Agents of the Glass (28 page)

Just how serious the situation was became apparent a few minutes later, when Howard Twopenny's show went on the air.

“Folks,” he began, “I think you all know how I feel about charity. I've made myself pretty clear: It's for
losers.
”

Cringing, Andy sank lower in his seat.

Howard continued: “If you still have doubts, go to my website and read a few of the entries in my
world
-famous Charity Is for Losers contest. If you're still not convinced, I have a feeling that today's guests might bring you over to my team. Until very recently, they were at the very top of the list of the most generous people in America. Over the past twenty years, they gave
millions—
tens of millions—to charities of all shapes and sizes. But
no más, amigos.
Both of my guests, along with a number of their formerly generous friends, have turned off the money spigot, and they're here today to tell us about it and to talk some sense into those of you out there who are still intent on giving away your money to losers who can't take care of themselves. Welcome, Mr. Roscoe Mertyn and Ms. Sylvia Langhorne.”

“Thank you, Howard,” said Sylvia.

“Glad to be here,” added Roscoe.

“Let's cut right to the chase. A lot of people are wondering, What happened? Why the sudden change of heart? Ladies first.”

“At some point, it all becomes pointless,” Sylvia said. “You give a million dollars to an organization, and six months later, they're back, asking for more. Nothing ever changes. I'm a very successful person, and I'm not going to apologize for that. Yes, I started out life with a little money, but I've worked hard, and you know what? I like getting results. I'm
used
to it. I simply got tired of feeling that
I
didn't matter. Only my money.”

“But surely you must have done some good, made a few lives better.”

“Perhaps. A few months back, I was listening to bright-eyed eager-to-do-gooders pitch their ideas, clinging to this naïve belief that
their
generation would be the one to wipe out poverty and corruption and suffering and unfairness, and then…something…
happened
to me. I don't want to say it was a bolt from the blue, but it happened almost that fast. One morning, I woke up and I knew that I had donated my last dollar.”

“How about you, Roscoe?” asked Howard. “Similar experience?”

“I've never quit at anything in my life, but the fact is, this is a battle we
can't
win. It's impossible, like a high school basketball team trying to beat the Los Angeles Lakers. At some point, it becomes useless even to try. So I decided to sit this game out, so to speak.”

Silas, listening in the van, cringed as he listened to Roscoe and Sylvia. Despite what they were saying, he still felt sorry for them, because he knew that it wasn't real; they had been manipulated, possibly genetically altered. As he began to wonder if the process was reversible, the show took an interesting turn.

“Before any of you liberal dingbats call in and accuse me of telling only one side of the story, let me bring on my next guest, Mr. Sawyer Neale the Fourth. Is that right? The
Fourth
?”

Winter's father, who had been waiting in the greenroom, sprang into the studio, shaking hands and smiling like a politician. “Thanks for having me on, Howard. My wife is a big fan.”

“But not you, I'll bet,” said Howard, grinning.

“I think you're very…entertaining,” Sawyer said.

“Ah, a diplomat. Fair enough. Well, you've been listening to what Roscoe and Sylvia have to say about charity—what do you think? Let's see, my producer wrote down some figures here….According to public records, your foundation gave away about seventy-five million last year. Will you be joining these two on the sidelines?”

“No, I won't, Howard,” said Sawyer. “Look, I can sympathize with Roscoe and Sylvia, feeling that it's all uphill, all the time, but that's no reason to quit. My daughter mocks me mercilessly, says I'm a hopeless optimist. I can live with that. She also complains about the service requirements at her school, but you know what? It's good for her to see firsthand how people who aren't as fortunate as her live.”

“Oh, goody,” said Howard. “
Service.
The big lie. I'm so glad you brought that up. As far as I'm concerned, it's a modern-day plague. Forcing kids to work for free. And then you have these rich celebrities, like this Jellybean person—”

If there had been a post nearby, Andy would have banged his head against it. Part of him wanted to jump up and shout (for the hundredth time), “It's
Jellyby
!” but instead he laughed out loud, quickly covering his mouth. That wasn't his dad up there blustering into his microphone—it was Howard Twopenny, star of the highest-rated radio talk show in America.

“It's sad to see,” chimed in Sylvia. “Their hearts are in the right place, I suppose, but it's all very misguided. I think that instead of requiring and encouraging service, the leaders of these schools should be requiring kids to find paying jobs so they can really understand how the system is
supposed
to work. I doubt that Miss Jellyby has ever worked a day in her life.”

“I'm sure you're right,” said Howard. “But we need to take a break for the news. You're listening to Howard Twopenny tellin' it like it is. And we will be back in exactly five minutes.”

Andy was on his feet, being waved into the studio by Howard.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in school? With what that place charges, you should be there seven days a week. And you have Penny with you.”

Penny looked up into Andy's eyes at the mention of her name. Being in a tight space with two Syngians was making her a bit jumpy, so Andy pulled her close to him, slipping his fingers under her collar in case she decided that she'd had enough of Roscoe Mertyn and Sylvia Langhorne.

“It's a, um, a special service day. I was on my way down to the Twenty-First Street Mission, but I was early, so I figured I would stop by and see the studio. And you.”

