by John Hulme
“Hubie?” cried the sweaty-shirted Dr. Glorp. “Hubie couldn’t mix a Nightmare if it hit him on the head!”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Seymour threw an empty beaker at his colleague, which shattered on the wall. “Now go get me OLD FAITHFUL before this imbecile wakes up!”
In the chair before them, Becker Drane had finally started to stir. It had been a horrible Dream, worthy of its name, and he was still not free from its devastating spell.
“It’s not my fault . . . Mom, Dad . . . we have to get to the . . . Benjamin . . .”
“Don’t worry, munchkin. I’m going to take you far, far away from all this.” Seymour chuckled and leaned in to the semiconscious Fixer. “To someplace much, much worse.”
Just then, Glorp returned with a dusty old decanter.
“I don’t understand, Seymour. I thought we had retired OLD FAITHFUL.”
“I’m sick of these new-agey Nightmares. The classics are the classics for a reason!” Seymour dangled the last remaining milliliter of YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE over the crusty container. “And with one drop of this . . .”
The instant the two Nightmares combined, the liquid began to bubble and froth.
“. . . what’s old becomes new!”
Seymour raised the vial over his head, triumphant, and his partners roared with delight.
“Someone call an exterminator?”
The Bed Bugs whirled around to see a tall, lanky Seemsian come flying into the room. His body was draped from head to toe in Tools, and stamped on his chest was the block letter “B,” which he wore as proudly as all the Briefers who were ever named Frye.
“Now get your hands off my Fixer,” Simly demanded, “or else!”
The Bed Bugs stood stunned for a second before Seymour broke into a yellow-toothed grin.
“This it too good to be true! Two Tasters in one day.”
The others grabbed their nets and prepared to seize their second victim, but Simly was more than ready. He pulled a thin (ozone-friendly) aerosol canister off his Utility Belt and sprayed it in their faces. The Bed Bugs immediately began to cough and choke and fall on the floor, writhing about in agony. Simly made sure to soak each one a second time, then unstrapped his dazed compatriot.
“Becker! Becker! Are you okay?”
A quick slap to the face seemed to bring the Fixer back to this reality.
“Simly! What’s—what’s happening?”
“I’m trying to get you out of here!”
“But the Ripple Effect . . . it’s tearing The World apart!”
“It was just a bad dream, Becker. There hasn’t been any Ripple Effect. At least not yet!”
Becker didn’t believe him at first—it was all so fresh in his mind—but as the truth of Simly’s words rang home, his mind and body filled with newfound strength. There was still time to do his job and do it right.
“Now hurry up, sir,” said Simly, pulling free the last of the straps. “This stuff wears off after a couple minutes.”
“What did you use on those guys?”
“Something my grandpa gave me when he found out I was going to Sleep.”
He held up the can, which had a picture of a guy in a lab-coat inside a circle, with a red line through it.
“Bed Bug Repellent™!” shouted Seymour, dragging himself off the floor and gasping for air. “Very clever indeed.”
“But not clever enough!” issued Marty, color flooding back into his face. In fact, all four Bed Bugs had started to shake off the effects. “That might have worked back in Milton Frye’s day, but we’ve spent the last twenty years building up a resistance to his pathetic concoction!”
“Um . . .” Simly was at a loss for the first time that night. “I’m all out of ideas, boss.”
Becker normally would have busted out his Speed Demons™ at a time like this, but in all the hurry of his first Mission, he’d left them in the closet right next to his Chuck Taylor’s. With just his regular kicks on and the Bed Bugs blocking each and every exit, there was only one way left to go.
“Dude, put on your Concrete Galoshes™.”
“Why? What’s that gonna do?”
“Just do it.”
Snorchestral Chamber, Department of Sleep, The Seems
Directly below the Chamber of Horrors, on the eighth floor of the department, was a packed auditorium, complete with band shell, red velvet seating, and balcony boxes for the Powers That Be. The same legendary ensemble had sold out the show every night since the beginning of Time, and tonight was no exception.
“Shhh!”
In the fourth row, the Snoozemaster shoved his way past several annoyed patrons to get to seats 4D and 4E.
“I am sorry, mon cheri, but zis Glitch . . .” The young Scent Designer who was his date for the evening didn’t want to hear it. “You must understand, I had to rebuild ze Snooze from Scra—”
“Shhh!”
The rest of the second row didn’t want to hear it either, for up onstage, the Snorchestra was entering into its climactic movement. Musicians were playing a host of odd instruments—pots and pans, kettle drums, a piece of wood being sawed—while a chorus of noseblowers laid down a harmony of phlegm. In the pit below, a conductor waved his baton, while technicians recorded every sound of the awful clamor onto pancake reels destined for Central Shipping.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” exhorted the Snoozemaster, as a particularly horrible cacophony erupted from the stage. Fortunately for him and the rest of the audience, protective headphones were issued upon entrance, which translated the harsh snores into sweet and dulcet tones. “And ’ere comes ze finale.”
The music swelled to a crescendo and the crowd began to rise to its feet, but before the Fat Lady could sing, a swarm of lab-coated freaks came crashing down from above.
