Year Zero

by Rob Reid

  “I’ve seen a lot of American music videos,” he said bashfully, lapping up the rare praise.

  “Well, you really learned from them. I mean, this is amazing, I’m honestly feeling nauseous. Nick? How are you handling this?”

  “It’s the most glorious place I’ve ever seen,” I said in a minuscule voice. I was saving every ounce of my energy to revel in the splendor before me.

  I soon realized that the room was illuminated by a natural golden glow that was radiating from an immense window. I approached it and beheld the city that I had glimpsed from the Wrinkle’s chaos. We were at the pinnacle of a vast building that floated miles above the ground. It was surrounded by thousands of other massive structures—some floating, others freestanding. Each building soared, stretched, inverted, and arched as if it were spun from living gossamer and suspended in zero gravity. And all of the buildings moved in a slow, majestic, ingeniously synchronized dance. As they flowed through their motions, their reflections, lights, and shadows interplayed, causing sublime new patterns to emerge across the face of the city every few seconds. It was as if hyperintelligent counterparts of Frank Gehry, Alex Calder, Dr. Seuss, and Martha Graham had gotten together, dropped a load of acid, and hit the drafting boards.

  “What do you call this place?” I asked in my minuscule voice—still preserving energy for ongoing rapture.

  “Paradise City,” Frampton said.

  “Paradise—as in, where The Good go after death?” I asked. This made unimpeachable sense.

  “No. Paradise City, as in track six of the first Guns N’ Roses album.”

  “This city’s an arts center,” Carly said. “We built it on rock ’n’ roll. What do you think of it?”

  “It’s … it’s … it’s beautiful!” I said. More lyrical, or poetically adequate, words simply eluded me.

  I’m not sure what response I expected to this. Softly murmured assent, or some reverential silence would have been nice. Instead I got a gale of guffaws that belonged in a truck stop. Frampton sounded like he was gagging on snot, as Carly leaned on a chair for support, verging on a seizure. “It’s … it’s … it’s byooooo-tiful!” she squeaked in a cartoon falsetto, and she and Frampton lost it all over again.

  “Seriously,” Frampton said, after struggling for several seconds to regain control. “That’s Paradise City. You wouldn’t find a tackier place if you … if you … looked really, really hard!” This devastating salvo brought on another round of hysterics.

  Once he calmed down, Frampton removed the chunky diver’s watch that he always wears. I watched in amazement as it drained of color and reshaped itself into a translucent lump.

  “Is that a stereopticon?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Have you seen one before?”

  “Özzÿ used one when he visited us in my apartment,” I said. I didn’t mention that we still had the device in our possession. I was annoyed that Carly was stonewalling me about the program they were working for, so I didn’t feel like revealing every last card in my own hand just yet.

  “Most Refined beings have one on them at all times,” Carly said, clasping her bulky, medieval cross. It oozed and melted into the same shape. She pressed it back against her neck, and it re-formed into the crucifix. “They’re like a cross between a computer, a phone, a 3D recorder, and a lot more. By the way, put your phone on that table.”

  I did as she asked. It immediately levitated, then disintegrated into a familiar shower of green sparks. An instant later it reappeared on the table. Carly’s crucifix glimmered softly throughout this, and I realized that the telekinetic display that had cowed me in my office was actually an ingenious optical illusion projected by her stereopticon. I thought of Manda, and her idea of using our stereopticon to recruit Judy to our cause—and decided that it was brilliant after all.

  Frampton was meanwhile gazing at an information display that his stereopticon was projecting about a foot from his face. “Dad’s on the far side of the planet. Should we contact him?”

  Carly let off an exasperated sigh. “What did I tell you about the security of the datalinks on this planet?”

  Frampton thought hard. “Nonexistent, right?”

  Carly nodded wearily. “How are the Wrinkle connections?”

  Frampton consulted his data readout. “Totally booked out. Air and space traffic slots are bad, too. The best way to the other side of the planet is a dropway.”

