Agents of the Glass (4 page)

“How did he find out…about the glass?”

“As you will learn, Syngians can be very persuasive. And once he knew
how
to find them, Caiotte searched all over Europe for others like himself, eventually forming his own secret organization, which to this day has had disorder and perpetual war and chaos as its primary goals. There's a word that scientists use to describe that kind of chaos:
entropy.
”

“You mean like the TV company?”

The National Television and Radio Productions building juts sixty-six stories—666 feet, to be precise—into the sky in Midtown Manhattan, where it has stood since ground was first broken on June 6, 1966. Instead of sounding the letters out individually, everyone in New York pronounces NTRP as
Entropy.

“That name is no accident,” said Silas. “They're taunting us, just like they've been doing for centuries.”

“But they're, like, a huge company. How can they be…evil?”

“Well, not everyone who works there is, obviously. But at its
core,
its leadership, its very reason for existence—that's another story. And as I said, I'm not going to tell you everything today. More about the Agency and NTRP later, I promise. For now, though, let me tell you why
you
are here. Do you want me to continue?”

Andy nodded, eyes wide.

Silas powered up his phone for a quick peek at his messages before continuing. “Sorry, need to be sure no one is looking for me. There, it's off again. Now, where was I? Oh, right, I was about to tell you why we're interested in you. Sure you don't want to sit down? All right. The Agency has spent much of the past eight hundred years studying the nature of good and evil. When it comes to how and why some people have little or no resistance to Syngians, we have discovered that there are two distinct factors—the strength of the
lumen
and the resistance level of the person. If the
lumen
is weak, most reasonably intelligent people can resist the temptation to do bad things. But if it is powerful, only someone with a tremendous ‘built-in' resistance has a chance against it. We don't understand why some people have more resistance; we only know that they do. And based on what I've seen so far and what I've been able to find out about you, I believe that you are a very special young man…with an
extraordinary
ability to resist evil. Of course, to our knowledge, you haven't been up against a strong
lumen
yet, but that doesn't matter…yet. All this is a long way of telling you that we need you on our side.”

“Really? Me? I'm not…special. I'm just…a kid.”

“So was Anne Frank. So
is
Malala Yousafzai. The only difference is that they were put into situations that required them to
act.
Maybe you just haven't had that opportunity yet.”

“What do you want me to do? I won't have to kill anyone, will I?”

“You've seen too many James Bond movies,” Silas said, smiling. “There aren't a lot of promises I can make you, but I
can
guarantee you right now that we will
never
ask you to kill anyone. That would violate one of our most basic rules. No, what we want from you is quite simple. There's someone—a girl, about your age—that we need to learn more about, but her circumstances have made it somewhat difficult, because until now we haven't had an operative young enough to get close to her. On Wednesday, she'll be returning to school at Wellbourne Academy, and we want you to keep an eye on her and report back to us. And that's it for now. Later, if you're comfortable, that assignment may change. You won't be asked to do anything illegal, I promise. Remember, we're the
good
guys. There will be more specific instructions later.”

“I don't get it. I go to Wagner Middle School. How am I going to—”

Silas handed him a glossy brochure featuring photos of attractive young people in school uniforms, each face plastered with a huge, contented smile. “Congratulations, Andy. You've just been accepted into the first form—that's the seventh grade—at Wellbourne Academy.”

“B-but that school is, like, a
million
dollars a year. My parents can't…My dad won't—”

Silas waved off Andy's financial concerns. “It's been taken care of. All we need is for you to say yes. Tonight, someone from the school will call your dad and tell him that, based on some test scores from last year, you were selected for a full scholarship to Wellbourne. How can he say no? It's a tremendous opportunity.”

“You really think he's going to believe it? That's crazy.”

“There are three crazier stories every day on the Internet. Before noon. And believe me, whoever calls will be
very
convincing. Oh, I almost forgot. You're getting a dog.”

“What? I can't get a dog. I asked for one last year, and my parents said no way.”

“Well, you have about a week to convince them that you really
need
this dog. She'll be done with her basic training by then.”

“But…why do I need a dog? What kind of training? Is it like a police dog?”

“It will all be explained.”

Andy stared out the store window. “A new school. A dog. I don't know. I'm used to things the way they are. I
like
the way they are. And what about…you know, fitting in? The kids at Wellbourne are all super brainy. Or rich. Or both. I'm not like that.”

“I think you'll be surprised at how well you fit in, Andy. Wellbourne kids are just kids. They're no different from you and your friends at Wagner. Sure, some of them are rich, and there's a handful of truly gifted students, but in the end, you're all more alike than different. You'll be assigned a ‘buddy'—someone from a grade above you to help you find your way around. If you have any questions at all, she'll be able to point you in the right direction….”

Silas paused when he realized that he might be losing Andy—that doubt and the fear of the unknown were winning out.

“Look, I understand what you must be going through,” Silas continued. “It's been a crazy couple of days, hasn't it? The bomb, the money, my little morality play, and then, to top it off, I tell you a story full of monks and magical glass and Syngians. Preposterous, right? And if I'm being completely honest, the parts I left out are even more outrageous. The truth is, Andy, that I wish I didn't have to ask you to do this. I wish that the world was a safe, wonderful place and that there was no longer any reason for my friends and me to be in business. But it's not, and if NTRP gets its way, it's going to get a lot worse.”

Andy asked for a few hours to think it over, which was entirely reasonable under the circumstances. Silas sent him on his way with instructions to wait for a call at six o'clock sharp.

“Okay,” he said. “My number is—”

Silas held up his phone. “Already have it.”

“But I never…Do I get your number?”

“Not yet. Remember, six o'clock.”

Andy, well trained by his father, stuck out a hand for Silas to shake. It was Silas's turn to be caught off guard; he hesitated, then slowly reached for the offered hand, grimacing and closing his eyes as he shook it, as if he couldn't bear to watch.

“Are you okay?” Andy asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, it's nothing like that,” said Silas. “I…have a little problem….”

“Is it germs? 'Cause I wash my hands a
lot.
”

“No, it's not germs. It's hard to explain. Something I'm working on. Go.”

Andy nodded, then started for the bus stop. After a few steps, he turned back to face Silas. “What
kind
of dog?”

“What's that? Oh, right, the dog. Don't worry, she's terrific. You'll love her.”

“It's just that if I'm going to tell my parents, I should know a little bit about her. Like how big she is and where she's coming from.”

“Thirty, maybe thirty-five pounds. She's a mutt—a little spaniel, a little setter, a little…well, who knows? Her name is Penny, and she came from a shelter in Trumbull County, Ohio.”

“What color is she?”

“White, with lots of spots about the size and color of a penny, which explains how she got her name. Anything else?”

Andy shook his head and smiled. “She sounds nice.”

Got him,
thought Silas.

No, you should not assume that you're going to get a dog, too. Andy's case was special, and with the enemy he was facing, he needed all the help we could provide him. And that's my final word on the matter.

At the Brink with Jensen Huntley

Epic Fail at NTRP

Civilization, as we know it, has taken another direct hit from our old friends at the NTRP Broadcast Center. For a company with a ritzy Park Avenue address like theirs, they are seriously low-class. If their new program, called
How Far Will You Go?,
is any indication, they will stop at nothing to gain control of the airwaves while trying to turn its viewers' brains to mush.

With
How Far Will You Go?,
NTRP has taken bad taste to levels no one has seen since the Roman Empire or, at least, Saddam Hussein's gold-plated toilets. Each week, a group of contestants is given a task and encouraged to “do whatever it takes” to get the job done. The winner gets a hundred grand; the losers get ridiculed by the judges—a panel of three has-been “celebrities.”

In the pilot episode, contestants were challenged to borrow as much money as possible from an unsuspecting relative. The winner, a knuckle-dragging plumber named Ben, used a river of crocodile tears to convince his unsuspecting grandmother (retired and living in Florida) that if she didn't loan him $20,000 for a lawyer, she would never see her great-grandson again. His evil ex-wife, he said, was threatening to move to Singapore with her new husband and the child. None of it was true, of course, but poor Granny cashed in some stocks to the jerk. Following the network's tried-and-true formula, they brought her out at the end of the show and told her that it was all “just a game” and that she had “helped” her grandson win $100,000!