“Bed Bugs!”
In a wave of panic, the concertgoers scattered for the doors, while the hapless scientists staggered to their feet. They had survived the fall unscathed but were now up against something that was far, far worse.
“No. Not the Snorchestra,” cried Seymour, clutching his hands to his unprotected ears. “Make it stop. Make it stop!”
But the Snorchestra could not stop, for Snoring itself was one of the oldest and most maddening sounds ever created, and the musicians who played it were devoted to its every note.
High above, Becker and Simly gently floated toward the ground. Only moments before, the combined weight of their Concrete Galoshes had caused the ancient floor of the Chamber of Horrors to collapse, sending all of its inhabitants plunging down below. Luckily, the Fixer and Briefer were far more prepared for a free-fall than the Bed Bugs—deploying their Chutes & Ladders™—but the successful stratagem did not come without a price.
“This isn’t good, sir,” said Simly, pointing to the chaos below.
“This is worse.”
When Becker held up his Blinker, the Briefer knew he wasn’t kidding, for the light was flashing red and a painfully simple text message was writing itself across the screen:
VIOLATION! FIXER #37 SUSPENDED FROM DUTY! VIOLATION!
9
A Glimmer of Hope
The door to the office of the highest-ranking employee in Sleep was made of frosted glass and stenciled with the name of the man who worked inside:
DOMINIC DOZENSKI, ADMINISTRATOR, DEPT. OF SLEEP
Behind that door was Dominic himself, with his walrus mustache, three-piece suit, and gold-plated pocketwatch (inscribed with the departmental insignia). He sat silently behind his messy desk, deliberately flipping through the pages of a thick, hardcover book while across from him, Becker and Simly reclined in two pleather Love Seats.
“Excuse me, sir, but—”
The Administrator silenced Becker with a single finger, which he then licked and used to turn another page. On the wall above them, the clock ticked forward and Becker wanted to say, “C’mon, dude, let’s get this over with so I can get back to my Mission,” but he was severely outranked and ha
d no choice but to bite his tongue.
As Dominic made a note to himself in the margin, Becker let his eyes wander over the office. Sleep-related arcana littered the walls, while the bookshelves were filled with Seemsian bestsellers such as The Unauthorized Miracle and Why Should They Have All the Fun?: How to Overcome Your Resentment and Learn to Love The World Again. And prominently displayed on the wall behind the desk, just as it was in the office of all the other Administrators, was the famous painting known as The Thirteenth Chair.24
“Ahem.”
Dominic cleared his throat and slammed the book shut. “Do you know what this book is, Fixer Drane?”
“It’s the Rulebook, sir.”
“That’s right. It’s the Rulebook—and do you know why we have a Rulebook?”
Becker was smart enough to know this was a rhetorical question, so he kept his mouth shut.
“Rules are the foundation of any good organization, son. For without Rules, even an organization as . . . organized as The Seems can go bad. Like an apple rotting to the core.”
“I realize that, sir, but—”
“Don’t interrupt me, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you and you and I took these jobs, we agreed to follow these Rules to the best of our ability. Even when it didn’t seem like the right thing to do!”
Becker and Simly glanced at each other, not sure where this was going, while Dominic swiveled a monitor on his desk around to face them.
“Bad enough that your Briefer trashed the Chamber of Horrors without clearance . . .”
Onscreen, a closed-circuit security camera depicted Seymour’s lab, still fumigated with Bed Bug Repellent.
“Bad enough you interrupted the Snorchestra in mid-performance!”
In the Snorchestral chamber, the Conductor was lambasting his Promoter, while Bed Bugs were being carried out on stretchers.
“And bad enough that the Glitch in Sleep has still not been Fixed!”
Back in Central Shipping, the pile of unmailed Good Night’s Sleep had reached epic proportions.
“But most offensive of all”—Dominic slammed the Rule-book down on the desk and opened it to a clearly marked page—“You violated the Rule of Thumb!”
“What are you talking about?” retorted Becker, flabbergasted. “I did no such thing!”
“Oh really? Would you care for me to read it to you?”
Becker didn’t, because he already knew what it said. Everyone did. The Rule of Thumb was the one Rule in The Seems that no one wanted to break.
“That won’t be necessary, sir.”
“Oh, I think it will be, young man. I think it will be.”
Dominic picked up the book and began to read:
The Rule of Thumb: No employee of The Seems, present, past, or future, shall knowingly (or unknowingly) interfere with the well-being of any person, inhabitant, entity, or individual in The World, without the prior written consent of the Powers That Be. Cicae luci combustem, periodi!
Dominic sadly closed the book and his voice seemed to soften.
“In other words, you cannot run around playing with people’s lives.”
Becker quickly spun over everything that had happened that night, and in his heart of hearts he knew what Dominic was getting at.
“Do I need to spell it out for you?”
The Administrator banged on his keyboard and up came the Dreamatorium, empty save for a janitorial crew sent in to clean up the remains of the broken Dreams. A touch of a button, however, rewound the picture back to the moment when an explosion sent Becker through the wall, and further back still, to the point when he had first entered the room.
“Now, do you deny that this is you?”
