by John Hulme
“No, no, no, no no!” A rosy-cheeked man in a chef ’s outfit was sampling the batch. “Zis is too sweet!”
The Snoozemaster had been promoted from “Sous” all the way to “Chef de Cuisine” because of his instinct for how to make Sleep even tastier, but his bombastic personality had ruffled a few feathers along the way.
“What do you want from me?” cried one of the Tireless Workers. “The Glitch threw off our entire recipe!”
“Gleech, Gleech, Gleech! I no want to hear no more about zis Gleech!” The Snoozemaster kicked over a row of pots and pans, while beside him, Becker waited patiently for the temper tantrum to subside.
“So tell me again how it started?”
“I get call into ze office, on a night when I have tickets to Ze Snorchestra no less, and what do I findz? All ze recipes for ze Snooze are, how you say, bass ackwards!”
The master pressed the Snooze button and rebooted his computer, which printed Becker a list of recipes that had all been mixed and matched.
“Coffee beans are being blended with Pizzazz. Cinnamon with ze Mope. I told zese idiots from day one not computerize ze cookbooks. We makes zis by hand since back in ze Day, and ze system need no Fixing!”
Becker shook his head. One of the great frustrations of Fixing was the tendency of the Powers That Be to layer “quick fixes” on top of the existing technology, rather than fess up to the need for a page one redesign. “Give me a second, okay?”
“Everybody stand back,” announced Briefer Frye. “Give the man some space!”
Becker closed his eyes, and using the old-fashioned way, reached out with his 7th Sense to hone in on the Glitch. Judging from the goose bumps that sprouted up along his arms, he had picked up the trail, but it was still faint.
“I wish I could stay to help rewrite your recipes,” apologized Becker, “but I have to get my hands around this thing before it trashes the whole department.”
The Snoozemaster understood but still appeared quite shaken.
“But what about ze Snooze? Sleep cannot be mixed wizout ze precious Snooze!”
Becker stepped over to a vat, dipped his finger in the sludge, and took a sample taste.
“It’s almost there. Maybe an Energy reduction would enhance the flavor of the underlying Exhaustion?”
“No, no, no. Zis is crazy. It will never work . . .” Simly and the Tireless Workers dropped their eyes to the floor. “Unless . . . ”
“A little bit of Love?” Becker seemed to read his mind.
“Exactly!”
A spark shot through the room.
“Can you do it in time?” the Fixer asked hopefully.
“Not only can I,” bellowed the Snoozemaster, turning toward his line cooks with fire in his eyes. “But it shall be ze heaviest, most satisfying Snooze anyone in Ze World has ever seen!”
A roar went up among the Tireless Workers, but as they scrambled to gather the necessary ingredients, Simly couldn’t resist taking a taste for himself.
“Needs paprika.”
WDOZ, Department of Sleep, The Seems
“W . . . D . . . O . . . Zzzzzzzzzz.”
Becker’s goose bumps had led them to a small radio station on the roof of the department and while the jingle lingered in the air, he and Simly waited for the disc jockey to finish up his act.
“And that was ‘The Sound of Rain Outside Your Window on a Lazy Afternoon,’ by the Somnambulists . . . an oldie but goodie, designed to ease your mind into the soft, sweet paradise of Sleep.”
WDOZ had been established to broadcast soft tones to the subconscious minds of the people of The World—helping them to relax in preparation for the arrival of their Good Night’s Sleep. The DJ pulled another forty-five from the library in the booth.
“Up next, I’ve got a fresh take on a deep cut from back in the Day . . . ” He put the needle to the record, which was entitled “The Hum of the Air Conditioner (Remix).” “My name is Johnny Zzzzzzzzzzz and you’ve been listening to WDOZ, greasing the hinges on the ol’ inner doorway since 13303.”
As the record began to spin, the balding, pony-tailed jock lowered the volume and exited the booth to join Becker and Simly.
“Look, brother”—his off-air personality was a far cry from his on-air one—“I don’t know what anyone told you, but there ain’t no Glitch in my station.”
“I’m not here to blame anybody,” Becker assured him. “It’s just that Glitches can be tricky. Maybe it got into the board.”
“A Glitch got into the board?” The DJ shook his head, insulted, then pulled out a pair of headphones and jacked them into the slot. “Be my guest.”
Becker gave Simly the okay to put the phones on, and Johnny Z cranked up the volume on what was being broadcast to The World that very moment. In a matter of seconds, Simly’s eyelids started to get heavy and he began to make space for himself on the floor.
“See? The Z-man never fails.”
This guy reminded Becker of Joel Waldman—a kid from Highland Park who had a major attitude problem—but the Fixer still wasn’t convinced. He reached into his Toolkit and pulled out a dog-eared copy of the one book that every Fixer cannot do without.
Its official name was The Compendium of Malfunction & Repair, but everyone who had one called it “the Manual” and (as promised in the foreword) it contained “Everything You Need to Know to Fix.” Becker turned to chapter 6, “Schematics and Blueprints,” and quickly found the page for WDOZ.
“Can I take a look at the Incapacitator?”
“What the heck is that?” The Z-man may have been the Program Director, but he obviously had no clue about the inner workings.
“It’s the node that translates your records into frequencies that people in The World can hear.”
“Just make it quick, bro. I got a show to run here.”
Following the Manual’s instructions, Becker flipped open the board and tunneled his way to the core of the circuitry. In the middle of a bunch of tangled wires was a small transistor, through which all of WDOZ’s signals had to travel. Just as he had suspected, it was burned to a crisp and Becker bypassed the hub to reveal what was actually being piped out to audiences worldwide.
“Ahhh!” Simly yanked off the headphones, suddenly wide awake. “It sounds like grinding gears mixed with a screaming baby cow.”
“I wish I could say I was surprised,” said Fixer Drane. “Only one thing could have done this kind of damage in that amount of time . . . but it’s already long gone.”
Johnny Z looked contrite and tried to pull his tail from between his legs.
“Do you think you can Fix it?”
Cafeteria, Department of Sleep, The Seems
Becker skillfully replaced the toasted Incapacitator with the newer, faster Zonker 111, but the Glitch had not stopped there. It was cutting a swath through the entire department, jumping from Bedroom to Bedroom and machine to machine, and each of the elements of Sleep was beginning to break down.
Fresh-baked Yawns were coming out of the oven, yet they had failed to adequately rise. Wake-Up Calls were being sent too early, Bedtime Stories were churned out with little or no Inspiration, and the Sack was being hit to virtually no effect at all. Even Pillow Frosting was coating the other side of people’s pillows with Hot instead of Cool.
Along the way, Becker and Simly were Fixing like madmen, but this was the rub of hunting a Glitch: the subtle and complex trail of devastation it left behind could only be handled by a Fixer (and Briefer), yet the attention that had to be given to that trail made it nearly impossible to gain any ground.
Exhausted and soaked with sweat, the partners took a break at the Employee Cafeteria, where three Wake-Up Call Operators were comforting each other after having come face-to-face with the nasty root of all the evening’s troubles.
“It was terrible,” cried a blue-haired old lady. “It blew up my entire switchboard.”
Her friends nodded sadly and brushed the ash from their coworker’s frazzled bouffant.
>
“There, there, Shirley. A Fixer is here now and it’ll all be over soon.”
Becker and Simly glanced at each other, then immediately got back to business.
“I still don’t understand why it doesn’t work.” The Glitcho-meter was splayed out on the lunch table before them.
“Don’t worry about it,” answered Becker, rereading the “Bleeps, Blips, and Blunders” chapter of his Manual for any clues on how to proceed. “And eat your midnight snack, cause we’re gonna need all the energy we can get once we find this thing.”
Simly nodded and pulled out a brown paper bag that had been packed by his mom. There were carrots and celery wrapped in plastic, hardboiled eggs, and even a slice of Dazzleberry Pie.16
“So how does it feel to finally make it to Fixer?”
