by John Hulme
There was a grain of truth to what Thibadeau was saying. “Fight or Flight” was required coursework at the IFR, and the two had sparred countless times under the auspices of Fixer Blaque. But in all their matches in the rubber-walled arena, Becker had never been able to overcome Thib.
“Talk is cheap,” the Fixer threatened. “I’ve learned a lot since those days.”
“As have I.”
Thibadeau swung with a kick, but this time his former classmate tumbled, tucked, rolled, and launched himself at the Frenchman, catching him square in the jaw with an elbow and staggering him back toward the ledge of the roof. This sent The Tide into a second round of guffaws.
“Need some help, boss?” asked the Flavor Miner, cracking his scarred knuckles.
“No, merci.” Thib spat his own glob of blood from his lip, then raised his fists in front of his face. “It’s time for the coup de grâce.”
Like a cat, Thibadeau feinted his way behind the Fixer, then applied a pythonlike choke hold. For a second, quiet reigned over the rooftop, interrupted only by the combatants’ labored breathing and the occasional honk of a taxicab below. Becker felt Thib’s hot breath against his ear, and he was certain it was to deliver one last taunt. But instead . . .
“Stop fighting, Draniac,” Thibadeau whispered. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“Thanks . . . for . . . nothing . . .”
“Believe me, my people will kill you if you get in their way. Your only chance to stay alive is say uncle, and say it now.”
Becker stopped struggling and wrenched his neck around to look directly into his old friend’s face. Behind the beard, behind the necklace of the cresting wave, behind even the betrayal of planting the Time Bomb, the Fixer saw genuine concern. And he knew that in some sick and twisted way, Thib really was trying to protect him.
“Uncle.”
Lucien Chiappa’s eyes slowly opened and surveyed the bizarre scene that unfolded before him. He knew he’d been administered some kind of sedative before his trip out of Meanwhile— the fruity taste on his lips told him it was probably Knockout Punch—but the last place in the world he expected to be when he regained consciousness was on a rooftop in Manhattan.
“Please be patient, mademoiselle,” said a bearded young Frenchman who looked like he’d just been in a fist fight. “We’ll be ready in a matter of moments.”
“No hurry.” An elegant-looking woman with long gray hair crossed her legs and sat back against the slats of a bench. “I have all the Time in The World.”
Chiappa recognized the Frenchman as Thibadeau Freck, but the sight of the older woman was a stunner. As an expert on Time, Chiappa had voraciously studied the life and work of Sophie Temporale, and though he’d always dreamed of meeting her (he even spent a year casually searching for her whereabouts), he was unprepared for the emotions that swelled within him at the very sight of the Time Being.
“What are they doing?” Sophie was watching a wiry kid in glasses and a raven-haired young woman run cords to and from a square metallic plate on the ground.
“We’re setting up a Calling Card,” answered Thibadeau. “There’s someone who wishes to have a word with you.”
“Why doesn’t this someone just come see me in person?”
“He is a very private man—so much so that his identity is hidden even from us. And I might also add that you are not exactly the easiest person to find.”
The Time Being glanced to her left, where Becker Drane and a guy who looked like he’d stuck his finger in an electric socket were bound and gagged. “I had no idea I was so popular.”
“I’m sure Fixer Drane informed you of what happened in the Department of Time today?”
“He did.”
“Despite what he may have told you, our intention was never to harm The World—or anyone else, for that matter—we simply needed a way to draw you out of hiding.”
Once again Mr. Chiappa’s blood simmered that The Tide would play dice with The World just to achieve its political ends, but it served no purpose to reveal that he’d regained consciousness. So he remained motionless as Freck continued.
“We were worried when you did not appear after the initial blast, but thanks to my old friend’s ingenuity, our plan came together nonetheless.”
Chiappa watched in silence as the Time Being shook her head, then sadly looked off toward the setting sun. “There have always been differences in The Seems about how best to manage The World. But it shouldn’t have come to this.”
