Curioddity (32 page)

Wil studied the screen, where a series of instructions appeared on the correct procedures for rigging and reprogramming the Mark Twelve Series of Industricorp Elevators. (It did not escape his attention that the author of these valuable instructions had uploaded them from Korea, but he chose to ignore this more-than-likely-irrelevant fact.) Wil looked up at the elevator door to be greeted with Industricorp's jaunty corporate logo, which looked suspiciously like that belonging to the people who owned Mug O' Joe's coffee shops. Things were beginning to come together, much like two planetoids might crash in the asteroid belt to form a loud explosion and a pile of tumbling space rocks. He dutifully placed a single paper clip inside the elevator button, and affixed it with some of the blue clay. Following this, he squirted some of the spray bottle's contents into the crevice, and he was only mildly surprised when sparks shot up his arm and gave him a minor electric shock. Moments later, the elevator doors rolled open, and the way to the penthouse floor beckoned like a vampire floating outside the window of a blood bank. Lucy mouthed the word “wow” silently, and stepped inside. Wil rolled his eyes to the heavens and followed her.

Inside the elevator, the stench of rat vomit threatened to overwhelm the senses. Lucy blinked through tears. “What the heck is that smell?” she said, clutching at her nose.

“Hang tight,” replied Wil. “I'm told you get used to it by the time you've been here for twenty years or so.”

Following SARA's instructions, Wil quickly depressed the buttons for every floor of the building, then jammed his second paper clip behind the topmost illuminated button. He wrapped the second clip with copper wire, as instructed. Then, he wrapped the wire around the nonconductive lollipop and fastened this entire contraption to the wall with more of the blue clay. The elevator doors closed, ominously. The elevator, however, remained motionless.

“It's not working,” complained Wil. “SARA? Any ideas?”

“
Please inflate the vacuum bag,
” replied SARA, “
then press the button for the penthouse level.
”

Wil looked at the vacuum bag, not liking one little bit where this was going. “Okay, why am I doing this again?”

“
Please inflate vacuum bag, as instructed.
”

“Better do as she says, Wil,” said Lucy. “And please hurry. I think I'm going to faint.”

“Okay, fine. Just don't encourage her.” Wil inflated the bag as best he could, and was thoroughly winded by the time the deed was done. Closing his watering eyes, he reached for the button to the top floor. Suddenly, a massive jolt of electricity moved through his upper arms. A Tesla-style lightning effect played around his fillings, and the vacuum bag popped, loudly. Then, silence.

And suddenly, the elevator jolted upward. Wil opened his eyes to find a slightly amused Lucy Price trying her best not to be unsupportive.

“That was pretty impressive,” said Lucy in an understated fashion. “I'm glad it wasn't me.”

“Impressive?” said Wil, angrily. “I could have been killed!” he pulled the smartphone from his pocket to find the screen blank. “SARA, don't you even think about hiding right now. Did you know I was going to get an electric shock?”

The smartphone seemed to ponder for a second. Then, the screen glowed.

“
Apologies, Wil Morgan,
” replied SARA in a carefully measured tone, “
but choices were limited given your lack of a military helicopter. Your recent exposure to levity-conducting plasma ropes in the Curioddity Museum lobby lowered your risk of fatal shock by twenty-seven percent, with a two percent margin for error. Would you like me to look up ‘shock therapy' on the Internet?
”

Lucy suddenly burst into a fit of little giggles. Wil looked at her in horror. “She almost killed me!” he whined.

“Yeah, but it got us moving.”

“Aren't you in the least bit concerned?”

“Aw, poor little soldier. You're okay, aren't you?”

“Well, yes.”

“Good. The quicker we get up, the quicker we can get out of this elevator. It smells like stomach acid in here.” Despite her watering eyes and against the advice of her gag reflex, Lucy looked impressed. “I guess SARA's messages aren't just limited to texts and voice mails.”

Wil held up the glowing screen of the phone, barely able to believe the notion that SARA had intended to make some kind of artificially intelligent point. And then, despite his better judgment, he began to stifle a chuckle, which became a giggle, and evolved into a guffaw.

