by John Hulme
Amid the stampede for the door, Jeremy Mintz couldn’t resist— “Then it’s not pop!”
“NO INCOMING CALLS.”
Becker’s Blinker™ flashed the same disappointing message it had moments earlier, so he clipped it back on his belt, got on his bike, and began the short trip home.
Highland Park was (and always had been) Becker’s hometown, and as the sign on Route 27 declared, it’s “A Nice Place to Live.” There are crookety sidewalks and tree-lined streets and a nice little main drag with shops and stores and a post office. Becker had spent the last three years bopping back and forth between HP and the IFR and just as Fixer Blaque had promised, Training had been a pretty wild ride. It not only taught him the art of Fixing but literally changed the way he looked at The World. Whereas once it was just a place to hang out and go to school, now all he could see around him were the amazing creations of the various departments. And judging by the way the sky, the clouds, the very sound of the wind through the trees were coming together to create this perfect autumn afternoon, someone was on their game today.
Anyhow, Becker dropped his bike on the front lawn of 12 Grant Avenue and bounded through the wide front door.
“Anybody home?”
“I’m in the kitchen!”
Samantha Mitchell was one of the most sought-after babysitters in town, because a) she gave the kids a pretty long leash, and b) she was one of the prettiest girls at HPHS. Currently, she was locked in a conference call regarding invites to her Sweet Sixteen.
“Where’s Benjamin?”
“Up in the playroom.”
Becker trundled up the stairs, barging in on his brother, who sat guiltily in front of the third-floor TV. Ben was six to Becker’s twelve, but that didn’t stop him from indulging in another round of Juvenile Delinquent.
“Dude, I just toilet-papered the Senior Center!”
In the bestselling video game, it was your mission to vandalize as much of an unsuspecting town as possible before getting busted by parents, teachers, or the local 5-0. They had gotten a bootlegged copy from Kyle Fox, the infamous black-marketeer of M-rated vids, and though it was far from appropriate for a child of Benjamin’s age, that’s what afternoons with the babysitter were all about.
“Put it on two-player!” Becker picked up a controller and quickly entered the fray. “Faster, B, he’s right on your tail.”
A heavy-set truant officer was chasing Benjamin down a back alley.
“I’m trying!”
Becker pressed the “A” button and “Quentin”—the sketchy burnout he’d created as his alter ego—suddenly popped from behind a garbage can and emptied a case of thumbtacks onto the concrete. While the hapless officer fell to the ground in agony, a message onscreen flashed “10,000 Bonus Points,” and the brothers made their hasty escape.
“Thanks, dude.” Benjamin breathed a sigh of relief.
“No sweat.”
They high-fived each other (onscreen and off-), then Quentin fired up his motorized scooter.
“Now let’s go egg City Hall!”
Wednesday nights were movie night, when Benjamin went to bed early and Becker got to log some QT with Samantha Mitchell. Though Samantha was four years Becker’s senior (and dating Tommy Vanderlin6), he was working his deep-cover strategy of convincing her that even though the age difference between them now seemed insurmountable, it wouldn’t always be that way.
“Pass me the popcorn, would you?” asked Samantha, reaching across the cushiony L-shaped couch.
Becker handed it over, then casually took another peek at the Blinker on his belt.
“STILL NO INCOMING CALLS.”
Bummer. It had been five long weeks since Becker had received his promotion to Fixer, but he still hadn’t gotten a call. A regular working Fixer gets about one Mission every two to three weeks, which is about how long it takes for the Rotation to turn over, and Fixer #36 (aka “No-Hands Phil”) had been called in to lift a Cloud of Suspicion over ten days ago. That meant Fixer #37 (aka Becker Drane) was next up on the list, and he was chomping at the bit to get his first Mission.
“This is a really good flick,” interrupted his babysitter. Becker shook off his preoccupation with The Seems and returned to his living room couch.
“Cool. I thought you might like it.”