Howard clapped him on the back. “Well, I'm glad you did. Everyone, this is my kid.”

“Nice to see you again, Andy,” said Sawyer.

“You two know each other?” asked Howard, flabbergasted.

“Our kids are friends. Winter is at Wellbourne, too.”

“You met her, Dad. She took a selfie with you. Now, can I say something about Karina Jellyby?” Andy asked. “She worked
lots
of real jobs. She's not from a rich family at all.” He knew all the details of her bio, including where she worked (Canavale's Pizza) when she was at Wellbourne, and he wasn't afraid to use them.

“How do you know so much about her?” Howard asked.

“I know her,” said Andy. “I met her at school. She went to Wellbourne. We just interviewed her.”

“Well, la-di-da,” Howard said. “So you met one celebrity. Oh, God. Don't tell me that you won tickets to her concert. It's bad enough that you're even taking part in this ridiculous Warm Up America project; please don't humiliate me any further by being really
good
at it.”

“What are you
talking
about? Warm Up America?”

“You know, that whole two-hours-a-week nonsense. Heat Up America? Is that it?”

“Not even close. It's Operation THAW, Dad.”

“Oh, I wasn't that far off. I knew it had something to do with that global-warming silliness.”

“Actually, it doesn't.
Thaw
.
T-H-A-W.
It stands for Two Hours a Week
.
Oh, and by the way, we're
both
going to the concert. Mom, too, if she's home by then.”

Howard held a cupped hand up to his ear. “I'm sorry, it sounded like you said that I'm going to the Jellybean concert.”

“That's a good one, Dad. You're going. Winter—Mr. Neale's daughter—told Karina that you're my dad, and she told me to invite you to the concert.”

“I think I'm busy that night.”

“I haven't told you when it is yet.”

Sawyer, who had been watching with an amused expression, chuckled. “I think he's got your number, Howard. Looks like you're going to a concert. Don't forget your earplugs.”

“Karina doesn't care what you say about her or her music. She just wants you to see and listen to the kids who won the contest. They're
amazing.
They make
me
feel like such a slacker. Anyway, if you're serious, it's Friday night. There will be two tickets waiting for you. You should take Mom.”

“I think you should go, Howard,” said Roscoe, piling on. “It'll be good for a laugh, if nothing else. And you can't beat the price.”

Howard threw his arms up in mock surrender. “All right, I'm outnumbered. You win. Tell the Jelly Bear that I'll be there. Just don't expect me to break down in tears when I hear some little bleeding heart tell the story about how reading books to the deaf or finger-painting with blind kids has changed her life.”

“I think you got that backward, Dad,” said Andy.

With just two days to the concert at Wellbourne, Silas felt the pressure increasing and went to the Loom to do some serious research. Though he was desperate for sleep, he didn't dare close his eyes until he had answers to some of the questions that had been tormenting him, which he had scribbled on the whiteboard above his desk.

What happened at the Halestrom Conference?

What do those 3-D images have to do with the process that NTRP is using?

Why
wasn't
Ilene Porter affected? Who killed her? Why?

Meaning of “cotwo delivery” in message to Winter?

Who is St. John de Spere, really?

Why does he look familiar?

While he stared at the board and mumbled to himself, Mrs. Cardigan, knitting a burgundy-and-cream sock, entered the Loom. One step behind was Reza Benali, her head covered with her traditional hijab. Originally from Morocco, she had earned several advanced degrees in computer science and designed the systems in the Loom. Her dark, intense eyes seemed to light up whenever she entered that secret world. She loved it there.

“Let's start with Halestrom,” said Mrs. Cardigan, glancing at Silas's questions. “Let's take another look at the Huntley girl's notes and see if we can sort out what went on.”

“Here's exactly what Ilene Porter said about it.” Silas read aloud from the transcript of Jensen's interview with her: “ ‘It must have been a malfunction. The images just started flashing, hundreds of them, going by too fast…in this incredible three-dimensional world. Made me a bit dizzy. I had to look away, and that's when I noticed…everyone else was…captivated, as if they couldn't bear to take their eyes off any of it.' ”

“Sounds like subliminal messages,” Reza said. “An attack on the subconscious. There's a reason they're illegal in advertising.”

“There has to be more to it than that,” said Mrs. Cardigan. “Subliminal messages can be powerful, certainly, but these people have undergone some kind of chemical change, not merely a psychological one. There must be another aspect to the process, something we're missing. A drug? Electrical shock? And what about video? Is it even conceivable in this day and age that there is no recording of the event? Silas, why don't you start with that?”

“If it's here, I'll find it,” said Silas, drifting off to the opposite side of the room.

Mrs. Cardigan looked over Reza's shoulder at the whiteboard and pointed at the fifth question written there:
Who is St. John de Spere, really?
“Let's you and I take a stab at this one. Something tells me that once we know the
answer,
the others will unravel themselves.”

“Like a wool sock?”

“Certainly not one that
I
made, but, yes, that's the idea. Now tell me about this program that you and Martin are so excited about. Does it have a name?”