“Pretty cool, I guess.” Becker took a bite of his PowerBar and continued to leaf through the text. “A little more pressurized, though.”
Simly was in the mood to chat (as usual) but Becker had larger things on his mind—not least of which was his gnawing concern over whether this was another offensive by The Tide. A recent memo from Central Command had warned all Fixers about the growing dangers of this insurrection, and Becker ran down the list of recent strikes in his mind. This incident certainly bore similarities to the night a horde of fruit flies was unleashed into the Grapevine, shorting out interdepartmental communications, but The Tide always left its calling card— the symbol of the black cresting wave—and, as of yet, no such thing had been found.
“I want to be a Fixer someday.”
“What was that?”
“I said I want to be a Fixer too. Like you.”
“You do?”
This was surprising to Becker because Simly was born in The Seems, and though humans and Seemsians are similar in almost every regard, they differ in one important detail. Seemsians aren’t born with a Fixer’s greatest asset, a 7th Sense, which is why they almost always top out at Briefer.
“Yeah, I know there’s the whole 7th Sense issue . . . but my grandpa always said I was gonna be the first one in the family to make it all the way.”
“Well, you’re very good at what you do, that’s for sure. And as far as the 7th Sense thing goes, did you ever read The Journal of Al Penske?”
“You mean the Toolmaster?” asked Simly. “Yeah, I read it. But there’s nothing in there about—”
“If you look in appendix C, he tells this really cool story about how he found his 7th Sense by pretending he was born in The World and visualizing how he might feel if ‘something was wrong’ in The Seems.”
“Really?” Simly’s eyes brightened up momentarily. “Have you ever heard of that actually working?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth a shot.”
Becker could tell that Simly wasn’t quite buying it but that he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.
“Can I ask you one more thing, sir?”
It was still kind of weird for Becker to be referred to as “sir,” especially by someone fifteen years older than he.
“Call me Becker, Sim.”
“That girl in Sector 104?”
“Jennifer Kaley?”
“Yeah. How come you chose her to be your Mission Inside the Mission? Instead of all the other Cases?”
Becker thought it over. Of course Jennifer’s situation was compelling and she was pretty and all that, but it was more just the feeling he got when he saw her. Sometimes things like that are hard to put into words, and usually best left that way.
“I don’t know. There was just something about her.” Becker looked up at Simly. “Why, who would you have chosen?”
“I think the guy in the motel. The salesman. I just really hope he gets home in time for his daughter’s birthday.”
“Then you can Fix for him and I can Fix for her. Cool?”
“Cool.”
They each packed up their Toolkit and Briefcase respectively, then Becker took a peek at the clock on the cafeteria wall.
“C’mon, I think I’ve got an idea . . . ”
Pillowstone Lane, Department of Sleep, The Seems
On the east side of Sleep, near Shuteye’s Shoe Repair, was a small nightclub that had become an institution in The Seems. Here, people from every department would gather to blow off steam, and Becker thought he might be able to find someone in the Know.
“I don’t know about this, sir.”
“Shhhh!”
Becker and Simly were peering out of a fire exit and into the dark alley. Mist filled the air and an old Tinker pushed a cart down an uneven cobblestone road.
“They’ll find her someday . . . they’ll bring her back . . .” His cart was filled with sleep masks, earplugs, and even a Craftmatic adjustable bed. “The Plan is good . . . the Plan is good.”
The Tinker disappeared into the fog, leaving only one other sign of life in the alley: a broken-down neon marquee, which swung back and forth on a single rusty hinge.
The Slmbr Paty
“We can’t go in there,” whispered Simly.
“Why not?”
“My mom says it’s a really rough joint.”
“Don’t worry. I got your back.”
Beneath the sign was a muscular Bouncer, dressed all in black, and reading a copy of the Daily Plan.17 An underage student from the School of Thought was trying to con her way in, but he didn’t even look up from the crossword.