Tonight, Becker had selected The Real Thing for their viewing entertainment, an obscure indie feature about a young girl who struggles to find love, until the quirky yet strangely perfect man of her dreams sweeps her off her—
“I can’t sleep!”
Benjamin appeared on the landing with his blankie in hand.
“Well, go back up and try again!” Becker was motioning to him like “get lost, you’re blowing my rap,” but Benjamin was oblivious. (Or at least pretending to be.)
“Becker, go upstairs and help your little brother.”
Becker dropped his head, defeated—then jumped off the couch and chased the little mongrel up the stairs.
“You better hope I don’t catch you!”
Though the Drane house was fairly well kempt, the two brothers had worn a path on the wool carpeting that lined the stairways and halls. One set of feet was small (but quick), while the other was big (but even quicker), which lent Becker a decided advantage in the race.
“Don’t hit me! I’m gonna tell Mom!” screeched Benjamin, as he tucked and rolled into his room.
“Not if you’re already dead!”
Even Becker had to admit his brother’s bedroom was the sweetest in the house. Benjamin had gone through about a hundred phases already in his short life and all the residual evidence from those periods was scattered about hither-nither. He had a race-car bed (from when he wanted to be a race-car driver), glow-in-the-dark planets on the ceiling (from when he wanted to be an astronaut), and a host of giant canvases (because now he was in his “artist phase”).
“Back in bed, Benja-bratt.” Ben got into the driver’s seat, while Becker took up a position on one of the Pirelli tires. “Now, what’s your problem?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I swear, it’s not my fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?”
“She’s too old for you, anyway.”
Becker lunged at his little brother, who ducked under the blankets. But when he came back up for air, he had clearly shifted gears. Gone was the abominable snowchild, and in his place was a charming little bro.
“Will you tell me another story about The Seems?”
Talking to Benjamin about The Seems was semi against the Rules, but Becker had shared select pieces with him because a) he was young and got afraid a lot, and b) even if he ever did say something to someone, they would probably just think he had a great imagination. Which he did.
“What do you wanna know?”
“I want to hear about the Night They Robbed the Memory Bank.”
“I already told you that one.”
“Then tell me about Ice Cream Sunday.”
Becker sighed because he had already told him that one too, but he figured if he got it over quickly, maybe he could get back downstairs in time for the final scene, when tears would flow and he might get a “Becker, that was so sweet,” from Samantha Mitchell.
“Every year in The Seems—”
“Tell it like you mean it!”
Becker thought about suggesting to his parents (again) that Benjamin endure a short stint at military school, but that idea had been rejected. Plus, this was one of his favorites too.
“Every year in The Seems, on the most beautiful day imaginable, there’s a national holiday that they call Ice Cream Sunday.”
“That’s better.”
“Everyone except for the Skeleton Crew gets the day off, and the entire Field of Play is transformed into a giant festival. There’s music and rides, and all the different departments set up these giant tents. The Department of Time hands out Déjà Vu’s, Nature has a Cloud Walk, and Public Works auctions off all the best Sunsets of the year. Even the Food &
Drink Administration lets you sample all the newest treats before they hit The World.”
“Have you ever been to Ice Cream Sunday?”
“Once—as a Briefer, and it was pretty awesome. But now that I’m a Fixer, I get a VIP pass, which lets you in to all the private parties and even gets you backstage at the Jam Session.”
“Man, I wanna be a Fixer!”
“I thought you wanted to be a Sunset Painter.”
“I wanna be both.”
Becker shook his head in amazement. Kids.
“Now go to sleep before Mom comes home and we’re both up a creek.”
Benjamin nodded and tucked himself in, but it was obvious that something was still bothering him.
“Becker?”
“What?”
“Um . . . if there’s The Seems and they have a Plan and stuff . . . then . . . then how come Amy died?”
Ouch. That was something Becker tried not to think about anymore.
