by Rob Reid
SEVENTEEN
DECAPALOOZA
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 Pahrakhwai 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.
The whole setup was as cozy as a Scandinavian mountain town on Christmas Eve. And everywhere—the major tunnels, the tributaries, and all of the public spaces—was thronging with energized, gibbering Decapuses. Our group got some curious looks as we passed through. But most of the Decapuses were too engaged in each other to give us much attention. I couldn’t imagine any one of them drooping lifelessly over a Kenwood tape deck. But I guess we all have a work persona.
After a few minutes we entered a spacious cavern. It was about fifty feet tall, and broad as a small city square. The Boss pointed at a box-shaped building about the size of a suburban garage right in the center of it. “They’re in there,” he said.
As we approached the building’s front door, a passerby pointed at Manda with seven limbs, and made an excited gibbering sound. Its companion pulled a stereopticon out of a sort of marsupial pouch, consulted it, and gibbered something back. At that, they started jumping up and down, making high five–like moves with their limbs. Then they took off at a dead run.
The Boss looked at Manda. “So. You’re a singer?” he asked.
“Yes, actually,” she said. “Did those guys … recognize me or something? I’m not exactly famous.”
“Well, from what they said, you’ve got an album out on Merge.”
Manda nodded. Merge is in fact her label. They don’t put a ton of money behind their artists, but have enough indie cred to affect the tides.
“We distribute everything on Merge,” The Boss said. “That puts your music into over four hundred billion galaxies. And while you’re no Arcade Fire, some of the kids around here listen to everything that’s local.”
“There’s a lot of local music in New York,” Manda said, clearly astonished by all of this.
“No, I mean locally local.” He pointed up toward the city’s surface with several limbs. “As in midtown-ish. You live in Murray Hill, right? These kids are loyal to their neighborhood. Anyways. Let’s go in and see those two.” He led us up to the main door, which snapped open to admit us.
Özzÿ was stationed right inside, next to a small table that stood at about hand height to him. He was shifting several coasterlike pads around its surface very carefully. Paulie was hovering like a hummingbird about five feet above him, peering intently at a long series of thumbnail images that were beaming out of a small stereopticon that was draped around his neck. Each image seemed to depict a tiny document. An enlargement of one was floating above the rest—a page that looked like it was written in Russian.
“Paulie, you got visitors,” The Boss announced. When Paulie saw us, he dropped halfway to the ground from shock, then fluttered to a safe landing. Özzÿ continued shuffling his coasters, ignoring us.
“Paulie, so good to see you again,” I boomed. “How goes the, uh—unlimited energy project?”
“Who’re you to ask?” Paulie turned to The Boss. “And whaddaya doing, bringing humans in here?”
“They knew the access code, so I let ’em in,” The Boss said hotly. “Rules are rules. And that’s the rule!”
“The energy project, Paulie?” I repeated. “Details, details.”
Paulie glared at Pugwash. “Tell your cousin to quit buggin’ me. Or my deal with you is off.”
“He’s not actually my cousin,” my cousin said, following our script. “I just know him through work. I made that cousin stuff up because I wanted you to think he was a liar, so you might make me your partner instead of him.”
“Yeah, right,” Paulie chuckled. “I don’t have time for none a you.” He made a quick gesture with his wing, and Pugwash vanished.
“Where’d you put him?” I asked in a shocked tone.
“Wh-what’re you still doin’ here?” Paulie asked in an even more shocked tone. He looked around wildly, and saw that Manda was also still with us. “And you?”
“Dammit, tell me where you sent my c—colleague,” I demanded (almost blowing everything by calling Pugwash my cousin).
“I dunno—somewhere in midtown. Wherever the shortest Wrinkle connection would put him,” Paulie said. “But why are you still here?”
His growing panic made me realize that things were going even better than I’d hoped. It seemed that the Guild had, in fact, given Paulie the power to Dislocate, or Wrinkle beings without their permission. And he’d apparently just tried to Dislocate all of us up to the city’s surface. But since Manda and I were carrying the Guardian’s “Foilers,” we couldn’t be sen
t anywhere against our will. And Paulie surely knew that only Guardians have Foilers.
Time to spook him even more. I bent down and ran my hand across the floor. “Hey, Boss. This floor feels really nice. What’s it made out of?” As I said this, Manda started strolling around the transit bay, turning her head to and fro with every step. She was still capturing everything she could on the stereopticon.
“Some nanosubfiber, I think,” The Boss said, utterly confused by all of this.
“Well, it feels so silky soft, I just have to see what it’s like to walk on it.” I removed my shoes. As I pulled off my socks, Manda averted her gaze per my request—but Paulie fluttered up a few feet to get a better view. As soon as he saw my sixteen toes, he dropped halfway to the floor from shock again.
I took a few steps. “Wow, this nanonanofiber is fabulous, Boss—I should get some for my apartment.” With that, I put my shoes and socks back on, and Paulie started fluttering around in anxious little circles. He had plenty of reasons to be nervous. My toes had just identified me as a Perfuffinite—so I couldn’t be the ordinary human that Pugwash had portrayed me as earlier in the evening. And since I’d definitely been living on Earth since long before Carly and Frampton knocked out the Townshend Line, I pretty much had to be one of the mysterious “trespasser” aliens who arrived in 1977. That, and the bizarre immunity that Manda and I had to Dislocation, would have made it seem virtually certain that I was a Guardian after all.
“So, Paulie,” I pressed. “The energy project. Tell me more. And please—use my title. I’d hate to have to incinerate you for disrespecting me.”
Paulie landed and stared hard at the ground. “Right to silence, Your Illustriousness. I ain’t sayin nothin’ without no lawyer from the Guild.”
“Then why not sing something?” I jeered, angling to enrage him into saying something stupid. “Oh, that’s right—no one wants to hear your singing anymore. Do they?”