“But I don’t have a fake ID,” Simly worried.
“You don’t need one, you’re twenty-seven.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Besides, we’ve got something much better than a fake ID.”
Simly and Becker crossed the street and flashed the Fixer’s Badge. The Bouncer held it up to the light, making sure it was legit, than stamped both their hands and lifted the velvet rope.
“Why do they get to go in?” cried the teenage girl, still stuck out in the cold.
“Because,” said the Bouncer, filling in 32 Across.18
The inside of the Slumber Party was barely illuminated by gaslit Night Lights, scattered one to a table. Smoke filled the air and Seemsians from every department sat in booths and alcoves, drinking multicolored elixirs and speaking in hushed tones. Becker and Simly made their way past the band in the corner—a three-piece jazz ensemble that laid down a drowsy groove—and approached the mahogany bar.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?”
The bartender, who, judging by the tattoos on his arm, was a veteran of the Color Wars, seemed amused by the appearance of a twelve-year-old boy with a Tool-covered dork in tow.
“We’re looking for someone in The Know.”
Becker flashed his Badge again, hoping the barkeep could put him in touch with one of The Seems’s most infamous secret societies—a criminal element that traded in Plan-sensitive information.
“Wish I could help you boys, but I ain’t never heard of no Know.”
“Listen, bubba.” Becker had no choice but to play hardball. He leaned over the bar and pressed his nose right up against the larger man’s face. “You know there’s a Know and I know there’s a Know and we both know The Know is known to hang out here.”
The bartender stared back, giving him nothing at all.
“So unless you want me to bring my boys from the FDA down here and have them find out what you’re really serving, you better start singing, and I mean now!”
Simly couldn’t believe what Becker was saying to this big, burly dude. After all, the kid could barely see over the bar to even talk to him. But he supposed that’s part of what made Becker a Fixer.
“Check out the VIP area.” The barkeep finally gave in. “Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for back there.”
As he walked away muttering, Becker winked at Simly, then gave him the bad news.
“Listen, Sim. We’re gonna need to split up.”
“We are?”
“Yeah, I need to be able to fit in a little better.” Becker pulled off his Badge an
d messed up his hair with a handful of Goop™. “Just stay here and see what you can find.”
“No problem.”
“And Sim?”
“Yeah?”
“Try to be cool.”
“Cool? I’m cool.” Simly was deeply offended. “Cool’s my middle name.”
They gave each other the Shake,19 then Becker disappeared into the throng. But as the Briefer turned around, he could feel the eyes of the entire club upon him.
“Correction,” he said to himself, reminded of the day he walked out at the YMSA pool without his bathing suit on. “My middle name is not cool. It’s Alomonus.”
In the back of the club was the cordoned-off VIP area, and Becker was able to slide through gracefully under his new cover as a hip young Case Worker on the go. No one questioned his credentials, simply by the way he carried himself and how he dropped bits of information that only someone who worked at the Big Building would ever know.
“So, anyway, I’m working on this love story between two people in Sector 906 and the whole thing depends on this woman getting a GNS, and boom! A Glitch puts the kibosh on the whole thing.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” said a curious Cloud Picker. “Word is they brought in a Fixer.”
“Those guys get all the good gigs,” pretended Becker.
“Not to mention all the credit.”
A lot of employees resented the appearance of a Fixer because it tacitly implied that they weren’t capable of handling the job themselves. Becker let it go and was about to prod him for more info when there was a tug on the back of his shirt.
“You know all about that, don’t you, Fixer boy?” Standing behind him was a Flavor Miner, smears of Chocolate Chip Mint and Butter Pecan still on his oversized smock.
“What do you mean, Fixer boy?” asked the Picker.
“This guy’s a company man all the way.”
Becker was scrambling to save face as a crowd started to gather.
“Listen bro, I was just tryin’ to—”
“We don’t like your kind in here,” coughed an unemployed Wordsmith, and a few Time Flies chimed in, working up the crowd into an angry froth.