Reza leaned in close. “Officially, no. In fact, there are only a handful of people in the world who even know it exists. Unofficially, it's called Otis.”

“Is that an acronym?”

“No, it was the name of the creator's dog—a beagle. The idea is that the program is like a hound that's on the scent of something and won't give up until it finds it. We upload every photograph of this guy that we have, and Otis searches every nook and cranny of the Internet: library collections, newspaper and television archives, private collections, just about anyplace you can imagine—a lot of places that Google and other search engines have no access to.”

“All
legal
places?” Mrs. Cardigan asked. “We don't want to open
that
can of worms.”

“Absolutely. Everything it finds will have been part of a public record somewhere, at some time. That's the other beautiful thing about Otis—it also creates its own age progression photos. Say, for example, that all of the photos we have are from twenty years ago. Otis will take all the information and create accurate images of how the person looks now. That way, it can search more accurately. It works the other way, too. If I take a picture of you and upload it, the program will determine how you looked at every age and will look for matching pictures.”

“Is it ready for its debut?”

“Almost…uploading the last of the photos right now. There, it's searching.”

“How long does…Otis…usually take?”

“Could be a few minutes, could be a few days. Depends on how much is out there and where it is.”

“Well, we don't have a few days, so talk nice to it or something. Offer it a juicy bone if it hurries. In the meantime, we should have tea.”

Three hours and two pots of Lapsang souchong later, a single thread appeared, and the edges of the mystery began to fray.

“Mrs. Cardigan, take a look at this,” said Reza, pointing at an image of a grainy photograph. “This is from the Grootman College newspaper, twenty years ago. The caption reads, ‘Professor Roger Bursten presents award to Grootman students.' That's Oxford, right?”

Mrs. Cardigan squinted at the picture, trying to make it appear clearly, but her eyes weren't the problem—the picture was decidedly fuzzy, the men's faces obscured by shadows and smudges. “Cambridge,” she said, her voice distant and dreamlike. “Not Oxford. How on earth did Otis find this?”

“What is it? Do you know about this?”

Across the room, Silas looked up from the screen he'd been staring at for hours. When he saw the look in Mrs. Cardigan's eyes, he rushed around the table to see the photograph.

“Oh…my. Now I see him,” said Reza. “That's really him, isn't it?”

Without taking her eyes off the picture, Mrs. Cardigan nodded.

“Is someone going to tell me what's going on?” said Silas. “Who are these people?”

“Read, starting
here,
” Mrs. Cardigan said, sitting back in her seat. “Aloud.”

Silas read: “ ‘A team of three Grootman College graduate students received a grant of £100,000 from the National Science Fund to continue their research on the topic of permanently altering human behavior through manipulation of a person's DNA. According to Corinne Apfeldt, one of the recipients of the grant, criminal behavior can become a thing of the past. “With the proper mix of chemical and environmental stimulation,” she said, “we can change the fundamental way a person thinks, their very nature. And this is just the beginning
.
” Added Yuri Yevgenev, another recipient: “It truly is a brave new world.” ' ”

Silas looked puzzled. “I don't get it. How is this helpful? This sounds like the anti-NTRP. Is that it? Did they do something to stop this research?”

“Not exactly,” said Mrs. Cardigan. “The article mentions Corinne Apfeldt and Yuri Yevgenev. Does it give the name of the third student?”

Silas scanned the rest of the article. “Ah, here it is. But I'm betting that you already know his name, don't you?”

“James Thorneside,” Mrs. Cardigan answered softly. “I haven't said that name aloud for a long, long time. You know him as St. John de Spere. They're the same person, I'm afraid.”

Silas scrutinized the identified face in the photograph. “You're sure this is him? This picture is not exactly clear.”

“I'm positive,” said Mrs. Cardigan.

“You knew him…when he was Thorneside?”

“I knew
of
him. I never met him. And no one I'm aware of has seen him in twenty years. I was under the assumption that he was probably dead. Only because he has been so quiet for so long. The other option didn't make sense.”

“Other option?”

“The possibility that he was living in the suburbs with a wife, two and a half kids, and a beige minivan,” said Mrs. Cardigan.

“So…what happened?” Silas asked. “Why did he disappear? And change his name? Was he in some kind of trouble?”

“You could say that. Six months after that picture was taken, Corinne Apfeldt was dead and the other two had been arrested. There was an incident at the college…in the science labs. Hundreds of lab rats and dozens of other animals—and Miss Apfeldt—were killed when an experiment went wrong. Something involving the release of a gas that was intended to alter their behavior. The three had broken into the lab to conduct the experiment because their advisor had forbidden them to go forward with it. She said it was too dangerous, too untested.”

Reza clicked on a link to a London newspaper. “Here's a follow-up story, from a few days after the incident at Grootman. It was ruled a tragic accident. The charges against Thorneside and Yevgenev were dropped, but they were both expelled from the university. That seems…crazy. A young woman dies, along with hundreds of animals, and their only punishment is that they got
expelled
? Who did they know?”

Mrs. Cardigan swallowed the last of her tea. “A better question is, What madness has he been up to for the past twenty years?”