by John Hulme
The words rang of truth, but the Initiate’s ears were not ready to hear. In his heart was not the stillness of deep water, but rather the impatience of youth.
“I must go.”
“You are not ready.”
“Then I will fail, Master, but still I must go.”
The Initiate bowed to honor the lessons he had already learned, then made his way to the antechamber where travelers left their shoes and possessions. Hanging from a hook on the wall was a Briefcase, filled to the brim with Tools both new and old. Most of these devices had been a gift from his beloved grandfather, and part of him longed to pick up his Receiver and dial “Crestview 1-2-2.” But his 7th Sense told him that if The World was going to be saved this night, the only help he would get would come from within.
The Initiate removed the Tools and, one by one, began to strap them across his body.
Hall of Records, Department of History, The Seems
Though the SNN report had painted a rosy picture of the situation in Time, Becker knew the truth was a far different matter. The World had been hit by two more bursts of Essence and the Agents of L.U.C.K. would be able to steer them toward uninhabited Sectors for only so long. But what really got under the young Fixer’s skin was the fact that Shan Mei-Lin had still not returned from the Frozen Moment pool and was feared to be PIA. This was entirely his fault—for he had abandoned his Briefer to be with Amy Lannin one last time—and he whispered a prayer that Shan could find her own Door, or some other escape route back home.
The only positive development was that his arrival in History might have been the lucky break he needed. According to the Keeper, the Records that filled this Hall contained not music but the symphony of life itself. Every decision that was made in The Seems and its consequent effect in The World was recorded in ten-year increments upon their shellac surfaces, and Daniel J. Sullivan claimed to know them all like the back of his hand.
He began his search for the Time Being by cueing up the bonus track of a dusty old album called The Beginning of Time, when the inventor had thrown the switch to activate her particular department. Once Sully picked up her audio trail, it was an apparently simple process to isolate her “life’s path” on whatever LP she popped up on next.
“You can run, my dear . . .” The crazy-maned historian closed his eyes, leaned back on his favorite bean-bag chair, and turned up the volume. “. . . but you cannot hide.”
As a Record called The Fifties continued to spin, Becker sifted through the giant .33s and .45s that were splayed out all over the floor. He couldn’t for the life of him fathom how everything that ever happened could be contained on these discs, or how anyone could pick through a seemingly infinite Chain of Events to find the pathway of one person’s life.
“Are you sure this is gonna work?” asked the skeptical Fixer.
“Trust me. I’ve done nothing but listen to the course of History for the last eight years. Everyone in The World or The Seems has their own unique frequency, and the Time Being is quite audible at 1,233,456,789.1703 Seemsahertz.”
Becker felt a hole growing in his stomach. He had watched a lot of classic movies with his mom on AMC, and the gentleman in the headphones was bearing an alarming resemblance to some of the patients from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. But without any other promising leads, the Fixer had to put his Mission in Sully’s hands.
“There she is in ’59!” The historian pumped a fist and pulled off his trusty AKGs. “Get me The Seventies!”
Fixer Drane climbed to the top of a tall wooden ladder that rolled around the room on brass casters and gave access to the custom-made shelves that had been built into the walls.
“You mean the big Records?”
“No,” shouted the Keeper. “The 1970s!”
This batch of albums was located in the relatively new section of the library, where the jackets were less dusty and the Art Department had been given a little more free rein in terms of cover design. Becker pulled the Record out from its place between the 1960s and the 1980s, and was pretty much blown away by the combination of gritty realism and mellowed vibe that graced the cover.
“Am I crazy or has the Time Being been alive for like a million years?”
“Anyone who was around before the Beginning of Time never gets old, unless they go to a Time Zone or spend too much time in The World.” Sully was trying to talk and listen at the same time. “Now can you come down here and cue it up for me? I think that’s gonna be our ticket to ride!”
Becker slid down the ladder without touching any of the rungs, and walked over to where Sully was manning the turntables. Unlike most of the equipment in the room, these had no dust or cobwebs at all, and were obviously kept in tiptop condition. In fact, they kind of reminded Becker of some of the same ones that his friend Seth Rockman’s brother Matt had in his bedroom.20
“How come we’re skipping The Sixties?” asked Becker, pulling the bulky disc out of its sleeve and placing it on the unoccupied spinner.
“From what I can tell, after she dropped out she pretty much hit the Road. Lived in Obscurity for a while, holed up in the Sticks, even spent a little time trying to find Herself.” Sully turned up the treble via one of the countless dials. “But when it came time to settle down, she picked a place where no one would think to look . . .”
Becker hit Play on the console and the needle swung out on a lever, resting ever so gingerly above the spinning disc.
“She was flirting with moving there all through the forties and fifties.” Sully was wearing two sets of phones so that The Fifties was in one ear and The Seventies in the other. “But something tells me she didn’t pull the trigger until around ’73!”