  “Call an omnicab,” Carly commanded. She turned to me. “We’re going to travel by a physical route, since the Wrinkles are booked out. Frampton just ordered a vehicle, and it’ll be here soon. You mentioned that you were afraid of heights, didn’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, I wouldn’t really say ‘afraid.’ ”1

  “Excellent,” Carly said, with a puckish grin that I didn’t like one bit.

  Frampton was meanwhile launching a series of projections from his stereopticon. It was a procession of flawless 3D renderings of common animals and objects, including shoelaces, praying mantises, fire hydrants, cats, KFC-branded “sporks,” bedbugs, freeway on-ramps, and hundreds of other things.

  “Refined life is so abundant and diverse that many different species of it can blend in seamlessly on any given planet,” Carly explained. “Frampton’s cycling through all the Refined species that resemble things on Earth. They’d be the beings to choose from if someone wanted to infiltrate your society.”

  “Shoelaces?” I asked no one in particular, looking gravely at my Cole Haan’s.

  “There’s about a thousand Refined look-alike species for Earth,” Frampton said, “including some birds.” He quickly produced a little feathered police lineup—a 3D tableau that included several species of bird, including a dead ringer for the parrot I had met at Eatiary.

  I pointed at it. “That’s the species.”

  Frampton expanded the projection of the parrot and started getting excited. “I—I think I know exactly who visited you.”

  “Seriously?” Carly turned to me. “He has his weaknesses, but my brother never forgets a face.”

  Frampton checked something else on his stereopticon. “One of these guys used to be really famous. As in, he was on Aural Sculptures.”

  I gave him a puzzled look.

  “It used to be the universe’s most popular entertainment program.”

  “It featured all of the greatest musicians,” Carly added. “The Kotter Moment was the death of it.”

  “Bingo,” Frampton said, looking at another data display. He made a flicking gesture, and a member of the yellow parrot–like species appeared in the middle of the room, standing next to an orange, pus-oozing lizard. The lizard had five bloodshot eyes mounted on stalks that bristled with metallic thorns. Frampton pointed at the parrot. “This guy’s Exalted name is Paulie Stardust. So he’s the one you saw at the restaurant.”

  “And who’s the heartbreaker?” I asked, pointing at the orange grotesque.

  Carly smiled, almost sweetly. “That’s Mllsh-mllsh, the show’s host.”

  “This episode ran in the year 2 PK,” Frampton added. Seeing my blank look, he added “Pre-Kotter.”

  “A law passed shortly after the Kotter Moment requires that all dates be expressed in Pre- and Post-Kotter terms,” Carly explained.2

  Frampton made another flicking gesture, and the static images came to life. Now, I’ve never heard a rabid hyena shriek from rectal acid burns. But I’ll bet that sounds a lot like Mllsh-mllsh introducing a guest.

  Carly and Frampton nudged each other and grinned nostalgically as he spoke. “His lisp was so cute,” Carly murmured.

  Soon the bird was singing. And if this sound could be weaponized, its destructive power would put it somewhere between chemical and biological warheads.3 Frampton and Carly shut their eyes and nodded along, adoringly.

  “STOP IT,” I yelped when I couldn’t take it anymore. Frampton paused the playback and gave me a hurt look. “Could we, uh—get back to talking about the Earth?”

  “Rig
ht,” Carly said reluctantly. “So, your visitor is an angelic singer.”

  “Angelic? Him?” I must have had a pint of blood gushing through my ear canals thanks to his caterwauling.

  “God, yes!” Frampton said. “Didn’t you hear his timbre? Or those syncopated glottal stops?”

  “Or the polyrhythms?” Carly asked. “His melodic subtlety, or—”

  “All right, all right—I get the point. He’s got a golden throat, and makes a living from music.”

  Frampton shook his head. “You mean made a living from music.”

  “Humanity’s emergence made all Refined musicians completely irrelevant,” Carly said. “Glorious as it is, their collective output isn’t worth a Shaun Cassidy B-side.”

  “So they must be pissed.”

