The rest of the studio audience was made up of the Autarch’s own spies and informants. They got to come see the show as a special favor for turning people in. They clapped and yelled and crowed and hooted. The cameras would have swept thrillingly across the crowd, except that would have broadcasted the faces of all of the Autarch’s most important spies and informants in Wilmington on TV for everybody to see, which would have been kind of a mistake. If everyone knew they were spies, then they couldn’t spy anymore. This is one of the problems with spy-based reality television.
So the audience (except for the political prisoners in the first two rows) all screamed with pleasure incognito, while a man in black held up a sign that said APPLAUSE! OR ELSE!
Finally the clapping died down.
“Welcome, citizens, to This Is Your Double Life!” said the Committee, “the show where we celebrate the Autarch’s best spies and unmask enemies of the State. Who is who? Who is your friend and who is your foe? We reveal all.
“Today’s guest appears to have just stumbled in.” The Committee climbed down off his throne and walked to the side of the nameless monk. “It’s delightful to have you here today,” he said in his unhappy, hissing voice. “What’s your name, citizen?”
The nameless monk didn’t answer—just smiled gently.
“And where are you coming from today?”
“Vbngoom,” the monk answered. “The Platter of Heaven.”
“Wonderful. Super,” said the Committee. “Now where are you really from?”
The monk didn’t answer.
Katie whispered to Lily, “What’s going on?”
“I think,” Lily whispered back, “that Grzo’s friend is about to be, you know, congratulated for turning all of us in. On daytime television.”
The Committee was pacing around onstage, grimacing. “Let’s have a volunteer from the audience,” he hissed. “Someone from the first two rows. The political prisoners who have been kind enough to join us today. Anyone?” No one around Lily raised their hands. For one thing, most of them had on handcuffs. The Committee barked, “You, citizen!” He pointed.
Drrok was hauled up out of his seat. He was forced up onstage.
The Committee addressed him: “And you are called?”
“The gardener.”
“Drrok, the gardener,” announced the Committee. “Leader of a resistance group in Wilmington. Let us hear it for Drrok, the gardener, citizens.”
The crowd of spies and informants went wild, booing and hissing. It took a long time for them to quiet down, even when the Committee gestured for silence with his big, mittened hands.
When it was quiet, he said to Drrok, “Look at this monk, citizen Drrok. Friend or foe, that is the question. Friend or foe? Consider that he may have passed directions to your HQ along to me and my espionage unit. Do you have anything to say to him, sir? Anything angry and cruel? We love anger and accusations here at the Castle.”
Drrok stood proudly and defiantly beneath the lights.
“Is it possible,” said Drrok to the nameless monk, “that you sold us all to the Ministry of Silence? We had a home, where we played upon our instruments and sang of ancient sadnesses. We tended our garden and prepared for the day when the Governor of Delaware shall return to rule the Blue Hen State, and shall sit again upon the Chicken Throne—”
“All right,” rasped the Committee. “Less about the Governor. More about your anger at being betrayed. Any response, my monkish friend?”
“You know my—”
“Another volunteer from the audience!” said the Committee. He did not wait for hands to go up. He jabbed a scrawny finger. “Him!”
Drgnan was pulled to his feet. The women pushed him up the steps onto the stage.
“Your name, boy?”
“Brother Drgnan Pghlik.”
“Citizens, I give you—Brother Drgnan Pghlik,” crowed the Committee.
The crowd of enemy spies hissed and screamed. Drgnan bowed his head.
The Committee asked him, “Do you have anything to say to this man?”
With sorrowful dignity, Drgnan Pghlik told the nameless monk, “If you betrayed our order and led us to this indignity, then your sadness should be even greater than my own. Our order is all that brings me joy, and this is true for many. We supply help to others and seek to—”
“Fine!” said the Committee. “Gut-wrenching. How do you feel, having let these people down?” he asked the nameless monk.
“I didn’t think that—”
“He didn’t think!” announced the Committee. “He admits he didn’t think. But is he friend or is he foe? Enemy of the State or espionage asset for our glorious Autarch? But first, more from his fellow prisoners.” The Committee growled, “And now . . . we shall welcome to the stage . . . you, young sir.” He was pointing at Taylor Quizmo.
