Randoms (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

M
y mom managed not to freak out, which I considered impressive. She invited the president to sit, and he did. She offered him a beverage, and he declined. She stammered only moderately when she spoke. There were more agents in the house now, swarming around as they made sure we didn't keep any assassins lurking in the pantry or the coat closet. Some of the agents held out what looked like thick metal pens, which, they explained, allowed them to scan for listening devices. It turned out that we had none, which I probably could have told them, considering that anyone with the means to plant a listening device could not possibly care what my mother and I had to say. We tried not to worry about the fact that there were agents moving throughout the house, and more in the backyard, standing at the ready in case, I don't know, the propane grill decided to attack.

In the living room, my mom and I did our best to ignore all this. Next to the president sat an intense-looking woman with distractingly red nail polish, her coppery hair pulled back tightly and mercilessly clipped into place. She was perhaps in her midthirties, and she wore a severe pantsuit that looked almost military in its cut. She and her clothes were all sharp lines and hard angles, and her eyes were an unfeeling icy blue. She might have been pretty if she hadn't looked like she ate puppies for breakfast. The president introduced her as Nora
Price from the State Department. I had no idea what her job was, but she had the kind of scary expression that made me feel pretty sure she would trample anyone who got in the way of her doing it.

The president pressed his hands together and leaned forward. “Mrs. Reynolds, I apologize that I am going to be somewhat secretive. I've come here to ask if your son could be our guest for a few days. I can assure you he will be in absolutely no danger.”

“What?” she asked, her voicing rising several octaves.

Ms. Price smiled, but it was more indulgent than warm, the kind of smile used only by people who have to work hard at appearing nonthreatening. “I can assure you this is a matter of national security.”

I was starting to think that illegally downloading those episodes of
Teen Wolf
might have been a mistake. I knew the commercials told us that piracy is not a victimless crime. Even so, I wanted to believe the president had other things to worry about. “Why do you need me?” I managed to ask without my voice cracking.

“That's classified,” Ms. Price said, not kindly. She seemed to have forgotten to appear nonthreatening.

“It needs to be unclassified,” my mother said, “or I'm not agreeing to anything. These agents say he isn't in trouble.”

“And he isn't,” the president assured her, taking a much warmer tone than the State Department woman. “All I can tell you is that there is a visiting representative of, uh, shall we say, a foreign government, who has requested the honor of meeting Ezekiel. I can't say anything more, so I understand your frustration. I have two daughters myself, and I can imagine I wouldn't
much care for it if someone came to me and proposed what I'm proposing to you. I can only give you my word as your president, and as a father, that your son will not be in harm's way, and that he will be doing a great service to his country.”

“How long are we talking about?” my mother asked.

“Initially, two days,” the president said. “It may happen that Zeke will choose to participate in a sort of foreign exchange program, and if that's the case, it will be longer. At that point, you would receive more information.”

“What sort of exchange program?” she demanded. “With what country? Wait, let me guess. You can't tell me.”

The president smiled, and it was genuine. I had the feeling he had already come to like my mother, as if under other circumstances the two of them could have hung out—gone bowling or whatever. “The only thing I can add is that it will be a unique experience,” he told her. “I do feel very confident that your son will not regret coming with us.”

I looked at the president. “Does it have to be me, or will some other kid work? Sir.”

“It has to be you,” the president assured me.

“Why would some ambassador even know who I am? Is this about my father's show?” American shows, even unsuccessful ones, can develop followings in foreign countries. For reasons that remain unclear to me, they went wild for
Colony Alpha
in Estonia.

“The father,” Ms. Price explained to the president, “now deceased, created an unpopular television program.”

Now there's a way to honor a man's life.

“It has nothing to do with that,” the president said. “As to why it has to be you, I'm afraid I can't tell you at this time.”

My mother took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, a sure sign she was about to say something that made her uncomfortable. “I'm sorry, but the answer is no. I'm not letting you take my son unless you give me more information.”