Thibadeau was slow to answer, but the Wordsmith was more than ready to sell the party line. “The Powers That Be have refused to listen to reason and are unwilling to accept any adjustments to the Plan. Someone had to take matters into their own hands.”
“Arg . . . napn . . . eklc . . .” Fixer Drane was trying to speak, and after furiously shaking his head back and forth enough times he was finally able to wriggle free of the gag. “All just to find her? Was it also your plan to age The World into dust?”
Smiles and chuckles shot between the Tide members.
“Don’t worry, Draniac,” assured Thibadeau. “The Split Second is safely contained.”
“Then how do you explain why the Essence of Time hit Alaska not twenty minutes ago? Or the Isle of Madagascar?”
This seemed to catch Thibadeau utterly by surprise, and not in a good way.
“You lie.”
“Then why are you shivering?” Becker knew that, just like himself, Thibadeau’s 7th Sense was firing on all cylinders. They were both trained in the art, and both would be feeling the impending doom of the Split Second in a major way. “Or why don’t you take a look at my Blinker and see for yourself.”
Thibadeau reached down and pulled the communications device off Becker’s belt. Even though he hadn’t used one in over a year, it only took him a minute to toggle to Missions in Progress and confirm what the Fixer had said.
“Nice job saving The World, bro.” Becker’s smile was even more caustic with a missing incisor. “With friends like you, who needs en—”
“Button it up!” shouted the Flavor Miner, who then smacked Becker across the face with the back of an open hand. Thibadeau nodded toward the edge of the roof, and his henchman roughly dragged the boy away, chair and all.
It took all of Mr. Chiappa’s composure not to come to the aid of his fellow Fixer, but he had a plan of his own, and it was already in motion. Besides, Thibadeau Freck seemed shaken by the news he’d just received.
“Don’t be unnerved, mon cher.” The black-haired girl who had thus far let her beauty do the talking rose and joined the Frenchman. “Even if there’s been some collateral damage, no revolution has ever succeeded without a cost.”
“This is too expensive, Lena.”
“If it makes you feel better,” the girl stroked the back of Thibadeau’s hair, “let’s send Ben back to check on the Containment Field.”
The one Tide member who had remained in the increasing shadows stepped into the light. Like the others, he wore a black bodysuit and wave pendant, but he had yet to remove his mask. He was different in one other respect as well . . . Big Ben was literally eight feet tall.
“It’s no problem, sir.” The softness of the giant’s voice belied his gargantuan size. “Besides, I always prefer to be close to the Essence.”
Again, Lena ran her hand through Thibadeau’s wavy brown hair. “Satisfied?”
“When I know the Split Second is safe.” Thibadeau turned back to his humungous comrade. “Allez!”
Big Ben saluted, then pulled a modified Skeleton Key from a cord around his neck. He inserted it into a section of roof, and a blue circle drew itself across the bricks and mortar. Seconds later, the masked monstrosity was gone.
Beeep! Beeep!
“We got a signal, boss.”
Everyone turned to see the wiry kid with glasses leaning over the Calling Card. From his hoop earring and seafaring tattoos, Chiappa thought he might be a Drifter. “Just give me a second to fix the vertical hol
d.”
The kid made a slight adjustment to a dial, and with a surge of electricity the image of a figure they now knew to be a man materialized onto the roof. It was almost as if he was actually standing there among them, except for the fact that the face and body were masked by a digital fuzz. He turned directly toward the Time Being and made a slight but courteous bow.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Ms. Temporale . . .” The speaker’s voice was as garbled and broken up as the image. “My name is Triton.”
27. In Olde Seemsian terminology, “Here” refers to The Seems while “There” refers to The World. See also Appendix B, in The Glitch in Sleep.