He lowered the needle and, placing hands on both of the discs, began to slide them back and forward through Time. It was almost as if he were trying to find where one song perfectly transitioned into the other, and Becker had to admit that despite his unkempt beard and broken glasses (or because of them), he looked like a fresh DJ scratching on the 1s and 2s.
“Bingo!” Sully shouted triumphantly.
“You got it?”
“Of course I got it!” The Keeper turned off the turntable and hopped down off his stool. “And I promise you she’s still there!”
Before Becker could get a listen for himself, Sully was madly dashing toward the only other working piece of machinery in the Hall of Records—the old-fashioned Gramophone, which wasn’t playing anything, only recording.
“This is what’s happening right now . . .” He pointed to where the needle was cutting microscopic grooves into the face of the Record. “On first listen, it’s been a pretty rocky decade, but you can never tell until you hear it a few times.”
On the back of the Gramophone were RCA cables with the symbols of every department and sub-department in The Seems. There was also an “audio out” jack, and Sullivan affixed a one-eighths to one-fourth adapter and plugged in the cord.
“See if this rings a bell.”
When Becker pressed the cushiony leather of the headphone against his ear, he was hoping to hear the answer to the whereabouts of the one and only Time Being. But all that assaulted his ears was a hideous clamor.
“Dude, it’s totally garbled!”
“That’s because you’re not used to what life sounds like when it’s happening all at once.” Sully pushed up his glasses over the bridge of his nose. “Gimme two more seconds to isolate her track!”
Watching the Keeper of the Records madly adjust the knobs on the front of the machine did little to instill confidence in Fixer #37. Nor did the piles of white pages that were crudely stuffed into every drawer, box, and file cabinet in the hall. Sully continually brushed off inquiries about the papers by mumbling something about his “project,” which only served to increase Becker’s dread that he’d been sucked into a wild goose chase.
“Are you sure you found her?”
“One more second!” screeched Linus from inside his cage. Though he and Sully were ofte
n at odds, he would never bite the hand that fed him. “One more second!”
Becker was now totally convinced that he had stumbled into the loony bin—until suddenly the “music” in his ears came perfectly into sync. He could clearly hear the sound of horns honking, people shouting in many different languages, even a distant siren. And underneath it all, an exhilarating hum that vibrated through his body and made his adrenaline soar.
“I know where that is . . .” Becker also heard the sounds of quiet footsteps amid the hustle and bustle, and had the distinct sensation that he was listening through somebody else’s ears. “I totally know where that is!”
“Half The Seems has been looking for this woman for fifty years,” said Sully, proudly watching the realization dawn upon the Fixer’s face. “And she’s been right under their noses all this time!”
Becker allowed the headphones to fall around his neck, then quickly formulated a game plan. He would need a change of clothes—probably something black, so as not to stand out like a sore thumb. A replacement Toolkit would also be required, messenger-bag style. And lastly, he would have to score a fully loaded Metrocard. Because according to this Record, the Time Being was not hiding in any little out-of-the-way corner of The Seems . . .
She was living in New York City.
19. The Department of Housing & Useless Development.
20. You can catch Matt Rockman spinning discs every Thursday night from one a.m. to four a.m. on WVHP, Highland Park High School’s student-run radio station.
9
The Big Apple
Central Park, New York, New York
Becker Drane and Daniel J. Sullivan emerged from a Door that was marked with a leaf—perfectly imitating the seal of the NYC Parks Department—and stepped into the eight hundred and forty-three acres of rolling green known as Central Park. Sully immediately tried to shield his eyes from the bright sun, infused as it is with far more ultraviolet and infrared than that of The Seems. But even with his elbow above his forehead he couldn’t stop the sights and sounds of New York City from rushing in.
A Rollerblader blasted by, joyfully using the Fixer and Keeper of the Records as pylons in her obstacle course. Tall stone and glass buildings loomed over the park on all four sides, while the sounds of ambulances, jackhammers, and two men haggling over the price of a shish kebab melded together in a pop single worthy of one of Sully’s precious Records. In his adventures in The World and The Seems, Fixer #37 had been to many strange and out-of-the-way places, but none of them flooded all twelve of his senses21 like this one.
“Welcome to the Big Apple, Sully.”
Sully was still a little shell-shocked, so Becker helped him over to a park bench. Persuading the older man to come to The World hadn’t been easy, for the Keeper was intent on getting back to his project, and besides, who would take care of Linus? But a quick call to Central Command had brought one of the Skeleton Crew to watch over History (along with the complete first season of The Jinx Gnomes for the obsessed parrot), and once Becker had declassified some of the details of his Mission, Sully finally agreed.
“You okay, dude?” asked Becker, seeing that his companion was trembling from head to toe. “Can I get you a water or a Diet Coke?”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
When Sully opened his eyes again, Becker could see that his comrade was not suffering from shock and awe, but rather from genuine emotion.
“It’s just . . .” Sully wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “I forgot how beautiful it was.”
“When was the last time you came to The World?”
“For Y2K. I’ve been meaning to come back ever since, but I’ve been so focused on my project that I never had time.”
“Gotta stop and smell the roses, Sully.”