“We don't actually have to ask you,” Ms. Price said. She sat up straight, and the hard look she gave my mother was nothing short of a challenge. “This is a national security matter, and, as such, we can take him whether you like it or not. If you attempt to interfere, we can arrest you. We don't want to play it that way—”

The president held up his hand to silence her. “And we won't. Zeke is not going to be taken against his will, and no one is going to be arrested.”

“So I can say no?” asked my mother.

“My plan,” the president said, “is to stay here until I can convince you to say yes.”

I couldn't imagine why any ambassador would want to meet me, but I also couldn't imagine going the rest of my life without finding out. How would I feel, years from now, when I remembered the time the president came asking for my help, and I sent him away?

It seemed to me that this might be a situation I could use to my mother's advantage. If I could help her, and find out why my government needed me, then everyone would be a winner.

“The thing is,” I said, “if I were to go, it would be hard on my mom, and this isn't a good time for her to be under stress.”

The president nodded gravely. “Yes, we are aware of her health issues.”

My mother started at this. “That's none of the government's business. How, exactly, did my private health-care records—”

Ms. Price cut her off. “National security.”

I spoke up before my mother decided to see what would happen if she gouged out the eyes of someone in the president's entourage. “Are you aware,” I asked, “that her insurance company has been giving her a hard time about the treatments her doctor wants her to get?”

“Ezekiel!” my mother snapped. Maybe she thought this was no one else's business, or maybe she had an inkling of what I had in mind. Either way, she was unhappy.

The president raised his eyebrows like he was mildly amused. “Go on.”

He was going to make me say it. “I was wondering if you might be able to smooth some things over, being, you know, the president and all. It would make me feel better to know my mom was getting the care her doctor prescribed.”

The president frowned, deep in serious thought, and there was maybe a hint of the side of him you didn't want to see. After a moment's thought, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He pressed one button. “A Mrs. Reynolds is going to be calling your office tomorrow. Have one of your people take her information and make certain her insurance company understands that you want her to receive any treatment her doctor recommends.”

The president then looked at my mother. “That was the secretary of health and human services.” He was typing into his phone as he spoke. “I'm sending a note to my assistant right now to provide you with her direct number. You call her, and you'll have everything you need.”

My mother looked at him. She looked at me. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Now,” the president said, meeting my eye, “are you done playing hardball with the leader of the free world?”

“I haven't agreed to anything,” my mother reminded him.

“Come
on
, Mom,” I said. “He said I'd be in no danger.”

“No danger whatsoever,” the president assured her.

I knew what she was thinking. She was wondering if she would have been so reluctant if she hadn't been sick, and that was what would tip her over to my side. She hated the thought of what her illness would do to me, the kinds of responsibilities that would come my way, the experiences I might miss.

“You're sure you want to go?” she asked.

“I don't know what this is about, but I have to admit I'm pretty curious.”

She gave the slightest of nods.

And because I am always thinking ahead, I turned to the severe woman, Ms. Price. “I'll also need a note excusing my absence from school. Can I get that on White House stationery?”

•   •   •

I quickly packed a small bag with enough clothes for two days. My mother hugged me several times and told me to call her if I got scared or if I needed to come home. I hated to leave her, and I was already plenty scared, but every time I thought about pulling the plug, my curiosity kicked in. Why, of all the people in the country, did
I
have to speak to some foreign bigwig? How could it possibly be so important that the president of the United States would drive two hours to Wilmington to press his case? I had to know what this was about.

I did not get to ride with the president, but he stopped me before I got into the backseat of a sedan. He shook my hand and thanked me for being willing to serve my country.

“I appreciate that, sir,” I said, trying to act like I was not flipping out.

“I think you'll find it interesting,” he said. “And Ezekiel. For the record, I respect how you stood up for your mother's interests. I know that all of this”—he waved his hands at the sedans and the agents—“must be very intimidating. You've got a lot of courage, young man.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, feeling like a phony. I was sure that if the president had seen me cringing as Tanner Hughes smacked me around, he'd have found some other clueless kid to meet with the ambassador of wherever.