28. Jayson Handry, Founder of the Fixers.
12
All Gave Some
From his spot by the edge of the roof deck, Becker Drane craned his head to hear the words of the leader of The Tide, but the distance and the street noise made it nearly impossible. It didn’t help that the Flavor Miner who’d been assigned to guard him kept whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
“It must really burn you up, eh, Fixer boy?” The Miner stank of sweat and stale seasoning. “That everything you’ve done today was all part of our plan.”
“Just don’t let me get to my Toolkit, Butter Pecan.” Becker motioned to his replacement Toolmaster 3001™, which had been discarded by some bags of birdseed. “I got a can of buttwhuppin’ in there with your name written all over it.”
“Big words for a little man.”
“Little words for a big man.”
Becker knew that though the Miner was impressive in size, he was nowhere near as well trained as Thibadeau Freck, and if the Fixer could goad him into action, there might be a chance to escape.
“Hey, I got an idea. Why don’t you take these ropes off and we’ll settle this out back like real men.”
Just as he hoped, the Neanderthal smirked and started untying Becker’s hands.
“I got a better idea,” the leader of the cell stepped in between the two. “Go take a breather and watch the old man.”
A long moment of eye contact between Thibadeau and the Flavor Miner stretched like a taut rope, but eventually the larger man backed down.
“I see you haven’t lost your touch,” the Frenchman chided Becker, alone with him for the first time since The Tide’s arrival. “Fixer Blaque always said you had to get into the head of your enemy to fully understand him.”
“At least one of us was paying attention.” Becker was bummed, for though the ropes were loosened, he still couldn’t pull his hands free.
“Maybe I was paying attention too much.”
Thibadeau gave his prisoner a playful elbow and plopped down beside him. For a second, Becker was reminded of when the two Candidates were almost like brothers, and conversations like this revolved around getting their Badges or how to meet girls. But that memory was fleeting, and the truth was more like what Thibadeau had predicted when they’d parted ways at The Slumber Party. “Next time we see each other . . . it won’t be the same,” he had said. And it wasn’t.
“I just want you to know . . . Big Ben is the best Minuteman in Time. The Split Second is in good hands.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Becker turned away and stared at the building across the street, where some random New Yorker was unpacking groceries, unaware.
“Believe me, Draniac. I had no idea it would come to this.” Thib seemed genuinely tormented by what had happened. “I was given assurances that no one would be hurt. In The World or The Seems.”
“Then you’re living in a fantasy World.”
“No, I’m living in the real World—where things are a little more complicated than black and white.”
Thibadeau shook his head, almost like there was something he wished he could tell Becker, but wasn’t able to.
“I don’t understand you.” Becker’s voice softened, though the muscles in his stomach were twisted in knots. “How can you try to be friends with me after everything that happened?”
“Because I am your friend.”
“Do me a favor . . .” The Fixer shook his head in disbelief. “Put the gag back in.”
Thibadeau angrily obliged, then headed back to where Triton was deep in conversation with the Time Being. But he stopped halfway.
“By the way . . . was it good to see Amy again?”
Becker felt his face flush with both embarrassment and rage. How could he know about that Frozen Moment, unless . . .
But Thibadeau had already turned away.
Alton Forest, Caledon, Ontario
The five charter members of Les Resistance tromped back down the trail to the bike rack that lay at the mouth of Alton Forest. The day had been eventful not only because of the preplanned goal of completing principal construction on the fort, but due to what had already come to be known as “the bizarre incident of the falling tree.”
“I strongly believe the trunk was infested with termites and ready to go at any moment,” announced Vikram, untethering his bicycle from its lock. “It’s the only logical conclusion.”
“I think it’s magic,” declared Rachel, attaching a series of clips and pins to her sleeves and skirt to avoid them being tangled up in the chain of the bike. “Things happen every day that can’t be explained by modern science.”
Whatever had happened, Jennifer knew the members of Les Resistance were likely to argue about it all night. That was part of resisting, she supposed, and it never got in the way of their fun. All around them, the crickets had begun to chirp and the magic hour of twilight bathed the forest in purple and blue.
