Authors: Rob Reid
“So now what?” he finally asked dejectedly. “Is he gonna blow us all up with a photon torpedo?”
I shook my head. “He can’t harm us directly. So he needs to get us to destroy ourselves somehow. And it’s a safe bet he’ll be using the shipment that he booked right after he figured out that I’m not a Guardian.”
“You mean right after I
told
him that,” Pugwash said, perhaps feeling something verging faintly on guilt.
“Well, he was going to learn it from that reality show tomorrow morning anyway,” I said.
“Maybe,” Manda snipped, still irked about the faux suicide. “But we’d be a
lot
better off having until tomorrow morning instead of—what time did you say that damned
shipment’s coming in tonight? Ten-fifteen? That’s barely more than an hour from now!”
Pugwash nodded miserably. “You’re right, we need—” he said nasally, then gasped. “Need to—” he paused, and held his hands out to either side of his torso, like a kid edging onto a balance beam.
Here it comes
, I thought.
Pugwash suddenly reared back his head, then snapped it forward like a rattlesnake, while emitting an explosive, sodden bark. Manda jumped back three feet. The normally unflappable Meowhaus leapt up to an impressively high point on a bookshelf. And I looked around for a tissue. Pugwash’s sneezes had been a source of wonder throughout my childhood. I almost wouldn’t mind being sick myself, since it meant that my brothers and cousins would also be sick, and we’d be entertained for days by these nasal M-80s.
“We need to talk to him,” Pugwash finally said. “Convince him you’re a Guardian after all. I can tell him I made everything up, and say the pictures in the photo album were of some other kid.”
“That sounds like a long shot,” Manda said. “And besides, it’s not like we can just drop in on him.”
“Actually, we can,” I said, pulling the subway map with the directions to the alien base from my pocket.
1.
Rajasthan is heavily represented, which makes the place feel a bit like an Indian restaurant.
2.
From the looks of things, you’d think he spent a Fulbright year in Iran, although it was actually a morning in a Tunisian rug market.
3.
Pictures of Pugwash with decent-looking women and minor celebrities dominate, along with shots of him standing on top of tall things with merry groups of fellow travelers. At least a hundred different people are depicted on his walls, and I’ll bet he hasn’t talked to more than ten of them in the past year.
The directions on the subway
map were very precise. Step one was going to the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, a half dozen blocks north of Grand Central Station. The rain had stopped, and we found a cab quickly. But traffic slowed to a crawl for several blocks around Union Square, and we really should have taken the subway. Once at the Waldorf, we found our way to an unmarked door along a hallway off the lobby. This opened onto a long staircase that led to an industrial maze of bare concrete floors, exposed lightbulbs, and noisy pipes. We followed our directions through about a dozen left and right turns, before getting to a squat metal door that opened onto a pitch-dark staircase.
“Ggggggggggh!”
Meowhaus darted down it fearlessly, then turned around to peer at us. His flashing eyes showed that we only had about twenty steps to descend. Pugwash bombarded them with his “light cannon,” a monster flashlight
that he picked up in Paraguay, right before trekking out to visit some primitive tribe that he hoped to wow with modern technology.
1
“Some people have to do the damnedest things to get laid,” Manda said, setting off down the steps.
“My research in Pahra
khwai
had nothing to do with that,” Pugwash retorted. “It was a sociological experiment.”
“Proving once again that dumbshits with flashlights can look like gods to geniuses, if the geniuses are from the technological past,” Manda said, fingering the tacky necklace that was Özzÿ’s stereopticon in disguise.
Downstairs we found a network of steam tunnels, where our instructions called for several more lefts and rights. At one point we passed a huge black circle that was painted onto the wall, along with three menacing orange triangles. A peeling sign read:
F LOUT SH LT R
. Right after that, we got a big scare when a leviathan roar began somewhere deep in the tunnels, then approached us at a terrifying speed. It was a subway, of course. As it thundered by on the far side of an ancient wall, Pugwash insisted that he could tell it was the uptown 5 train from its distinctive rattling.
After a few more turns, we got to a final metal door that was coated in rust. I forced it open. On the far side, a vintage locomotive loomed. It rested beside an abandoned platform, on a set of tracks that led up around the bend into darkness. A single car was attached to it—an aging behemoth that looked like it was heavily armored. I went to the passenger car’s last door, as directed. It was stubborn but
unlocked, and opened into a sort of rolling conference room. A long, sturdy table sat in the middle of it, surrounded by a dozen heavy, formal chairs. Everything looked decades old—in terms of both style and state of decay. Above it all loomed the Seal of the President of the United States. “Odd place for a cabinet meeting,” I muttered, making my way to the table’s far diagonal corner, where I flipped over a chair as instructed. On its underside I found a small, glowing panel with seven colored buttons. Referring to my directions, I pressed in a quick combination.
A soft ambient light immediately bathed the car in the golden tones of sunset. Moments later, a closet door on the far side of the conference table popped open. “So, it finally happened,” came a friendly voice. “Everyone said there’d never be a human visitor. Never, ever! But I’d always say—sure, there will be. You just have to be patient. And, optimistic!” We all craned our necks, but saw nothing. “Hey, I’m down here.”
Just then, an energetic critter rounded the corner of the table, which loomed several inches over its head. It was a Decapus—a species whose anglicized name is inspired by its ten limbs.
2
When a Decapus walks, its limbs cluster below it and weave slightly, like a group of mingling drunks. All locomotion comes from its digits, which wriggle frenetically and propel it forward. Their muscular torsos are covered in
silky, chestnut-colored fur, and they have the faces and attitudes of relentlessly upbeat squirrels (except when they’re on the clock).
“Bruce is the name,” the Decapus said, raising three limbs to shake hands with each of us at once. “But everyone just calls me The Boss.”
“Big Springsteen fan?” I guessed.
“Who isn’t?” The Boss finished shaking our hands and gave us three thumbs-up signs. “Especially with Jersey being just a couple miles that a way.” A fourth limb pointed directly behind him. “But mainly, they call me The Boss because I’m the foreman here.” A fifth limb pointed toward the closet that he’d just popped out of. “Anyways—my instructions are to give access to anyone who knows the access code, no questions asked.” Limb number six saluted. “So, this way to our little outpost.” He started toward the closet and I smiled. Carly had said that the folks staffing the transmission center were friendly and gentle, and so far, she seemed to be right.
“You know, we’ve waited so long to see a person in person that I can’t help but wonder what you’re doing here,” The Boss continued, as we followed him. “Even though I’m sure it’s none of my business.”
“I don’t mind telling you,” I said. “We were sent to meet with Paulie and Özzÿ.”
It was as if I’d just sucked half the oxygen out of the room. “Oh,” The Boss said, without a trace of enthusiasm. “Them. I guess I should have guessed, I guess. What with you showing up so soon after them, and all.”
So Paulie had already alienated the local team. Bravo. “Between you and me, Boss,” I said, dropping my voice conspiratorially. “We’re, uh … not such big fans of Paulie’s. We just need to have a quick chat with him.”
The Boss’s sunny mood snapped right back into place. “You know something? Don’t tell anybody, but I’m not the biggest fan myself. I mean, anyone coming in from Central is important. Obviously! But we’re all workers and peasants, right? Class unity and all? So you’d think he’d treat his equals as equals. All things being equal.” He opened the door to the closet, which turned out to be a mechanical capsule of some sort.
“So how do you feel about his … project?” I fished.
“Fine, I guess.” The Boss waved us into the capsule, which barely fit us all. “Bringing unlimited energy to the Earth is a good thing. Especially if it frees people up to write more music, like Paulie keeps saying.”
“You’re talking about his plans for the metallicam, right?” The reference to “unlimited energy” almost had to mean this—but I wanted verification. Manda was recording everything on the stereopticon, and we needed all the hard evidence that we could get for Guardian 1138.
“Exactly.” The Boss swung the capsule door shut. “Hold on tight.” We dropped as fast as a sack of lead for a couple of seconds, then slowed to a gentle stop. “Anyways, I’ll take you to see Paulie now. And hey! We’re gonna cut right through the main shop floor. It’s where we’ve been ripping, uploading, and distributing the music since day one. Want a quick tour?”
“If it’s right on the way, why not? But we’re in a hurry.”