I rode with Agents Jimenez and McTeague, who were polite but not particularly conversational. As we pulled onto the highway and headed toward DC, I finally worked up the nerve to speak. “Do you guys know what is going on?”

Jimenez shrugged. “I am not authorized to answer that.”

“You're not authorized to tell me whether or not you know?”

“I'm not even authorized to explain what I initially meant.”

“What about you, Agent McTeague?” I asked the agent riding shotgun.

“I'm not authorized even to discuss my level of authorization,” he said without turning around.

“Is there anything at all you can tell me?”

“I'm not authorized to answer any questions about what I can or cannot answer,” Agent Jimenez said. “Except,” he began, and then he just shook his head. “Wow. That's all I'm going to say. Wow.” Then he cast a look at McTeague and the two of them burst out laughing.

CHAPTER FOUR

I
thought I was going to the White House. When the president of the United States comes by and says, “Let's hang,” you figure you're heading for Oreos in the Oval Office. This turned out not to be the case. The president had dropped by to convince me and my mom I should go along with the Secret Service guys, but he had more important things to do than deal with me.

Our destination was Camp David, which was not as exciting as the White House, but it was still pretty impressive. How many people do you know who have been to Camp David? That's what I thought.

We passed through several checkpoints and drove down narrow streets dense with groves of wintry, leafless trees that looked spooky in the dark. We finally parked outside a large building that was more hunting-cabiny than I would have imagined. The agents led me inside and through rooms that looked like they had been designed by extremely wealthy pioneers, and brought me to a less rustic-looking office. The severe State Department woman, Nora Price, was sitting behind a desk waiting for me. Or rather, she was there when I entered, and proceeded to ignore me so she could work and I could watch her do it. I stood across from her while she typed away furiously on her laptop. The Secret Service agents had already retreated. Finally, without looking up, she gestured with a flick of her crim
son fingernails for me to sit in one of the heavy wooden chairs.

The endless
clack clack clack
of her fingers on the keyboard didn't slow, but after about five minutes she said, “I'm sure you are wondering why you've been invited here.”

“You know, I am wondering about that.” The sarcasm was a sure sign of my growing impatience.

She sighed and pushed herself away from the computer. “I could explain it to you, but you would never believe me.”

“Maybe you could try,” I suggested. “Otherwise, I'll end up sitting and watching you type for a long time.”

I was getting the impression she didn't like kids in general, or me in particular. She stared at me for a long time, as if wishing I would vanish. When I didn't, she offered one final, long-suffering sigh, stood up, and walked over to my side of the desk. I now saw she was holding a cylinder about four inches long and an inch in diameter. It appeared to be made out of some kind of dull black metal, smooth and without distinguishable features. Without asking my permission she pressed one end of it to the back of my hand. It let out a little humming noise, and a slightly warm feeling bloomed across my skin.

“What was that?” I rubbed my hand, but the warmth was already gone. It felt perfectly normal.

Ms. Price returned to her seat. “I've just injected you with nanites. Those are—”

“I know what nanites are,” I said, feeling dizzy, though I didn't know if that was from the injection or the knowledge that I now had something top secret, and probably insufficiently tested, in my blood.

“Impressive,” she said, though she sounded more irritated than impressed. “I didn't.”

“Nanotechnology is pretty common in a lot of sci-fi,” I explained.

She waved a hand to indicate that this conversation was going places she didn't much like.

“I didn't give you permission to inject me with anything,” I told her. “I didn't see my mother sign a consent form.”

She pressed her lips together. “You could always complain about being exposed to technology that's not supposed to exist, and which no doctor in the world will be able to detect, but I'm not sure it would get you very far.”

“That's a fair point,” I admitted. “What do these nanites do, exactly?”

Nanites are, in effect, machines built on the molecular level. They are still experimental as far as practical application in the real world goes, but in science fiction they can be used to augment natural human ability, increase brain function, cure diseases, impart information directly into the brain, turn skin into armor and limbs into weapons, change the shape of your body or face . . . just about anything imaginable. I'd always loved the idea—in theory. I didn't know that I loved the idea of having them in me right now, especially since I didn't know what they were up to.