Taylor swaggered up onto the stage. He was smiling and chewing a wad of Chiclets. While the music played for his entrance, he waved and winked at the audience.
“Your name, citizen?”
“Taylor Quizmo, Secret Agent.”
“And perhaps you will tell us, Taylor Quizmo, your story?”
Taylor Quizmo picked up the microphone like he was about to sing. He crinkled up his eyes and said, “Let me say first how glad I am to be here. It’s a real pleasure to be here in the Castle tonight. Thanks to the Governing Committee of Wilmington for inviting me and my friends. We’re so grateful.”
“It was nothing,” hissed the Committee. “We wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“You know,” said Taylor, giving his most winning smile to the cameras, “I’m not from Delaware, but I feel like a Delawarian. I love this state. It’s a beautiful state, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
The crowd went wild with yes. Taylor was a natural on television.
“I love the Blue Hen State!” he cried, raising his arm.
Everyone was cheering. Taylor waved and grinned. The band played a few bars of “Fair Delaware.” The crowd was loud.
“Very kind of the prisoner, we’re sure,” said the Committee. “Perhaps, however, the prisoner would be so good as to tell us his story?”
“Sure!” Taylor Quizmo’s gum cracked. He paced back and forth, the microphone cord snaking along behind him, flipping over, coming to rest. Taylor said, “A few days ago I got word that the monks of Vbngoom were sending a van north from their hidden mountain, whatever, and that three kids from another state were with them, and that they were going to cross the border into Pennsylvania or New Jersey so they could try to get back some sacred doodads. And I heard that Control, the head of the Ministry of Silence, was planning on stopping these kids and these monks when they crossed the border. He was going to have them questioned so he could figure out where they were keeping the Monastery of Vbngoom. He was making a big deal about it. Security was stepped up all along the border, at each of the major checkpoints, and there were spies all up and down the roads, looking for the kids and the van. And I realized—it’s time for Taylor Quizmo, Secret Agent.”
“Indeed, citizen,” said the Committee.
“I realized—these kids are going to escape if I don’t lend a hand. You know, that’s why Control called me and not someone else. Because he knows that Taylor Quizmo gets things done. He knows that Taylor Quizmo, Secret Agent, always nabs his man. So Control gave me a cell phone with a tracer chip in it, and some poison darts—he always gives me some pretty cool gear—and . . .”
Lily couldn’t hear any more. There was a rushing noise in her ears. She was thinking a mile a minute . . . because Taylor Quizmo was an enemy spy.
Lily gasped. It hadn’t been Bvletch who had given away the position of the safe house. It hadn’t been some snooping spy hiding in a mailbox. It hadn’t been the nameless monk. It had been Taylor himself.
Now that she thought about it, it made perfect sense. When he appeared by the hay cart to help them, he had just pretended to help—letting the Ministry of Silence drag Bvletch away. T
aylor needed Lily and her friends to trust him so they’d lead him to the secret hideout.
And then she realized: How had he gotten his Hummer so close to the spot where he met them when he couldn’t drive it without an adult? Someone must have driven with him and helped him parallel park it . . . someone from the Ministry of Silence.
And she remembered that Taylor had gotten a cell phone call at the safe house just before the attack. Probably it had been the Committee’s henchmen, telling him to watch out for crossbow bolts.
And when they were lost in the tunnels under the city, Taylor had called someone—probably a servant of the Ministry of Silence—and had gotten instructions on how to get them into the Castle’s theater. Taylor Quizmo knew that he was leading them all into a trap! He wasn’t the real U.S. spy after all!
The REAL U.S. spy, Lily realized, the real U.S. spy was the NAMELESS MONK! That’s why the nameless monk had just joined the monastery of Vbngoom! He wasn’t a monk at all! In the tunnels, he’d been trying to stop and disarm the actual traitor . . . Taylor Quizmo. He’d been trying to warn her and her friends.
Lily looked down dolefully into her lap.