“You guys hit the road . . .” JK pretended to be unlocking her bike as well. “I’m goin’ the other way, ’cause I’m having dinner at my uncle’s tonight.”
Everybody put their hands in the center of a circle and on the count of three, they shouted the same cheer that adjourned any meeting of the secret order they’d grown to know and love.
“Les Resistance is never futile!”
After a few high-fives and hugs, Jennifer watched as the gaggle of misfits peddled into the night.
“Hey, Moreau. Do you think it’s part of the plan if I kick you off your bike?” she heard the always-cutting Rob laugh and shout at his sister.
“Only if it’s part of the plan if I kick you in the shin!” Claudia chided back, and Jennifer cracked up. But as soon they had faded into the dusk, she left her lock squarely around her Schwinn and dialed her dad’s cell phone. It rang twice before he answered.
“Jenny?”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
“Is construction done for the day?”
“Yep. We managed to install the second-floor deck and the master bedroom!”
“Does this mean you’re getting your own show on HGTV?”
“Very funny.” Jennifer could hear voices in the background and knew that meant her father’s party was still going on. “Listen, um, Vikram’s mom invited us all over dinner and I was, uh, wondering—”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. You’ve been out since early this morning.”
“Pleeease, Dad. Everybody’s going.”
“On one condition.”
“What?”
“Bring me back some of that flan she always makes.”
“You mean naan!”
“Some of that too.”
She could tell her father was in a good mood and his important day of fresh-squeezed orange juice and big deals must have gone well.
“And be careful. There’s a lot of crazies out there.”
“I will. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too.”
Jennifer hung up the phone, then snuck back into the woods before any of the rangers who were closing up the park could notice. She was happy to be alone and unencumbered because that feeling she’d gotten right before the tree fell was still in the base of her stomach. She had definitely felt this sensation before, like when she was alone in her room late at night or before a thunderstorm. B
ut this time it was speaking to her directly, and she couldn’t stop thinking about what it said.
Something was on its way to Alton Forest—something big—and she wasn’t going to miss it for the world.
274 West 12 Street, New York, New York
Daniel J. Sullivan, aka the “Keeper of the Records,” had been largely forgotten among the proceedings on the rooftop garden of the Time Being. Like Becker Drane, he had been bound and gagged, but in all the fiddle faddle, no one had really stopped to give him the time of day. Sully had listened intently nonetheless, for this had always been his strong suit and because his intellectual curiosity was piqued—especially once the Calling Card lit up and the figure of Triton appeared.
“You don’t have to answer me now,” implored the head of the Seemsian underground. “I’m just asking you to consider the offer.”
Triton and the Time Being had been communicating for over ten minutes and Sully had processed every word of their exchange. “The offer,” as it were, was Triton’s assertion that a veritable who’s who of important figures in The Seems had already signed on to be part of the committee that would help The Tide fashion a new World. The only caveat was that they wouldn’t fully commit unless the highly respected Sophie Temporale threw her hat into the ring as well.
“With you on board, our cause would gain real credibility amongst the Seemsian populace.” The charismatic speaker was far less sinister in person than Sully had imagined. “And it would also be a chance to implement your proposals from the original World Project that were so thoughtlessly rejected at the time.”
Sully’s eyes fell to the ground, where a book known as The Grand Scheme of Things lay in the shattered glass case at his feet. Inside its plain white cover was the original design document for The World. The Keeper had been seeking a copy for most of his adult life, because he believed his theory of what was behind the Plan could be proved by what was on those pages. But if Sophie agreed to Triton’s proposal, the question—and his longsuffering project—would suddenly be moot.
“Any changes to Time would be subject to your approval, of course.” Triton’s garbled image flickered for a moment before regaining its original strength. “But I was really hoping you would help us follow up on a recent discovery I’ve made about the Most Amazing Thing of All.”