“The nanites will help you to communicate,” Ms. Price said, with less enthusiasm than the subject of advanced and invasive technology seemed to deserve.

This was starting to sound creepy. I didn't know that I wanted machines in my brain. “Communicate what?”

“Ezekiel, there's no way to prepare you for what I'm going to tell you, so I'm going to say it outright. For the past week, several nations of this world have been negotiating with a rep
resentative of a vast network of alien species. They are considering admitting our world, on a provisional basis, into their alliance, and the first step is for us to send four young people, chosen by the aliens, to one of their cultural hubs. Our worth as a species will be measured by the behavior of this small group. However improbably, you have been chosen to be part of this process.”

I stared at her. She had to be messing with me, but this woman looked like she had no direct experience with the concept known as humor.

She shook her head in apparent sadness. “I know it is hard to believe.” She pressed an intercom button on her phone. “Tell the representative we're ready for him.”

I was about to ask her something, but whatever my question was, it froze in my throat, because a giraffe in a business suit had entered the room. Up to his shoulders he had the frame of a pretty normal man, but then, exploding out of the collar, were two feet of heavily muscled neck covered by short, nut-brown fur. Then there was the giraffe head, with a long snout, large ears, and two stubby protrusions sticking up from the forehead.

The suit was charcoal gray, and nicely tailored. The giraffe creature had an impeccably folded white handkerchief in the front pocket. I thought that was weird.

Technically, he was not really a giraffe. For one thing, he didn't have giraffe markings. For another, he walked on two legs and he wore a suit. Also, he spoke, which is not something you generally expect from a giraffe.

“Hello,” he said. “I'm Dr. Klhkkkloplkkkuiv Roop.” He stuck out his hand for me to shake.

In something of a daze, I shook. The creature had tapered
hands, with long, narrow fingers, and they were covered with the same brownish fur, but otherwise they looked a whole lot like they could be human. He also had a firm handshake and he met my eye, so, if necessary, I could trust him to sell me a used car.

“You must be Ezekiel Reynolds,” he said. His accent sounded vaguely European, which surprised me. To my knowledge, giraffe men are not native to Europe.

“Yeah,” I managed, and I thought I was extremely articulate under the circumstances. My neck was already hurting from this conversation. Up to the shoulders he was normal person–size, but with the neck the total package was close to about eight feet.

“I understand this is difficult for you,” he said, “and I can think of nothing to make it less so. We might as well jump right in.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “That sounds like a plan.”

The giraffe guy gestured for me to sit, and I did. He sat across from me, crossed his legs, and adjusted this tie.

“I work,” he began, “for the Department of Sentient Integration, a branch of the Coalition of Central Governing Committees of the Confederation of United Planets. We are a vast alliance of species native to our section of galactic spiral. From time to time, when our selection committee has identified four qualified worlds, we recruit new species who have achieved certain cultural and technological milestones. From each species we identify four young beings who possess skills or attributes admired in our culture and request that they spend a standard year with us so we may evaluate them and determine if their culture is a good fit for our own, and if ours is a good fit
for them. The honorable members of the selection committee have picked four beings from your planet, and you, Ezekiel, are one of them.”

I said nothing for a long time. Ms. Price stared at me like I was an idiot, which, coincidentally, I felt like. Dr. Roop widened his big yellow eyes slightly as the clock ticked on.

Finally, I thought of something to say. “Is this a joke?” As soon as I said it, I realized this question might not suggest I was the absolute best the human race had to offer.

Ms. Price breathed in sharply through her nose, as if my question caused her pain. “Ezekiel, I assure you that the president is far too busy to play pranks on an irrelevant twelve-year-old.”

I realized the joke theory was not holding up under scrutiny. For now, I was willing to run with the idea that this giraffe guy was an alien. Even so, I had some questions.

“Dr. Roop,” I started.

“Please,” he said, waving a furry hand. “There's no need to be so formal. Call me Klhkkkloplkkkuiv.”