The Committee said to Taylor, “So, Taylor Quizmo, you betrayed them all?”
Taylor grinned. “Anything for the fabulous Ministry of Silence!” He spread his arms generously.
The crowd of informers and stooges went wild.
“Seriously,” said Taylor. “I may be from DC, but I love you Delaware guys.”
“Foolish boy!” cried the nameless monk. “Oh, foolish, foolish boy! You do not know what suffering you’ve caused!”
“Hey, it’s better than a paper route.” He winked at the crowd and got a big laugh.
“You’ll never get away with this!” the monk swore.
“That’s what your type always says.” Taylor jabbed his thumb toward the nameless monk. He asked the crowd, “Is he the best the United States government could drum up?” The audience laughed again.
“My type?” said the nameless monk. “I am a public servant of the United States! And no little cub like you is going to stop us from seeing that justice is done!”
“Sorry, pops,” said Taylor Quizmo, his eyes getting narrow and mean. “It looks like I already have. Justice is for the strong.”
“You’ll never—”
“This is all very sweet,” hissed the Committee. “Very lovely. Great entertainment.” To the audience, he growled, “So now you have it, my lovely horde of baying lapdogs and lickspittles: The lid is off! The tripes are exposed! Taylor Quizmo is our beloved Autarch’s spy, and this nameless monk, this wretched fool, is the intruder, sent here to aid the Resistance and the Monastery of Vbngoom. These prisoners in the front row, these kids, befriended their enemy, betrayed their friends, and ran from their ally. But now we know who is who. Now we know who loves our glorious State, and who seeks stupidly to overthrow it. There we have it. Done.” The Committee paused and cleared his throat. He rasped, “So now . . . now it is everyone’s favorite part of the show: the part where we punish and destroy.”
All the spies in the audience went crazy. They were clapping and cheering.
Lily felt the disaster in every part of her. The Committee of Wilmington’s words echoed in her ears: befriended their enemy, betrayed their friends, and ran from their ally. They had been stupid. And now . . . she didn’t even want to think. She felt sick. Panicked. Frightened.
The women in glittering dresses gestured. All the prisoners—Katie, Lily, Jasper, the shackled members of the Resistance—all of them were led up onstage and put next to Drgnan and Drrok. Lily looked around, desperate—there must be some hope.
But all she saw were the cruel faces in the audience, the jeering of people willing to betray their friends and their country.
Jasper was wide eyed with rage and worry. He couldn’t believe that anyone would be so villainous—and that the End might be Nigh.
“Now,” the Committee was saying, “I’m an old-fashioned man. And there’s nothing that says ‘old-fashioned’ to a spy like a shark pit. Lights, Ghty!”
A spotlight hit right near the prisoners’ feet. It shone through the floor. Below, through frosted glass, the kids could see sharks nipping and spinning.
Lily was shaking with fear. Katie and Drgnan exchanged panicked looks. Jasper prepared for punching.
“And, to drop them in,” said the Committee, “to send them to their gory doom, we have none other than a recent convert to the Autarch’s ranks . . . someone who, after a little session with me in a tricky little room with lots of nasty little devices, saw the light and decided to join our side . . .”
There was a drumroll.
“And his name is: BVLETCH!”
REALDOM
Forth came Brother Bvletch from the wings, his shoulders sagging, his pimples glistening in the swirling spotlights. His eyes were glazed. He looked like a zombie.
“Brother Bvletch!” said Drgnan in despair. “Bvletch!”
Bvletch did not seem to see anyone. He walked like a robot over to the Governing Committee. The Committee held out a metal mitt, and Bvletch shook it.
“Welcome!” rasped the Committee. “Welcome, young Bvletch.”
“It is great to be here,” said Bvletch in an automatic voice.
“Now, tell me, Bvletch, you were a monk of Vbngoom. But you had a little talk with me yesterday evening. How did you enjoy our little talk?”
“I wish it could have gone on all night, until the morning star faded and the moon sank beneath the brow of the hills.”
“And now that we’ve had our little talk, how do you feel about our glorious warlord, the Awful and Adorable Autarch of Dagsboro?”