About a year ago, his best friend, Amy Lannin, had gone into the hospital for a routine operation, but there had been complications and she never came out. Becker was crushed, and Benjamin too (because she had always protected him from the local bullies), yet he had never brought it up since the day both of them had been pulled out of class to hear the terrible news.
“That’s a good question, B.”
Becker swallowed the lump in his throat, then found the same answer that someone had given him one night, when he was feeling much the same way.
“No one, not even a Case Worker, can see into the heart of the Plan. And beware of anyone who says that they can.” Then he leaned in and whispered in Benjamin’s ear. “But here’s what I believe—”
“All right, you two!”
Both the boys whirled around to see their mother in the doorway. Her arms were crossed and it was impossible to tell how much of the conversation she had heard.
“Enough Dungeons and Dragons for one night!”
“It’s not Dungeons and Dragons. It’s The Seems!” Benjamin shook his head in amazement. Adults.
As Mrs. Drane took over the parenting duties, Becker backed out carefully and tried to slip away.
“Where do you think you’re going, young man?”
“To finish my movie.”
“Your movie’s finished.” Uh-oh. Becker had heard this tone before and it wasn’t a good sign. “Go brush your teeth and meet me in your room.”
By any reasonable standard, Dr. Natalie Drane was a pretty cool mom. She was a psychologist by trade, which meant she tended to be rather forgiving if some sort of minor transgression should occur. But on the flip side, she liked to have these “talks.” There was a talk when Becker “borrowed” a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup from Foodtown (he was only four at the time). And there was a talk about smoking, red meat, the dangers of the Internet, and the importance of sharing, especially when it came to feelings.
“Guess who I got a phone call from today?”
Becker crawled into his bed and prepared to take his lumps.
“I give up.”
“Dr. Kole. He says you’ve been very distracted in class lately and wanted to know if anything was wrong at home.”
Well, Becker thought, the snack drawer was rather empty as of late and a sixty-eight-inch flat-screen TV might be a nice addition, but other than that . . .
“You’re out the door before breakfast, you lock yourself in your room when you get home, and you’re up all hours of the night.” She cleared her throat, not relishing what might come next. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Actually, there was—that he’d gotten promoted to Fixer and the reason he was distracted was far more important than Dr. Kole and his Best Books Ever.
“Yes, but I’m not allowed to.”
“Is this about that game again?”
Becker nodded, pretending to be embarrassed. Like every other Fixer, he had developed a cover story, in case someone in his life started to get suspicious. Some Fixers used second jobs or boyfriends/girlfriends, but his idea was that The Seems was just this underground role-playing game that all the kids were into these days, and that seemed to work pretty well.
“Listen, Becks, if you and your brother want to save the world, that’s fine. But not if it gets in the way of your studies.”
“Fair enough.” Becker hated to let his mother down, but when she reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a brand-new copy of I Am the Cheese—“Aw c’mon, Mom! That book is way too dark for someone my age. Besides, you’d have to be a rocket scientist to figure it out!”
“Well, luckily you’re not a rocket scientist.”
Becker had to admit, his mom was pretty good. She kissed him on the forehead, turned out the lights, and issued her usual farewell.
“Now sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite!”
But as soon as she closed the door Becker tossed the book aside, for there was really only one thing on his mind: when was his Mission going to come through? On the one hand, radio silence was a good thing, because that meant all was right in The Seems (and hence The World), but on the other, it was starting to make him nervous. Maybe they had found an error on his Practical and he hadn’t been added to the Rotation. Or maybe his Blinker was on the fritz. Or worse yet, maybe someone in the Big Building had woken up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, and realized, “Wait a minute. I can’t put a twelve-year-old in a position as important as this.”
With his mind racing, the young Fixer shut his eyes and tried to remember all the tricks he’d learned over the past three years. Don’t stress out over what you can’t control. Trust your Case Worker. And rest assured that everything happens according to Plan. The more he reminded himself, the more he felt his body starting to relax. The bed felt comfy beneath him. The pillows were soft and cool. And with a hearty yawn, he pulled the blanket tight and strapped himself in for another good night’s sleep.