“Uh, no,” I said. “I'm not going to do that.” His name sounded like he was choking on a fish bone. “Look, I'm confused. Also freaked out, but we'll deal with confusion first. I mean, this Confederation of United Planets sounds an awful lot like the United Federation of Planets, which is from a TV show. You can see why I have a hard time buying it.”

“Certainly,” he said, spreading his fingers in the Vulcan salute. “
Star Trek.
I find it charming. You see, Zeke, for many decades we've known Earth to be a strong candidate for Confederation membership, and in accordance with our long-standing practice, we have used certain back channels to
filter facts about the wider galaxy into your speculative narratives.”

“You're telling me that sci-fi is influenced by actual fact?”

“Some of it, yes.”

“And there really is a government of peaceful and benevolent aliens out there?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And ships that can travel between stars without being limited by the laws of physics?”

“As you understand those laws, absolutely.”

“And we're talking, and your mouth doesn't really seem suited to make words in our language, so there must be some kind of universal translator?”

“Ms. Price injected you with the appropriate nanites before our meeting. They are able to process and interpret virtually any language, spoken or written, and in most cases do so instantaneously.”

“Then why do you sound like you have a French accent?”

“Dutch,” Ms. Price said. “He sounds Dutch.”

“On occasion, the translator will find analogues from your own linguistic experiences to help convey certain cultural inflections.”

“But,” I said, “it looks like you're speaking English. I could read your lips.”

“It's an illusion created by the nanites. Otherwise the discontinuity between a being's words and its movements might prove jarring. The translator function will also provide equivalents of nonlinguistic noises, such as laughter and sighs. Body language you will have to work out on your own.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“You may also, on occasion, detect a slight delay in the translation when the system attempts to find a familiar equivalent in your language and then opts, instead, to provide explanatory wording. So, if I mention a type of food native to my planet, such as [
spiny leaves with dried fruit
], or perhaps an unfamiliar alien custom such as [
the
ritualistic hair-coiffing
of herd tenders
], you will notice the difference in my voice.”

“Yeah,” I said. “For sure.” It was hard to describe, but when he said those things, the voice sounded slightly slower, and like it was vibrating, but not exactly. It was more of a feeling, and I understood that I was getting a rough equivalent, and there was a kind of mental pause and rush, like if a video playback had a glitch that caused it to slow and then hurry ahead to catch up. “That's cool. Wait, did you just get that weird sensation when I said
cool
?”

“I received a relative cultural equivalent of whatever word you used.”

I couldn't get my head around all of this—not really. This dapper giraffe in a suit, who spoke with a Dutch accent, was a real alien, born on another planet full of giraffe people, who had access to incredible technology. And it was all real. “What else is out there?” I asked.

“There are too many things to list, so perhaps you could tell me what you are curious to hear about,” Dr. Roop suggested amiably. He tilted his head to one side, but having just been told that that I wasn't getting any help on body language, I had no idea what it meant.

I thought for a second. “Are there, I don't know, space pirates?”

“Some. Not many.” He lowered his neck in a gesture that I
felt sure meant something among his own kind. A shrug? “Our peace officers try to make piracy an unappealing option.”

“Mysterious elder aliens and extinct races?”

“Oh, yes.” His eyes widened.

“Teleportation?”

“Only on a subatomic level,” he said. “Much of the defense technology we possess depends upon what amounts to, for all practical purposes, quantum-level teleportation. The process can be done on a larger scale, but requires vast amounts of energy, and the only way to teleport a living being is to destroy it and recreate an identical facsimile. Most beings choose not to experiment with the process.”

“Yeah, I can see why. How about time travel?”

He cocked his head slightly. “I am not at liberty to discuss that subject.”

That was a yes, I decided. “Can I transfer my consciousness into an avatar?”

“It can be done,” he said, “but the side effects include shortness of breath and explosive diarrhea. It's much easier to simply reshape your existing body.”

“What about the Force and Jedi powers? Are they real?”

“No,” Dr. Roop said. “That would be silly.”

•   •   •