  Carly nodded. “They’re the only Refined beings that feel anything other than complete adoration for humanity. And even most of them don’t mind you, because they love your music as much as anyone. But there are some bitter ex-singers out there.”

  “And this guy’s one of them,” Frampton said, consulting another data readout. “His career was just taking off around the time of the Kotter Moment. He was so mad at the universe that he ran off and joined the Guild’s Enforcement Brigade.”

  Carly gave a low whistle. “Refined beings tend to be … rather docile,” she explained. “Only the most powerful organizations dare to bend the rules even slightly. The Guild is one of them—and their Enforcement Brigade is the closest thing we have to the Hells Angels. I wonder if his partner has a similar history. What does he look like again?”

  “A vacuum cleaner with hands,” I said.

  Frampton found Özzÿ’s race on his stereopticon. “Whoa,” he said, “this species is made of metallicam! And it’s the only metallicam species that can blend in on Earth.”

  “So this is a very carefully chosen pair,” Carly said. “We have a human-hating ex-singer, and a metallicam being. Both of whom can fit in somewhat on Earth. And let me guess—Paulie’s the boss, and Özzÿ’s an ass-kissing pushover.”

  I nodded. “Definitely. But how’d you know?”

  “With no personal grudge against your race, Özzÿ is probably as gaga about humans as anyone else,” Carly explained. “So the Guild needed to send someone Paulie could manipulate and brainwash.”

  “Makes sense. So what’re they going to do?” I asked.

  “Something with metallicam,” Carly said. “That’s why you hire metallicam beings—because they can handle it safely. They’re too thick to do much of anything else.”

  “And metallicam’s both an energy source and a weapon, right?”

  Carly nodded. “In its raw form, yes—it’s kind of like uranium, or plutonium, only far more powerful. When it’s integrated into a living being in its organic form, as with Özzÿ, it’s no more dangerous than carbon or oxygen.”

  “So do you think they’ll hit us with … a metallicam missile?”

  Carly shook her head. “They need to do something much more subtle. Remember, it’s illegal to harm a primitive society. So they have to make it look like you’ve done yourselves in.”

  “Right, but how would metallicam play into that?”

  “It would completely destabilize your geopolitical system if anyone gained access to it,” she explained. “Energy supplies, balance of power—all of that would change, which could easily trigger wars. So maybe they’ll give it to Pakistan, or something. The program that we work for has … considered this scenario on a broad level. But we haven’t fully fleshed it out yet. So I’m not entirely sure how it might unfold.”

  Ah, the mysterious program again. I forced myself to sound less snippy in discussing it this time. “I assume you can’t tell me about your program because it’s top secret.”

  “Oh, it isn’t secret,” Frampton tittered.

  Carly glared at her brother. “Yes, it’s … very much out in the open. But the public doesn’t know about the internal work that’s done by our researchers.”

  “You mean your spies?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Our spies. Frampton and I are privy to their research. They recently uncovered the truth about the Townshend Line. And then another team with the program … predicted that one of several powerful organizations might try to engineer your self-destruction. That’s why we came to New York—to try to settle the debt, so that nobody would have any reason to harm you.”

  “Then why are you so shocked that the Guild is already on Earth?” I asked. “It seems like you should’ve expected them to be here.”

  “We did. Only not this soon. The secret about the Townshend Line hasn’t broken yet.”

  “Well, who knows the secret besides you?”

  “Only a very, very high-ranking group of beings,” Carly said. “Have you ever heard of the Guardians?”

  I nodded. “I have. In fact, for some reason, Özzÿ and Paulie think that I might be a Guardian.”

  Carly gave me a stunned look. “But Guardians are wise, and dignified, and cosmopolitan. Haven’t these creatures met you?”

  “Yes. They’ve met me. As I told you. And they think I might be a Guardian because they know that somebody crossed the universe last night, just to pop into my office and pretend to disintegrate my iPhone.”

  Frampton caught his breath. “Seriously? Who?”