The wall in front of us slid open, revealing a long, low-slung room that housed hundreds of vintage turntables and cassette decks sitting on little cabinets. Everything had the boxy lines and fake wood veneer of the Carter era. At least eight Decapuses were clustered around each component, and maybe half were sound asleep.
“When we got here right after the Kotter Moment, the Guardian Council approved a single surface run, so we could grab a bunch of music,” The Boss explained as we took this all in. “There was this Disc-O-Mat store in the main concourse of Grand Central back then. So we triggered a little blackout up there around three in the morning, and swiped all the merchandise. But when we got it down here, we realized we needed something to play all the records and tapes on. And our blackout was almost over! So we ran back up, and grabbed a whole stereo store belonging to this crazy guy called Crazy Eddie.
3
Remember him? Anyways. The gear’s been here ever since.”
“And it all still works?” Pugwash marveled. I’m sure he was wondering how much vintage hi-fi’s could fetch on eBay.
“Probably. But who cares? Your music’s all digital these days,” The Boss said.
“But you still seem to have lots of folks … doing things with the stereos,” Manda pointed out.
The Boss gave her an incredulous look. “
Doing
things? They’re not doing shit—they’re working!”
At the mention of work, the nearby Decapuses opened their mouths and made a noise that sounded like steel claws savaging a chalkboard. After a few jaw-grinding seconds, I started picking out some words. There was “live long,” “pension spiking,” “card check,” and countless hi-ho’s. It
was a work song. The most gloomy, crotchety, lazy-ass work song ever heard this side of Athens.
“So how long has it been since you actually had a new album to encode?” Pugwash asked after the workers shut up.
“Late seventy-eight. We grabbed the Disc-O-Mat that summer, and ran everything through by December.
4
Then we pulled stuff off the radio for maybe twenty years. After that, we switched to the Internet.”
“And these guys still show up and get paid, even though they don’t have anything to do here?” Pugwash was almost indignant about their good fortune (perhaps forgetting that this had been his own de facto arrangement at Google for all those years).
The Boss nodded vehemently. “I’ll bet some of them would show up even if they
did
have stuff to do. Remember, we’re government. Do you have any idea of what our benefits are like?”
Recalling that he was a multimeta-intercultural relativist, Pugwash managed to nod politely. “Yes, I see. It’s quite enriching to learn about this … alien style of hard work.”
“Alien?”
The Boss said. “It’s as human as farting! Haven’t you ever been to the DMV?” By now, we were heading along the main aisle toward a door in the back of the shop.
“And how are the wages?” I asked.
“They’re fine,” The Boss said. “Not that they make up for the isolation of living and working on Earth, right boys?”
The three Decapuses who happened to be awake at the nearest workstation shook their heads lethargically. “The Man is screwing us,” one of them mumbled.
“And not that it makes up for the backbreaking
nature
of the work—right boys?”
Two of the Decapuses shook their heads again (the third had since nodded off).
“And not that it makes up for the dangerous, deadly
dangers
!” The Boss practically yodeled, hitting a revival hall crescendo.
His audience ignored him. One of them had just opened a cassette door, and the other was busy closing it.
“What
dangers
are you talking about?” Manda asked.
“Well …” The Boss was stumped. Then, “Okay. Suppose we stacked up all of these turntables over there.” He waved seven of his limbs as if he was shooing the gear into a corner. “And then the whole pile fell. Right … on your
head
!” He pounded his limbs onto his head, which flattened dramatically for a moment. I tried to picture this, but just couldn’t get past the part where the workers found the gumption to stack up the turntables in the first place.
By then we had reached the far side of the shop floor, and an automatic door slid open onto a bustling warren of tunnels. The main ones were wide enough to allow a dozen Decapuses (or the three of us) to walk shoulder to shoulder, and were lined with eateries, dance halls, and other public spots. All of these places were open to the street (let’s call it that), and were gently lit by a soft, golden gleam that reminded me of candlelight. Tributary tunnels branched off
the main ones at every conceivable angle. These were too narrow for any of us to enter (except Meowhaus), and looked like they led into quieter residential areas, where pools of golden light cascaded from snug little windows.