Year Zero (27 page)

“Well, whatever their plans are, they almost certainly involve metallicam,” Carly said.

The Guardian considered this for moment. “Now
that’s
clever. Metallicam is extremely destabilizing when it’s first synthesized by a civilization. The first nation to do this is often tempted to take over the rest of its world—which leads to planetary annihilation so frequently that it’s practically a cliché.”

“But we don’t have metallicam yet,” I said. “So how can they use it in their scheme? If it shows up on Earth, it’ll be obvious that some outsider’s trying to destroy us, and you’ll …” what was that word he’d just used? “defenestrate them, or something. Right?”

“Not necessarily, I’m afraid,” the Guardian said. “With the Townshend Line down, it’s entirely imaginable that a random, well-intentioned ninny will ship some metallicam to humanity in a misguided attempt to be helpful. Remember, metallicam can also be an unlimited source of clean, free energy. Things like this have in fact happened occasionally over the eons, and the Guild is no doubt aware of that. And in every prior case, the Guardian Council ended up voting not to intervene, on the logic that the society was facing just another test of its ability to handle technology responsibly—even if the circumstances were unusual.”

“But how is that … fair?” I asked.

“Fairness is irrelevant when the universe’s survival is in jeopardy. Which would be the case if we ever let an excessively
violent species become Refined. The package of technologies that are granted to newly Refined species are simply too dangerous. I mean, we have
dental
treatments that could destroy entire galaxies if they fell into the wrong hands.”

“So what’s your job, then?” I asked. “Is it making sure that worthy species become Refined? Or making sure that unworthy species don’t?”

“It’s both,” the Guardian said gently. “And when the two goals conflict, we’re morally obliged to err on the side of keeping unworthy societies out of the club.”

“Okay,” Carly said. “I can see why you can’t make humanity Refined prematurely. But you can at least stop the Guild from endangering them, right?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” the Guardian said. “For now this is all guesswork and hearsay. You have no evidence that the Guild is up to anything. And while I do personally believe you, I’m just one Guardian out of five thousand. I couldn’t even call the Council to session without having some fairly damning proof. And even if I could, you can bet that the Guild would have the best lobbyists and lawyers in the universe on hand to deflect the blame, and promote the idea that the Earth should be left to its own devices with the metallicam, for the safety of all.”

Carly looked at me glumly. “He’s right. If they make it look like the metallicam’s coming in via an anonymous care package, they’ll have a really good chance of getting away with it.”

“So I guess I have to come up with some clear evidence of the Guild’s involvement,” I said.

Carly nodded. “And the place to start is the transmission facility under Grand Central. You have instructions for getting
there. Meanwhile, Frampton and I can work on a way to sabotage the broadcast of tomorrow’s episode of our show. If we can just knock it off the air for a day or two, it’ll give us a lot more time to make something happen with the Council.”

“Sounds great, but how will you do that?”

“I don’t know. I have a couple of vague plans for now. But I need to hammer them out a bit more.”

“Sounds like a good approach,” I said, although I was half lying. We did need more time, and it clearly made sense to fight on multiple fronts. But the last time Carly hammered out one of her vague plans, she ended up destroying the force field that had protected humanity for decades.

“Meanwhile, these might help you, Mr. Carter,” the Guardian said. I heard a tiny clinking, as if a vending machine had just spat out a couple of quarters.

“My
God
.” Carly was pointing at two cheap-looking ZZ Top key chains that were now in the center of the floor. “Are those … Foilers?”

“They are,” the Guardian said. “Only Guardians have access to these devices, Mr. Carter. Carry one, and you cannot be Dislocated. That’s the legal term for Wrinkling somebody against his will. Keep the blue one on your person, so that I can track you. You can give the red one to any collaborator you might have on Earth.”

“Do people get Dislocated a lot?” I asked, pocketing the chintzy-ass things.

“Hardly ever, since only the highest government bodies have the power to Dislocate. But since the Guild largely runs the government, I won’t be surprised if they illicitly issue this power to their operatives on your planet, in hopes of disrupting your actions. That’s why I’m giving you my
Foilers. Only the Guardian Council itself can Dislocate someone who’s carrying one. And even then, only with a formal subpoena. Anyway, the Wrinkle connections back to your planets remain wide open. Mr. Carter, where shall I place you?”