  Carly glared at him. “Well, keep them fooled, because they won’t do anything as long as they think a Guardian is watching them. That’s your planet’s sole defense for now, because the Townshend Line obviously can’t protect it.”

  “Well, luckily, I might have come up with something else that can,” I said, eager to share my other big news.

  “I doubt it,” Carly said. “But let’s hear it anyway.”

  “Okay. Let me start with a couple of questions. Have you ever heard of a treaty called the Berne Convention?”

  Carly gave an oddly noncommittal shrug.

  “It’s an international accord governing copyright enforcement on Earth,” I continued. “So in light of that, is there any possibility—even a remote one—that the Refined League might have signed it?”

  “Of course not,” she snorted.

  “Excellent. Next question. According to the Refined League, what legal system has precedence on the Earth itself? Our own laws and agreements, like the Berne Convention? Or Refined laws?”

  “Your own laws,” Carly said. “The autonomy of primitive societies is sacrosanct in all matters, particularly legal ones.”

  “Great,” I said. “So everyone agrees that the Berne Convention is the law of the land here on Earth. And meanwhile, the Indigenous Arts Doctrine requires the Refined League to honor humanity’s laws, rules, and norms as they pertain to humanity’s own artistic output. Correct?”

  Carly rolled her eyes. “Of course. That’s what the Indigenous Arts Doctrine is.”

  “So then what if our laws actually say … that our rules don’t apply to you? Wouldn’t your doctrine require you to respect our right to hold our own laws null and void in relation to you?”

  “Of course,” Carly said. “But the Copyright Damages Improvement Act doesn’t seem to provide an exemption for alien civilizations, now, does it?”

  I shook my head. “No. But it doesn’t have to. Because my society doesn’t claim any restitution for acts of piracy that occur outside of the nations that have signed the Berne Convention. Seriously. So as far as our laws, rules, and norms are concerned, you can copy as many of our songs as you want to on your own planets, and never incur a fine.”

  “I see,” Carly said. “So the fine only applies if we make allegedly pirated songs on the territory of a signatory nation?”

  I nodded smugly. “You got it.”

  “Which means countries like the United States?”

  “Yep.”

  “Which means cities like New York?”

  “Well, yes. New York being located in the United States and all.”

  “Which means places like th
e train stations and tunnels beneath New York?”

  “Sure. Don’t, uh … go pirating any music down there.”

  “Well, oops,” Carly said. “It turns out that every copy of every human song that the universe is listening to right now was made right under Track Sixty-one of Grand Central Station.”

  I was briefly mute as the absurdity of this sunk in. Finally, “You … seriously make your copies—on Earth?”

  “You got it,” Carly said.

  “Under Grand Central Station?”

  “Yep.”

  “In New York?”

  “Well, yes. Grand Central being located in New York and all.”

  This couldn’t be. “Seriously,” I said. “Of all of the billions of planets in the universe—”

  “Sextillions,” Frampton clarified.

  “Fine. Of all the sextillions of planets in the universe, why do you have to copy all of your damn music on Earth?”

  “First of all, it’s your damn music,” Carly snipped.

  “Well—yes, that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?”

  “And secondly, the original plan was just to set up a listening post.”

  “A listening post?”

  Carly nodded. “No one wanted to lose access to your music after the Townshend Line went up, so our engineers had to build a monitoring station to pick up the new songs in your radio broadcasts. And it had to be somewhere on Earth itself, since the force field prevented them from putting a probe anywhere within a hundred and forty-four light-years of your solar system.”

  “But why pick Grand Central?”

  “They wanted to install just one outpost, so as to minimize the risk of discovery,” Carly said. “And New York was the right city, because of the quality and density of its radio stations. The only place they identified that was likely to lie undisturbed indefinitely was an abandoned underground spur connected to Grand Central’s rail network. So they built the listening post there—and then popular demand forced them to put the copying facility in there, too.”

  “Popular demand?”

  “Sure, everyone thought it would be really cool to have copies of your music that were made right in the NY of C,” Frampton explained. “I mean, why not?”