dropped his pen in the screening room? Didn't you wonder how it ended up back in his bag? I knew it was a camera from my own training.”

“I did wonder, actually,” Silas admitted. “That was you, too? So, how much do you know about this Operation Tailor?”

Fallon shook her head. “It's de Spere's pet project, and he won't let anybody completely inside. A lot of people know bits and pieces—kind of like the recipe for Kentucky Fried Chicken—but nobody knows
everything,
except de Spere himself. He's a lunatic, an absolute control freak. I wouldn't be surprised if you know more than I do.”

“We have managed to make some interesting discoveries. He's using gas—something he's been working on since college—and combining it with lights that have some kind of hypnotic effect. Somehow, the combination of the two changes people—and not for the better.”

Fallon squinted at him, chewing on that bit of information for a moment. “When you say that it
changes
people, you mean…”

“The
lumen.
Suddenly, it's just…there. Think what it would mean to NTRP—and to the Agents—if those good kids upstairs were all ‘flipped.' But we don't have to worry, because I took care of the gas line.”

“Where is it?”

Silas looked up. “Right there. I'll cut it, just to be certain.”

Fallon helped get the ladder in place and held out a pocketknife to Silas, who sliced through the plastic hose in one quick motion. Expecting to feel the gas escaping, he pointed the end of the hose at the back of his hand.

“That's strange,” he said, waving it in front of Fallon's face. “What do you feel?”

“Nothing.”

Above them, the kids screamed and stomped and, encouraged by Karina, sang the chorus of “Don't Blame Me.”

“Maybe he hasn't turned it on yet,” Fallon said.

“I guess that's poss—” Silas stopped, his heart suddenly in his throat. “Oh, no. We have to go. Now. This isn't the gas line. It's a decoy. De Spere played me. He just wanted me to think that it was, that I had figured it all out. He knew I'd sent the message to Mrs. Cardigan saying that I had everything under control.” He rushed for the door, with Fallon right behind.

“Where are we going? What are you talking about?” she asked.

“It was the burp.”

“Excuse me?”

“Andy. Burped. Loud.”

“What?”

“The gas—it's
in
the soda. And those kids up there are drinking it by the gallon.” That final word was punctuated by the screams of a bunch of kids having the time of their lives.

“What do we do?”

“We have to cut the power…somehow. Follow me! And keep your eyes open for de Spere and…is there anyone else from NTRP here with him?”

“Not that I know of. But that doesn't mean anything. He's paranoid, so there's no telling who else he has involved.”

“Well then, just shout if you see anyone you recognize.”

When Karina announced that she and the band would be taking a short break, the heavy curtain fell and the auditorium went black, illuminated only by the exit signs and a giant screen that hung from the ceiling. Every eye was glued to it as a camera focused on a mysterious figure in a black cape and wide-brimmed fedora standing a few feet behind the curtain. As he stood there, a pair of stagehands rolled a table toward him. On it was an enormous computer terminal with a console that looked as if it belonged in a fighter jet. Its hundreds of buttons, knobs, and keys formed a semicircle wrapping halfway around the monitor screen. Then a single spotlight switched on, illuminating the man, who bore an incredible likeness to the Phantom of the Opera, sitting at the console with his back to the audience.

He reached up dramatically and pressed a single button, and the first eight notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony boomed from every corner of the building:
dun dun dun DUN…dun dun dun DUN.

Andy fidgeted nervously. “Something's wrong,” he said under his breath. “This shouldn't be happening.” Where was Silas?

Winter leaned in close to him. “Sorry, I didn't hear you.”

“Nothing,” said Andy. “I was just saying that I like this music.”

She nudged him and nonchalantly slipped her arm through his. “Me too. This is so exciting. I can't wait to see this show.”

Andy tensed when she touched him, but he didn't look at her, and he didn't respond. Instead, he sneaked a peek at his phone, still waiting for a message from Silas or Reza or Mrs. Cardigan—
anybody.

“What's wrong?” Winter shouted over the music. “You seem upset.”

Andy turned to face her, his eyes searching hers for signs of anything unusual, but every inch of Winter was as cool and unruffled as a newly frozen pond.

“Look!” she said, pointing at a giant beach ball floating just over the heads of the kids in the center of the auditorium.

It took Andy a few seconds of staring at it to realize that it wasn't real; it was an illusion, nothing more than light and air, and not like anything he'd ever seen before.

Winter smiled. “It's like I could reach up and touch it.”

The Phantom pressed another key, and instantly birds of every color and species appeared—a thousand or more, flying in unison round and round the auditorium. After a few laps, a window materialized on the wall and swung open, and the birds all flew through it into the New York night. Except that neither the birds nor the window was real.

The kids were absolutely spellbound, cheering their hearts out, but Andy had more practical considerations: He was looking for the source of this sinister “magic.” His eyes scanned the ceiling until he found the device that had been covered by the NTRP tarp backstage before the show—a steel and glass globe about five feet in diameter, with lenses poking out in all directions, spinning wildly. It was partly hidden behind a banner from one of Wellbourne's championship soccer teams, so Andy started to move toward the stage for an unobstructed view.

“Where are you going?” Winter asked, grasping at his arm. “Don't you want to see what's next?”

“I'm going backstage,” answered Andy. “I need to see…” He shook himself loose of her grip and headed for the steps at the side of the stage, with Winter right on his heels. He had just hit the first step when the crowd gasped again. He turned to see the
Mayflower
crashing through a huge wave, sending a wall of spray that seemed so real that the crowd ducked.

As he reached the top step behind the curtain, he saw Silas—the actual human being, not a hologram—rushing toward him on the other side of the stage. He, too, was so preoccupied with looking for the source of the illusions that he never noticed Andy—and certainly not the length of iron pipe that connected with his head, making a
thud
loud enough for Andy to hear over the sound of the
Mayflower
surging through the Atlantic. Andy had seen it, but not in time to warn him. He and Winter recoiled in unison as Silas, his legs crumpling beneath him after the blow, dropped, stonelike, to the floor with another, even louder
thonk.

For a moment, Andy was frozen in place, mouth agape, but he recovered quickly, shaking off the initial shock and pulling away from Winter. He was halfway across the stage when Fallon Mishra appeared, almost stumbling over Silas's limp body. She stopped, kneeling next to him to make sure he was still breathing. Based on everything he had heard about Fallon, Andy jumped to the logical conclusion that she was Silas's attacker.