When host Wilkie Wonderly asked Ben if he would share the loot with the woman he'd duped on national TV, you might have thought he'd asked him to donate a kidney to a total stranger. Class act.

Then came the parade of losers. The judges took turns mocking their inability to lie, cheat, and/or steal. According to the judges, we can all learn something from Ben the plumber—namely, that the principle that all's fair in love and war is no longer true.

“All's fair, period,” remarked sports agent Allen Ullman.

A proud day for humanity.

“Hello, my little friends,” said Silas as he reached into a cage where two pairs of zebra finches fluttered about, singing happily. One of the birds hopped onto his index finger, joined by its mate a moment later. “Be free.” He let them fly about in his studio apartment, and the other pair soon followed. After a few laps around the room, the first pair landed on a bookcase; the second settled on the ledge of a large wooden easel that was set up in a corner.

In the kitchen, Silas turned the knob on an antique Zenith, a gift from Mrs. Cardigan, and waited for the radio to warm up. When it came to life, he fiddled with the tuner dial until he was satisfied that the sound of the Beethoven quartet was as clear as it could be, and then he sat in the only chair he owned, staring at the painting on the easel. The enormous canvas—six feet tall and eight feet wide—dominated the room. Barely visible pencil sketches, drawn and redrawn over and over, covered most of the surface, but here and there were a handful of spots, a few square inches each, that had been completed in such detail that a casual observer might have thought they were photographs glued onto the canvas.

He had been working on the painting for more than three years. Those small finished sections were bits and pieces of his childhood—the only clear memories that he had. A grandfather clock at the end of a long hallway. Nameless men and women in lab coats, hurrying past him, speaking a language he didn't understand. A young girl, her face always turned away from him. Waves crashing onto a rocky seacoast. And a pair of zebra finches. How they were all connected to him he had no idea, and every other memory of the first twelve years of his life was a mere sketch, an outline at best.

Three years ago, however, Silas began to train himself to remember his dreams in vivid detail. He kept a tape recorder on his bedside table and switched it on the moment he opened his eyes every morning (or in the middle of the night, which was not uncommon for him). At first, he was frustrated. The memories were like watching someone else's home movies: fleeting, seemingly unconnected images flickering on for a few seconds, then disappearing. Sometimes they returned the next night, sometimes not. But three months into his experiment, he realized that he was no longer seeing anything new in his dreams; he was watching reruns. Once he knew what he was looking for, the details began to emerge, first on the tape recorder and later on the canvas. His past was coming to life.

His watch alarm buzzed at nine o'clock, snapping him out of his daydream. He went to the kitchen and changed the radio station to the call-in talk program
Tellin' It Like It Is,
hosted by Howard Twopenny.

A deep, authoritative voice filled the apartment, a far cry from the soothing sounds of Beethoven. Howard began with a plea to his listeners: “Folks, I have to tell you about a great new show on NTRP! It's called
How Far Will You Go?
My producer Wally and I were watching it in the control room tonight before we went on the air, and we could…not…stop…laughing. I tell you, watching that enterprising young man finagle twenty grand out of that old bat…made me proud to be an American, I tell you. What does she need that kind of money for, anyway? You saw her. She's got one foot in the grave already. She might as well give it to him now, am I right, listeners? Tell me what
you
think at 212-555-TELL. While we're waiting for your call, let me tell you another story. I have some contacts at the NYPD who tell me another side to the story of Friday's bank bomber—you know, the guy who turned himself into a human jigsaw puzzle? Turns out that while all the king's horses and all the king's men are still trying to put enough pieces together to identify Humpty Dumbbell, the loot itself actually survived the blast. It was all in a backpack picked up by some random bystander. Two hundred grand. And do you know what that…moron did? He turned it in to the cops. Let me say that again: He turned it in. Two hundred grand. People kill me. I told my kid that if he ever did anything that dumb, I'd send him off to live with my idiot brother and his seven kids in Alaska. Hey, we've got a caller….”