Becker laced up his suede Pumas and cuffed his replacement Levi’s just once. The Wardrobe Department had also hooked him up with a black Old Navy T-shirt and a nice pair of Vuarnets, but they had struggled to come up with something workable for the Keeper. Presently, he was stuffed into a white “I Love New York” T-shirt, red Adidas sweat pants, and clunky Doc Martens, which made him look like a cross between an outpatient from a mental hospital and a homeless man.
“Where did you say she lived again?” asked the Fixer.
“Let me double check.” Sully turned up the volume on the old-fashioned Sony Walkman that was clipped onto his pants. Inside the device was a dub of the last three years, and he listened intently, covering the orange foam headphones with his hands. “I heard her mention 274 West 12th Street on at least three occasions.”
“Then we’re gonna have to take the subway downtown.” Becker scanned the park for the closest passerby. “Hold on, let me ask somebody how we get there.”
A man in a business suit and sunglasses was in shouting distance.
“Excuse me, sir?”
The man just flipped a quarter at Becker and kept right on walking. The next two people he approached simply put up their hands and said, “I already believe in Jesus,” until finally, a mounted police officer was kind enough to tell him, “You need to take the 1 train to 14th Street, boss.” He pointed to the station entrance that was visible over the stone wall surrounding Central Park. “It’s right over there.”
Fourteenth Street was only two blocks away from where they believed the Time Being had been hiding for the last thirty-odd years, and if they were lucky she’d be home. And if they were really lucky, she’d be able to tell them how to put a Split Second back together. But even though the stakes for the Mission couldn’t be higher, Becker found himself embarrassed by the ragged sight of his traveling partner.
“And Sully?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want people to think we’re bridge and tunnelers22, so try to be cool.”
“Cool? I’m cool.” Sully was deeply offended. “Cool’s my middle name.”
But as the Keeper followed Becker toward Columbus Circle, he could feel the eyes of even the most jaded New Yorkers upon him.
“Correction. My middle name is Jehosephat.”
Meanwhile, The Seems
Briefer Shan Mei-Lin sat with her legs crossed in the cold and empty darkness. There was nary a sound nor a speck of light, nor even a hint of movement in the shadows (of which there were none, for shadows themselves can only be created by the presence of light). In fact, the only things that confirmed that she existed at all were the sound of her heartbeat—which she controlled via the Buddhist technique of anapanasati, or “mindfulness of breathing”—and the feel of the hard ground beneath her.
When she had first entered Meanwhile, panic had threatened to tear Shan apart, but the tutelage of IFR instructor Jelani Blaque had served her well. He implored his Candidates to view even the most mind-numbing terrors as Tools by which the innermost portions of one’s own self could be mapped and explored. Yet when she looked inside to see what she really was terrified by, it was not the fact that she was going to die in this black prison, but the fact that nobody would really care that she was gone.
“How is this possible?” the girl asked herself, resisting the impulse to wrap her arms around her knees. “I’ve always tried the best I could.”
This was undeniable. Her life had been one long succession of triumphs, all of which were memorialized on plaques and papers in two separate worlds for all to see. And yet, the distance she felt from those around her was also undeniable.
“You’ve become the best at the wrong game.”
Shan’s eyes opened with a start. She had definitely heard a voice, but she couldn’t tell if it had echoed from the darkness or from the corridors of her own head.
“Say that again?”
“I said you’re playing the wrong game.”
Shan knew that hearing voices was one of the telltale signs of dementia, but listening to something imaginary was better than nothing at all, so she decided to play along.
“Then what would be the right game?”
The voice we
nt silent and Shan feared that she had asked too direct a question, but after a moment’s pause, it piped up again.
“A game where you’re playing for something other than your own high score.”
As always, the Briefer resented the implication that she had failed or even struggled with something, but she let the hot flash of anger pass before responding.
“I didn’t make the rules.”
“But you continue to play by them, at the expense of all else.”
Shan tried to fire back, but she couldn’t argue that in her endless drive to succeed and achieve, those around her—her fellow students, the Candidates at the IFR, even Fixers Chiappa and Drane—had become competitors (if not enemies) or fools that stood in her way. In fact, she could not think of a single person in the World or Seems whom she could honestly call her friend.
“And when was the last time you talked to your brother? Or to your mother and father?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Or even to your precious Ye Ye?”
Whoever the voice was, Shan was starting not to like him. The truth was that the Briefer had not spoken to her family in years. Not since they made the long trip to Beijing to celebrate her graduation from secondary school. Pride had been written all over her parents’ faces, but instead of enjoying it, the young student had felt surrounded by strangers, whose humble clothes and manner had embarrassed her.
“What do you know of me or my family?” Even she could hear the defensiveness in her voice. “They were the ones who sent me down this path in the first place!”
This was also true. Perhaps the most indelible mark on Shan’s memory was the day two government educators came to take her to a school on the other side of the country. She had kicked and cried that day, begging her parents not to send her away from everything she cared about, but they had let it happen anyway.