“Can you put me in front of my apartment building if I give you my address?”

“I can put you in your bedroom if you give me your unit number.”

“Perfect,” I said, and told him where to send me.

“Meanwhile, we should get Your Illustriousness’s identity, so that we know where to send any evidence that we might gather against the Guild,” Carly said.

“Guardian 1138 is my formal title.”

“Got it.” Carly turned to me. “Nick, a data connection will open between our planets at eleven thirty-two tonight, your time. Meet us in Warcraft then. That will hopefully give you time to scout out the transmission facility, and for Frampton and me to start working out our plans.”

“Sounds good,” I said, suddenly exhausted.

“Your Wrinkle will proceed in three seconds,” the Guardian announced.

Moments later, everything started sliding away from me as I began my journey home.

Soon I was crouching
on the floor of my bedroom, just as the Guardian had promised. I got up and stretched. The city was dark, and my wall clock read 8:03. For a moment I just stood there, arching my many toes, twisting my neck, and making other fidgety moves. The evening racket of Manhattan that sometimes drives me nuts was as soothing as a spring rain drumming on a rooftop.

Then I remembered the text messages. Pugwash’s demanded the most urgent reply from me:

Stay put and DO NOT BELIEVE A WORD the parrot says he’s dangerous am on my way!

Judy was next on the list. We needed to recruit her to our team—and she had all but disowned me because I’d been AWOL when I was supposed to be finding Milk Bone for our pet senator. So I tapped out a groveling apology, claiming that I had been off organizing some spectacular
treats that Fido would never forget. That done, I walked on down the hall.

Manda threw the door open moments after I knocked, and Meowhaus leapt right up to nuzzle my leg. “Thank God!” Manda said. “I’ve been calling you for hours—where’ve you been?”

“The far side of the universe. Literally. I just got back.” This earned me a pleasingly awestruck look. “I’ll tell you the story in the cab. For now we’ve got to get to my cousin’s place, pronto.” I pulled up his messages and handed her my phone.

“You were getting texts? On the far side of the
universe
?”

I nodded, grabbing a coat for her.

“You obviously don’t have AT&T,” she murmured, glancing through the messages.

Meowhaus wasn’t happy to be left behind. But we had nothing to carry him in, and Manda said it had been raining off and on all night. So we left him in her apartment and walked on down the hall. As we waited for the elevator, I saw that she was wearing a chunky, floral necklace that was glittering with gems that even I could tell were fake—an odd choice for a fashionably understated hipster. “New look?” I asked.

Baffled, she followed my gaze, then laughed and said, “I have a lot to tell you about, too.” She grabbed at the necklace. It melted into her hand, then quickly cohered into the familiar form of Özzÿ’s stereopticon. “I’ve been working with this thing all day, and it’s amazing. It can take the form of about a dozen different necklaces. They’re all tacky as hell. But it records everything that happens in any direction when I wear it around my neck.”

“You’ve really figured that thing out,” I said, as we entered the elevator. “Carly wears hers like that, too.”

“Cool, then I must be doing something right. Now, check this out.” She beamed an image of her kitchen against the elevator’s back wall, home-movie style. “This was recorded while I was walking around my apartment this afternoon. Check out how we can zoom in on anything we want during the playback, with an insane level of detail.” She focused on her kitchen table, zeroing in on a transparent saltshaker. The image zoomed in so close that the individual salt grains soon looked like glassy boulders covering the elevator’s wall. “I can also make a 3D projection out of anything that I have an image of.” She tapped at the stereopticon, and a perfectly rendered saltshaker appeared in midair. “I couldn’t get the projection mode to work outside, because I guess it needs walls to bounce the light off of, or something. But indoors, it’s amazing.”

Soon we were standing across from a new Baby Vuitton store at Second Avenue and Thirty-second Street, getting drenched. The temperature was right around freezing, and I was afraid of the roads getting icy. I gave Manda my rundown on the day as cab after occupied cab zipped by. I was wrapping it up and handing her the extra Foiler that the Guardian had given me when we heard a familiar
gggggggggh!
sound coming from under a rickety, oversized van that kind of looked haunted.