And to the sound of uproarious hilarity, the Rat Vomit Comet made its way up to the penthouse floor, and almost certain death at the hands of an overzealous ninja-bot.

*   *   *

A
T THE
top of the building, ninja-bots were nowhere to be seen. Instead, a rather surprised-looking secretary lifted her head from her latest hairdressing magazine to find two slightly red-faced intruders standing in front of her, coughing and spluttering. One of them seemed to be dangling a little wooden watch for reasons the secretary could not fully understand. Neither would she understand (nor pay it any further mind) just three minutes later once she had shown the two intruders to a small storage room, and returned to her position at the front desk. Throughout the course of resulting events, the secretary would vaguely remember being intrigued by mention of a new stylist at the corner of Main Street, and by an exciting pomade product that she felt she just had to purchase online as soon as her Friday paycheck cleared. Little did she realize at the time that small talk regarding hair and makeup products was a subtle form of mental manipulation at the hands of a wooden device known as a Sequitur.

For their part, each of the two intruders resolved to visit a hairdresser at the first opportunity, assuming they were neither killed nor arrested anytime soon. For the moment, they could only huddle inside the storage room and try to formulate the next part of their completely unplanned assault.

“What now?” asked Lucy, questioning the obvious.

“We have to find Marcus James's office. My guess is it'll be in one of the corners.”

“Maybe we can climb around inside the air ducts like that guy did in that movie. That'd be really epic.”

“Okay, first of all, ‘that guy in that movie' got shot about sixty times. And second of all, we don't need to.”

“Why not?” Lucy followed Wil's gaze to an open window, outside of which a fire escape led to the roof above. “What good will it do us being on the roof?” she asked.

Wil held up the Civil War periscope, and widened his eyes.

*   *   *

M
OMENTS LATER,
Wil and Lucy stood atop the roof of the Castle Towers with the periscope extended upward as far as possible. From this vantage point, the floors below their feet could be seen as clear as day. Down below, there appeared to be a certain amount of confusion.

“What do you see?” asked Lucy, impatiently. “Why can't I have a look?”

“It's kind of bulky,” replied Wil. “You'll just have to bear with me.”

“Well, what are they doing down there? Have you found Marcus James's office?”

Wil had indeed found Marcus James's office, and more besides. Inside the office, stacks of new and improved Air-Max 4000 golf clubs waited for their moment. Piled next to them, various other new and improved products such as tubes of toothpaste, fleece throw blankets, waterproof smartphone cases, and rubberized drainpipe fixers begged the question of why their manufacturer hadn't done a better job of making a more robust product the first time around. For his part, Marcus James seemed to be having a moment. He checked his watch frequently as he paced up and down in front of his wall safe, which was protected by two tumbler-style combination locks. Every so often, Marcus would look outside his window at the obnoxious Swiss clock across from his position, and then reset his watch against it. Wil could hardly believe his eyes—surely it could not be this easy? For unless the synchronous nature of this week had all been for nothing, the safe was a virtual lock to contain the missing electricity bill that Mr. Dinsdale so coveted he was prepared to send virtual strangers to their deaths in an attempt to retrieve it. Marcus seemed to be counting down the moments, and his body language seemed to yell,
I am about to be the proud owner of a brand-new wing for my bank on Upside-Down Street, formerly the Curioddity Museum
. Though this was a complex choice of words, Wil supposed Marcus James's silent statement was only natural, given the factious nature of his personality.

As far as Wil could determine, Marcus's television studios were directly adjacent to his offices. It was from here that Marcus perpetuated his monetary assault on the planet in manageable chunks of $19.99. The studios were well lit, and bustling with activity, suggesting that Mr. James was in the process of making ready for his evening session on the Shopping Network. An LED sign positioned above a door at the edge of the studio made it clear that the show was about to go live in exactly fourteen minutes. Upon closer inspection, Wil noticed something slightly odd about the various technicians, grips, and camera operators getting ready for this evening's broadcast.

He passed the periscope to Lucy. “Take a look,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”

For a moment, Lucy stared into the periscope with an eagerness that suggested she very much enjoyed snooping on people from above. Suddenly, her face took on a bewildered expression. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Those guys working the camera: Are those aliens?”

Wil thanked the stars he wasn't the only one who'd noticed. “I think so,” he said. “I think those are the gray ones Mr. Dinsdale was talking about.”

“No, look! The gray ones are the producers. The guys on the cameras are green.” One of the gray aliens looked upward, causing her to drop the periscope with a little yelp of alarm. “I think one of them saw me!”

Wil picked up the device. Much to his relief, the gray alien had found something better to do and was now berating one of the green ones for getting the lighting wrong. Tensions seemed to be running high on set, which Wil supposed was entirely normal from everything he'd heard about Hollywood. He also supposed that Hollywood being full of space aliens hiding in plain sight was probably considered “business as usual.”

“What do you think they're doing here?” asked Lucy.

“Well, does it surprise you that space aliens are behind all the meaningless drivel we're bombarded with? How much of a revelation is it that they've befriended a cosmic frog like Marcus James?” Wil was getting into the swing of the weirdness now. “Maybe he's been betraying our planet, or something. Maybe he sold them all our water.”

“Yeah. Probably,” agreed Lucy, as if the concept were entirely normal. She pointed across the rooftops. “So d'you think they're responsible for what's going on over there?”

Wil looked up from the periscope to find Lucy motioning to the laser atop the giant clock across the street. Of course! It was all beginning to make sense, assuming a person was willing to accept that space aliens, secret laser beams, and the brainwashing of consumers made sense in the first place.

Wil looked back into the scope to find the TV pitchman was on the move again.

“Lucy!” cried Wil. “Keep me steady! He's going back into his offices!”

With the cumbersome periscope extended as far upward as possible, Wil wobbled across the roof, trying to follow Marcus James as he scooted inside his office. Down below, Marcus moved directly to his safe and began to fiddle with the two combination locks.

“What's going on? What's he doing?” asked Lucy.

“He's opening his safe! I can see the combination! Where's the focus on this thing?”

“What does this button do?”

“
The other one!
” called SARA from within Wil's pocket. By now, she had given up any pretense of disinterest and was gamely chiming in whenever a machine's touch was needed. The Whatsit beeped in response. Wil ignored it.

Lucy pressed the second button, and the periscope suddenly zoomed in on Marcus James's hand as he moved the wheel of the first combination lock. “SARA!” called Wil. “Please make a note of these numbers: Thirty-one! Fifty-four! Ninety-seven!”

“
Thirty-one. Fifty-four. Ninety-seven,
” repeated SARA, dutifully.

Marcus James moved to the second combination lock and began to fiddle with it. “Seventy-four! Thirty-four! Thirty-six!” yelled Wil.

“
Seventy-four. Thirty-four. Thirty-six,
” confirmed SARA.

Down below, Marcus James held up the old piece of paper, upon which Wil could faintly make out the legend “Edison Electric Company” and a date of sometime in the early 1890s. Marcus looked around, surreptitiously, and the moment he was certain no one was looking, he kissed the piece of yellowed paper, cackled maniacally, and placed it back inside the safe. He moved over to an open laptop computer on his desk, pressed Send on some electronic missive or other, and looked again at his watch. Wil was willing to admit—albeit grudgingly—that Marcus played the part of a nefarious villain to a T.

Down below, an alarm began to sound. “Ten minutes to broadcast!” came a strident voice over a loudspeaker system, accompanied by a series of very loud alarm signals. In the next room, the gray and green aliens were gearing up for transmission.

Now, the whining sound Wil and Lucy had heard coming from the Swiss clock began to rise in intensity. Suddenly, the huge laser beam quadrupled in size and shot directly upward through the clouds.

“It's a signal!” cried Wil. “They're helping him with his broadcasts! He's probably beaming through the cosmos!”

“You mean aliens play golf and buy fleece blankets?” said Lucy, confused.