Two hours later, Becker sat up in his bed, mildly disturbed. On most nights he had little trouble sleeping and it usually only took a moment or two before he felt that pleasant feeling of “sliding across.” But for some reason, on this night it didn’t go that way. Every time he felt himself beginning to slide, he would invariably get bounced back. It was almost like someone had put up an invisible wall, a barrier to sleep that could not be surmounted no matter how hard he tried. Becker rolled over, changed pillows, repositioned his legs, even counted sheep, but nothing seemed to work.
Without warning, a light in the hallway flicked on and two small feet went chugging past his door. From the sound of sirens wailing, his little brother was back at “Juvee” again, yet this was of little concern. Benjamin often had trouble getting his Z’s. It was only when he heard his mom and dad’s voices chatting through the wall that his 7th Sense began to flare.
A lot of people talk about the 6th Sense—that it’s ESP or talking to dead people, but those are actually your 10th and 11th Senses. The 6th Sense is in fact your sense of humor and the 8th Sense is your sense of direction (both doled out in varying quantities), but the 7th Sense is an entirely different animal.7 That’s a feeling you get when something has gone wrong in The Seems and will soon affect The World. Few ever learn to cultivate it, but properly honed it is one of the Fixer’s greatest assets, for the sensations can lead you straight to the source of the problem. Becker Drane was one of those few, and when he felt the hairs on his neck beginning to rise, he got out of the bed.
From his second-story window there was a view of Highland Park, and he could see the Dranes were not alone in their affliction. Mrs. Chudnick lived next door and she was standing in her kitchen, warming up some milk. The Croziers were across the street, playing their own games of solitaire in each of their bedrooms. And Paul the Wanderer, who lived in his car (he was harmless so the cops let it slide) was reading War and Peace by the dashboard light. In fact, all across the neighborhood lights were on and people were wide awake.
For Becker to be up at thi
s hour was plausible—he was leading a dual life with double responsibilities and homework in two worlds—but the rest of these people were just ordinary citizens who were usually fast asleep by now. The feeling on the back of Becker’s neck made its way to his stomach and would soon be causing a prickly set of chills all over. This was the progression of the 7th Sense and it could only mean one thing: something had gone wrong in The Seems.
Something big.
Gandan Monastery, Sühbaatar Province, Outer Mongolia
Precisely thirty-three seconds earlier, the inimitable Li Po’s eyes opened upon the sacred temple that he called home. He’d been contemplating The Most Amazing Thing of All when his own neck hairs had raised, and now he waited serenely for Central Command to send out its Call.
“OMMMMMM.”
As the chanting of the monks reverberated through the chamber, Fixer #1 on the Rotation wiped the sweat from his brow. He was the acknowledged master of the 7th Sense, and whatever was happening in The Seems during the eternal moment of Now, he was the first to feel it. But tonight, he couldn’t get a lock on which Department had gone down.
Perhaps it was Weather again. Or Time. Or maybe even . . .
Gordon’s Bay Retirement Community, Cape Town, South Africa
Nature. It had to be Nature. She had sent a memo about a patch of purple grass in Senegal, but the Big Building had ignored her, and now look what was happening.
“Sylvia! It’s your move!”
It took the Fixer known as “The Octogenarian” a moment to remember where she was and what she was doing there. Oh, yes. This was the final round of the annual GB Canasta Championship, and a crowd of onlookers anxiously waited to see if she and Morty could defend their title.
“Gotta run, darlings!” Sylvia smiled and threw down the final meld for a clean knockout. “Time for my morning massage.”
Leaving her opponents (and the fans) in a state of shock, Fixer #3 adjourned to the Clubhouse and pulled a little black box from her oversized pocketbook. In her fifty years on the Duty Roster, Sylvia Nichols had seen all there was to see, but the thrill of another Mission about to go out never got old. She quickly toggled over to every Fixer’s favorite Blinker screen:
