by John Hulme
“It already isn’t.”
Freight Elevator 3, Department of Sleep, The Seems
Simly and Becker were cruising in a freight elevator toward the upstairs Bedrooms of Sleep. And though the Mission was still very much in jeopardy, the Fixer seemed dazed and out of it.
“You’re wrong,” he whispered. “That’s not the way it is . . .”
“Excuse me, sir?”
Becker had been rattled by his encounter with Thibadeau and had nearly forgotten where he was and what he was doing there.
“Sir?”
“Sorry, Simly.” He shook off the lingering taste of the argument. “Go ahead with your report.”
“Well, I did get one decent tip.” Simly pulled out his Briefing pad, which was filled with scribbles from his conversation with the Tooth Fairy. “According to my informant, this Glitch seems to have a . . . ‘mind of its own.’ ”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Glitches usually move in random patterns, right? And destroy everything in their path?”
“Yeah . . .”
“But this one’s sneakier than that. The breakdowns it’s causing are almost impossible to detect, and they get slightly more destructive with each Bedroom that it hits.”
Becker couldn’t help but agree and it troubled him deeply. A Glitch with a purpose was almost too terrible to contemplate.
“My guy says this is just how it happened during the Not-So-Great Depression.20”
“Who Fixed on that one?”
“No one. They say that at the last possible moment, the Glitch just . . . vanished.”
Simly tried to moisten his mouth with a piece of Trouble Gum™, but it did little to quell the rising panic.
“How about you, sir? Did you find anything out?”
Becker nodded and handed him the torn-up matchbook. On the inside fold was written a single word:
Dreamatorium
“This is where the Glitch is going next.”
20. A period in the early 1990s when an abundance of Depression was accidentally released during a pipeline break in the Department of Thought & Emotion—the repercussions of which are still being felt to this day.
6
Back in The World
12 Grant Avenue, Highland Park, New Jersey
The rings of Saturn glowed a fluorescent green on the ceiling above Benjamin Drane’s race-car bed. Jupiter was its big old self, but Mars was actually in the wrong place, located right on the outskirts of Pluto. There was also a spaceship that came with the set and Benjamin had pasted it up there, presuming that this was a family searching for a home on some distant planet, complete with the young daydreaming daughter, adventurous boy, and intrepid parents who would someday arrive and plant their flag of dreams.
Benjamin wasn’t used to being up this late, but there was a secret thrill in it. The planets seemed a little brighter and the outside seemed a little darker and the house seemed a little bit—
CREAK.
Something made a sound from inside his closet door.
Benjamin sat up with a start and waited for another sound, which never followed. But it was enough to tweak his mind, which immediately raced toward thoughts of the Boogeyman and Piñata (this movie he watched on USA one night) and eventually sent the young boy out of his bed and into the hallway once again.
He had already exhausted his video game collection, and the bathroom held little comfort, so the choice had come down to his parents or his older brother. He knew what he would get from his mom—a long, though loving, digression on the fact that he was just displacing his deeper fears of intimacy, loneliness, and death. And his dad, a professor at Rutgers University, would do just the opposite, taking a hasty trip to the closet and giving Benjamin scientific proof, right there and then, that there was no such monster in attendance.
Benjamin slowly turned the doorknob to his brother’s room instead.
“Becker?” He had been reprimanded in the past and agreed (under oath) never to enter Becker’s room without written permission, but tonight he was hoping for a reprieve. “Are you awake?”
All that Benjamin got back was the sound of snoring, so he slowly padded across the floor toward his brother’s bed.
“Becker . . . I need your help.”
Miraculously, the sound waves containing the word “help” flowed out of Benjamin’s mouth, through the air, into the auditory canal of the sleeping Me-2, where they were detected by a miniature microphone that activated the settings on the back of its neck, turning the dial automatically from “Sleep” to “Auto-Pilot” without the slightest click.
“Becker, wake up!”
Benjamin reached for what he assumed to be his brother’s shoulder when—
“Don’t you know I have a quiz tomorrow?” Benjamin nearly jumped out of his skin as the Me-2 rolled over and opened its eyes. “If I blow another one, Mom is gonna kill me!”
Its voice and appearance were indistinguishable from Becker’s, and it even seemed to have the same personality.
“But I still can’t sleep,” cried Benjamin. The younger Drane was on the verge of tears, partially from being afraid to go back into his bedroom and partially from the worst bout of insomnia he had ever experienced. The Me-2 sighed and tapped the side of the mattress.
“C’mere, buddy.”
Benjamin wiped away his tears and climbed aboard, his feet barely able to touch the floor.
“I’m gonna tell you something confidential,” whispered the look-alike, “but you have to promise not to tell a soul.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
The Me-2 looked around for effect, as if to make sure no one else could hear.
“It’s not just you who can’t sleep, B. It’s everyone in The World.” It opened the shades and the lights of the unsleeping neighborhood showered in. “A Glitch broke out in the Department of Sleep but there’s a Fixer on the job and he’s one of the best.”
Benjamin understood and this brought comfort to his worried mind.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“As a matter of fact there is.” The Me-2 thought it over. “Go back to your room and draw the coolest picture you can imagine of the Glitch being Fixed—just to give the guy in charge a little extra support. ’Cause trust me, he can feel it!”
Benjamin now had a mission of his own and promptly saluted.
“Aye aye, sir!”
“And when you’re done with that, tuck yourself in and await further instructions.”
As the boy bolted from the room and back into his own bedroom, the Me-2 cracked a smile.
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
But that smile faded when the Me-2 glanced out the window once again and saw that the situation had deteriorated even further. Literally every house in the neighborhood was ablaze with light and activity, while out in front of 12 Grant Avenue, Paul the Wanderer had become the first person in recorded history to finish War and Peace in a single session, and had gone back to his old habits of wandering the streets unhinged.
“C’mon, Becker. Don’t chunk this one.”
It was about to lie down and click itself back into “Sleep” mode when the fiber optics implanted in its eye noticed something sitting on the tiny bedside table: Becker’s copy of I Am the Cheese.
It picked up the book and began to read.
Motel Emmaus, Ulyanovsk, Russia
The TV remote control didn’t work and the rooms were still wood-paneled, but the small motel was clean and the staff friendly and courteous. Anatoly sat back on the bed and struggled to take off his shoes. His back was killing him after forty straight hours on the road, and all the travel had worn him to the bone.
“Please, lapuchka.” He waited patiently as the phone rang one time after another. “Pick up the phone.”
Anatoly Nikolievich Svar had been the king of the Northwest Territories only ten years ago, when Formica cabinets had been all the rage and people had a l
ittle extra money to spare. But now, with kitchen styles shifting back toward antique woods and purse strings pulled tight, his numbers had become harder and harder to make.
“Hello?” asked the tired voice on the other end of the line. “Is that you, zaychik?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, no . . . I’m still up. How is the trip going?”
“Good, good, things are turning around.” He didn’t want his wife to worry, so he tried to sugar-coat it. “People are really liking the new line.”
“That’s wonderful,” replied Irina. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Is everything ready for tomorrow?”
“All ready. The balloons are up and the cake is in the fridge. Pyotr’s coming and he says he’s even going to dress up like a clown.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t scare anyone.”
They both laughed at the thought of her brother with greasepaint on his face.
“Well, don’t tell Katrina I’m coming, because I want it to be a surprise.”
“Are you sure? I don’t you want you driving if you’re overtired.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get at least six hours of sleep before I hit the road.” The salesman needed it too, because he had eight more hours to go to make the trip home. “Wait till she sees what I got for her.”
At the foot of the bed was a big box wrapped in white paper, with a pink bow taped across the top. It had taken him weeks to find the perfect gift, but it had almost called out to him on the side of the road at a garage sale in Dimitrovgrad.
“Just promise me you’ll get some rest,” implored Irina.
“I promise. You as well.”
“I love you, Anatoly Nikolievich.”
“I love you too, Irinochka.”
As he hung up the phone, the salesman in the small motel smiled at the thought of his little daughter’s face when she opened up the box. No matter what hardships he faced on the road, all that mattered were his precious “girls,” and making it home for Katrina’s sixth birthday meant the world.
Now if he could only get some sleep.
Levent Business District, Istanbul, Turkey
“Yes, Mr. Demirel, I should have the plans for you by the end of the week, and I will certainly fax them over to you. Yes, me too. Thank you, sir.”
Dilara Saffet hung up the phone and shut off the light that illuminated her drafting table, then stepped out onto the busy streets of Istanbul. Cars shared the same roads as pushcarts and carriages, while glittering hotels rose among stone spires and minarets. This was what Dilara loved about this city, the curious blend of old and new, and the ten million people stuck in between.
“Dilara! Dilara! Come! Come!”
The old kerchiefed woman who sold flowers to passersby had become something of a friend to the young architect, and Dilara always made sure to buy at least a tulip from her cart.
“Hello, Mrs. Madakbas. How goes business today?”
“Forget about that. I have something special for you!” The merchant reached into one of her many pockets and pulled out a small piece of blue glass attached to a leather cord. “This will help you find a husband at last!”
Dilara laughed, recognizing the nazar boncuk, a local charm that some believed could ward off “evil eyes” and bring about good fortune. Apparently, Mrs. Madakbas thought this might end her terminal singledom and make a good Turkish woman out of her after all.
“I would never argue with you, babaane! ” Dilara took the charm and put it around her neck. “Because you are always right!”
She kissed the old lady’s fingers, then made her way toward the bus stop. Life was not bad for Dilara by any stretch. She had everything a person could ask for—health, a good family and friends, and a career in the process of taking off. But still, she had never met the right person to share it with.
“I must be happy for what I have,” she told herself when the thoughts came back on lonely afternoons, but she wasn’t getting any younger. And when her parents asked when they would get their long-awaited grandchild, she never quite knew what to say.
Little did Dilara know that Events were conspiring in her favor. She could not see that in her home district of Kadikoy a tiny mouse was crouching in its hole across the street from her apartment. She could not hear the rumble of the truck that, several hours from now, would cause a loose brick to fall from a neighboring building, which would scare the mouse from its hole, which would frighten the spice peddler’s donkey into knocking over his cart, sending a billow of jasmine tea up into the air. And Dilara could not feel the gust of wind, currently on its way across the desert sands, that would gather that billow and send it cascading up into the window above, where it might awaken her from her afternoon nap and send her outside to see what all the fuss was about.
All across The World, Chains such as these were constantly in motion—the stratagems of multiple departments working hand-in-hand with Case Workers in the Big Building. But one by one, they were slowly unraveling, for each had a weak link within their structure: Sleep . . . that knits up the raveled sleeve of care.
Thus, as Dilara Saffet boarded the bus and headed back to her apartment for lunch and some much needed rest, the chances that she would come outside and “accidentally” bump into Ati the postman were slowly slipping away.
Gandan Monastery, Sühbaatar Province, Outer Mongolia
“Anybody awake?”
The incomparable Li Po stepped up to the top of the bell tower, reading the text message that had just flashed across his Blinker. Down below, the youngest members of the Order practiced their forms and prostrations, completely unaware of the crisis that continued to mount.
“Isn’t every 1?” he typed back.
With his shaved head and traditional garb, Po may have resembled the countless others who frequented this sanctuary, but he possessed a secret that only thirty-six others shared: though his chosen homeland wouldn’t feel the brunt of the Glitch in Sleep for several more hours, if the situation in The Seems was not brought under control, a Ripple Effect could turn the countryside to chaos.
“R things as bad there as r here?” came the reply over Fixer-Chat21. It was the Octogenarian (username: 80something) from her home in South Africa.
“Not yet,” texted Numerouno, communicating in the only way his Vow of Silence allowed. “But will b soon.”
“Told u this was mistake,” a third username popped into the conversation—“Øhands”—aka No-Hands Phil. “Not job 4 kids.”
“Not fair,” defended the Octogenarian.
“Truth hurts.”
Po leaned against a crumbling statue, forever amused by his comrade’s trademark “gruffness.” Po also knew that Phil had enjoyed being “the new kid on the block,” and perhaps his judgment was clouded by a slightly bruised ego.
“What was your score on the Practical, #36?” typed Fixer Po, waiting for a reply that he knew would never come. “What was #37’s?”
Fixer #1 smiled, certain that No-Hands Phil was stewing in his own juices somewhere in the Caribbean, or wherever his boat was moored. But he couldn’t deny that he too had reservations. Though Becker Drane had briefed for him on two separate occasions and always impressed with both his talent and his heart, the rumblings of Po’s 7th Sense were truly starting to scare him.
“Give kid chance,” intervened the Octogenarian. “He’ll get job don. : -)”
Li Po was about to agree with her when Phil beat him to the punch.
“He bettr.”
30 Custer Drive, Caledon, Ontario
Half a world away, Anna and Steven Kaley nervously paced around their bright new living room. Though they had been there for over a month, boxes were still half unpacked and painters’ tape lay in bundles on the hardwood floors.
“What do you think we should do?” asked Anna. A glass of Sleepytyme Tea was in her hand, but she was too upset to drink it.
“It’ll pass.” Her husband tried to comfort her. “This always happens to the
new kid in town.”
“But I think it’s worse than we know. She’s covering things up, just so we won’t worry.”
Steven leaned over and gave his wife a hug. The job in Toronto had seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime, and though he felt bad about uprooting his family, he had hoped for an easier transition.
“She’s a tough kid, honey. She’ll make it through—”
He stopped in midsentence as the door to the upstairs bedroom swung open and Jennifer came bounding down the stairs.
“Hey . . . have either of you guys seen my silver necklace?”
Jennifer was wearing sweatpants and an extra-large T-shirt—her typical nighttime attire—but she didn’t seem to be tired at all.
“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep, young lady?”
“I’m supposed to have traveled the world, but that hasn’t happened yet either.”
“Ha ha,” jibed her dad. “Have you checked in your jewelry box?”
“I would if I could find it.”
“Honey, I think it must be out in the garage,” suggested her mom.
Jennifer rolled her eyes at her parents’ lack of organizational skills, then went out back to take a look. The garage was a disaster area, with boxes stacked from ceiling to floor. One after another she sorted through the crates, and finally found her jewelry box amid the rubble, but there was no sign of her favorite necklace. She did, however, find something else that brought a smile to her face.
“Wow—I forgot about you.”
The first two days of Jennifer’s tenure at Gary Middle School hadn’t been that bad. Sure, it wasn’t easy to leave her friends behind and it was never fun to have the entire class turn and look at you when the teacher announced, “We have a new friend,” but all in all, it seemed like a relatively cool place. Until the morning of the third day.
That was when the whispering started between two other girls in the hall about Jennifer’s “dirty” blond hair and cut-off shorts and anklets that she wore. In Vancouver, this was cool as well as comfortable, but here, people seemed to think it was weird. Though she was certainly thick-skinned enough to take a little razzing, it quickly escalated to something much, much worse.