Manda ran up and peered under the van. “Meowhaus?”

I joined her, soaking my pant leg on the curb. And there he was—regally perched on an elevated patch of pavement that was surrounded on all sides by water flowing toward the gutter. It was hard to be sure, but he looked perfectly dry. He gave us two of his impeccable
meow’s
, threw in a
gggggggggh!
, then started calmly grooming his left arm.

“How’d he get down
here
?” I asked.

“Fire escape?”

Normally I’d laugh that off. But if Meowhaus had in fact popped open the window, shot down the fire escape, and dodged every raindrop en route to that isolated dry patch beneath the van, it would have been one of the less weird things to happen that day.

“We need to get him out of the rain,” Manda said worriedly.

“I actually think he could teach us some profound lessons about staying out of the rain ourselves.”

“Maybe. But—hey, look!” She had spotted a taxi coming toward us on Thirty-second. The car number on its roof was lit up, marking it as available.

“I’m on it.” I splashed out to the street. The cab was still a half block away, and I trotted toward it, waving madly. Our stretch of Thirty-second was deserted, so there was no competition. But the driver flashed his Off Duty light the moment he saw me. He knew I’d bring buckets of water in with me, and wanted to keep his cab dry for people waiting under awnings (where the real tips would be, assuming a correlation between common sense and earning power). Just as I was about to flip him off and curse impotently, he slammed his brakes, and skidded to a stop just short of me. Through the windshield I could see him looking up in pop-eyed horror, his face awash in a pale white glow. Screaming like a doomed B-movie extra, he pointed a trembling finger upward. I looked over my shoulder. A ghostly, three-story saltshaker was blockading the street.

“Get in the cab before he takes off,” I said, flinging open the door. Manda slid right in, followed by a flying wad of mottled fur that made a faint
gggggggggh!
sound as it soared by. I slid in right behind Meowhaus, and slammed the door.
The stereopticon continued to project a faint, flickering saltshaker into the street until Manda shut it off.

“Raindrops,” she whispered. “It didn’t work outside at all earlier. But I had a feeling the raindrops might help. Like when nightclubs use fog machines to make light beams stand out.”

“That is what?” the terrified driver asked her, staring at the alien device.

“You mean this … flash? Light?” Although talented in many ways, Manda’s a dismal liar.

“America good!” the driver said obsequiously, apparently confusing us for government operatives, and the stereopticon for a potent cloak-and-dagger tool.

Manda pressed it to her neck and it formed right into that necklace—which didn’t help the driver’s state of mind one bit. I gave him Pugwash’s address, hoping he’d get us there without flying into a panic.

As we started to roll, the driver muttered into his cellphone in a language that had a spectacular density of consonants. After listening intently for a few seconds, he turned to me. “North Vietnam?” He shook his head derisively. “Very, very bad.” He listened some more, then denounced Brezhnev. Apparently someone on the other end was now mining an old history book for statements that he could use to prove his loyalty to the secret agents in his cab.

After sitting through heated condemnations of Kaiser Wilhelm, the Mexican troops at the Alamo, and King George III, I pulled up a picture of Pugwash on my phone and showed it to Manda. “This is my cousin, by the way.”

“Ohhhhh. He’s the guy I kind of hate, right?”

I nodded. Several weeks back, Pugwash had used the Phluttr service to ambush me while she and I were out having
drinks. I was lucky to get Manda to myself once a month, and was savoring the occasion—when suddenly Pugwash was slithering onto a stool that had miraculously opened up right next to her after I’d stood there for an hour, wondering how I’d ever casually touch my shin to Manda’s while she was seated and I was not. It turns out that Pugwash has Phluttr tweet him whenever FourSquare flags one of his Facebook friends within eight blocks of him at a Zagat-rated bar that has at least three stars on Yelp, and has not been tagged as “long line at door” in the past hour by other Phluttr’rs
¹
—and I’d hit the tripwire.