“He is a great guy,” said Bvletch without any enthusiasm, staring straight ahead. “It would be great to be his friend. I dream that I could go over to his house and watch a game on the television while sharing a bowl of mixed nuts.”
“We all can dream, Citizen Bvletch, can’t we? We all can dream.”
“It would be awesome.”
“Awesome indeed, citizen. Now, what are you looking forward to, Citizen Bvletch? What would you like to do more than anything else right now?”
“You know what would be great, sir?” said Bvletch, in a voice that sounded like a recording. (His eyes were still blank.)
“What would be great, young fellow?”
“I would like to drop my friends and the members of the Resistance into a shark tank.”
“With a lever?”
“However you tell me to, sir.”
“Lovely. Because, Bvletch . . . we just happen to have a shark tank . . . and your friends . . . and a lever.”
“And a lever, sir?” said Bvletch. He droned, “This is more wonderful than I ever could have imagined.”
“Splendid, citizen,” hissed the Committee. He clapped his hands, and the brass blew a screaming jazz fanfare. A panel in the wall dropped open, revealing a giant red lever.
The Committee led Bvletch over to the lever. He put the teen’s hand on it.
“One yank of this lever,” said the Committee, “will send all your friends and the Resistance fighters into the drink. And it is a drink with some nasty little fixin’s in it, citizen.” The Committee beckoned to a cameraman. “Traitor-cam, roll over here. We want to see every twitch of this young man’s face as he sends his friends to their deaths.” The cameraman slid his cam forward to get a close-up. As he did so, the Committee explained to the prisoners, “You should all know that this boy has, you might say, spilled all the beans. He has told us about how Vbngoom has moved. Yes, well might you look shocked, young monk!”
Drgnan Pghlik made a sound of woe.
“Yes, Citizen Pghlik. He told us that—and even told us generally where it went: the mountains in the far south, below Seaford.”
Far south? Lily thought to herself. Wait—Vbngoom went northwest. But then why didn’t Bvletch . . . ?
And she saw: Bvletch hadn’t been converte
d at all! He hadn’t told the Committee anything! He had talked entirely in irony! He had said the opposite of what he meant! Just like his Vow of Sarcasm demanded! And he was still talking in irony!
The Committee sneered, “The monks of Vbngoom cannot lie—and so I know that every word that fell from this youth’s lips is truth. And did he talk? He did. At length. And he told us about the pitiful Resistance. He told us you’re planning attacks on zebra-back. Lady musketeers on zebra-back—isn’t that right? Hear me and despair! He told us about your submarines that go through the dirt! He explained about the secret cameras in breakfast cereal! He told me about the detachable teeth, the special fries, your life in soup, the wig contests! And he gave me the name of the leader of the Resistance—not simply Citizen Drrok here, but the leader of the whole movement in Delaware: a woman named Citizen Realdom. Isn’t that right?”
“You have got that right, sir,” said Bvletch.
“I. M. Realdom,” said the Committee in dolorous glee. “That is the name. I am not afraid to say it on television. I. M. Realdom—beware! All will seek you out now and destroy you. Do you hear me, Citizen Realdom? Who do we seek, my spies? Again and again, I announce to the world: I. M. Realdom! I. M. Realdom! I. M. Realdom! I cannot say it too often! Do you have that?”
“I bet they hear it loud and clear, sir, like the dripping of water into a still forest pool.”
“And now,” croaked the Committee. “Now it is time, Citizen Bvletch, to prove your loyalty to the Autarch!”
For the first time, Lily saw Bvletch twitch.
“You shall either drop your friends into the tank—or join them. Traitor-cam, get that expression. I like the pain and confusion.”
The band played. Lights flashed on and off around the perimeter of the shark tank. The kids looked down and saw the floor that was about to drop them. They saw the sharks roiling.
Nearby, on the edge of the stage, Taylor was sharing his Chiclets with one of the lovely female spies.
Lily watched Bvletch in terror—watched his face as he tried to make a decision between dropping his friends into a shark tank and dropping his disguise.
Agent Q, or the Smell of Danger! Page 12