“No,” said Becker, tentatively. “But I don’t see how—”
Dominic hit play, and the action slowly moved forward, to where Becker discovered a bubble that was darker than the rest. The one that contained a young girl who had grown up in Vancouver, British Columbia, but now lived in Caledon.
“And here is where you so brilliantly destroyed Dream #532—a rare and delicate piece of work.”
“That was an accident. And besides”—Becker rose to his feet and pounded on the desk himself—“I thought Jennifer was supposed to get a Dream to make her feel better! A special Dream!”
“She was!”
“Well, it looked like a Nightmare to me! I had no choice but to go in there—”
“You’re not given enough information to make that kind of decision!”
The two of them were only inches apart and Simly was afraid it might come to blows.
“If you were doing your job instead of trying to be a hero, then you would have trusted in the Plan . . .” Dominic slapped the space bar on his keyboard, accessing the Dream database. “And you would have had patience to wait for the rest of the 532.”
Onscreen, Jennifer Kaley was once again surrounded by the hounding crew of bullies. Her hair was still wet from the water balloon (and the tears) and it looked like there would be no end to her suffering. But then something strange happened: the crowd dispersed and a look of wonder slowly came over her face. Something (or someone) seemed to be approaching, and she could not believe her eyes . . .
“Now here comes the good part,” explained Dominic. But he and the video were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Enter!”
One of the Tireless Workers poked his head inside.
“She’s here, sir.”
“Well, it’s about time!”
As Dominic’s assistant went to retrieve the new arrival, Becker felt himself begin to sweat. For the first time, he was starting to realize the magnitude of his violation.
“You rang?”
But when the door opened again, and Becker saw who walked in, he realized that he hadn’t realized the magnitude of his violation at all.
“Is that . . . ,” asked Simly, jaw on the floor.
“Yeah. That’s her.”
Judging by her bare feet and the saltwater in her hair, Fixer Casey Lake had just been yanked off a pretty tasty wave. And she didn’t look happy about it.
“I came as soon as I could.”
Casey threw a nod to Becker as if to say, “Hey, mate,” and Becker nodded back, embarrassed that it had come to this.
“I’m sorry to have to call you in at this late hour,” Dominic apologized. “But things have gotten completely out of hand.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
“You tell me! I’ve got a Fixer with a Thumb Violation, a Briefer with a 318 . . .” Dominic pulled what looked like parking tickets off his desk. “And a Glitch without a Fixer wreaking havoc on the Plan!”
“Hey!” said Simly, without thinking. “Becker’s done an awesome job toni—”
But Dominic shut him up with a glance.
“Time was a Fixer came in and took care of business—one, two, three.”
“A Glitch is no easy matter, Administrator Dozenski.” Casey thanked the Tireless Worker who brought her a towel, and she sat on the edge of Dominic’s desk. “In fact, it’s just about the trickiest bitzer in the book.”
“That’s why I need you to finish the job—because Junior here has botched the whole thing up!”
“You’re speaking about a Fixer, sir,” Casey’s voice raised to a firmer pitch, “and you will speak of him with respect!”
Fixers and Briefers were a close-knit family, bound by the crucible of what they’d endured during Training. But Dominic was not impressed.
“I’ve spoken to everyone I need to—including Central Command—and I assure you, I will have this little boy’s Badge.”
The blood ran from Simly’s face and Becker felt like he wanted to vomit. He knew the penalties for a Rule of Thumb Violation were severe, but he never considered that he might actually lose his job.
“The Court of Public Opinion will be hearing his case tomorrow, but in the meantime, Dawn is on her way, and if she gets here before it’s too
early, then we could be looking at a full-blown Ripple Effect!”
The very mention of the possibility sent a shiver through Becker, for he had just seen what Ripple Effects look like firsthand. And though Casey was ready to fight for her colleague through thick and thin (after all, she was the one who’d nominated him for his promotion in the first place), such a thing could not be allowed to happen.
“I’m sorry, mate. Maybe if I can Fix this quick, I can put in a good word.”
This was almost worse than his Worst Nightmare, because at least that one he’d woken up from. His eyes fell to his Badge and the double-sided wrench that was stenciled onto it. With someone as powerful as Dominic lobbying against him, there was little doubt which way the Court would decide, and by this time tomorrow, the best job he could hope for would be Pencil Pusher. But more than likely he would just be sent back to The World to become a regular kid again.
“I’m sorry, Casey. I was only trying to help her.”
“No worries, Drane.” Lake gave him a reassuring nudge. “Everybody makes a blue of it sometimes.”
Becker nodded dejectedly, then patted Simly on the shoulder, who was fighting to hold back tears. But as he picked up his Toolkit and ambled sadly toward the door, something popped into the Fixer’s head. A Memory—only five weeks old—that had already become submerged in everything that had happened since. Perhaps this was the moment his old Instructor had been talking about.
Perhaps there was still a glimmer of hope.
Institute for Fixing & Repair, The Seems, Five Weeks Ago
On the grounds of the IFR there was a small tented pavilion where lectures, weddings, and symposiums were occasionally held. Today’s event was the Elevation Ceremony of one F. Becker Drane, a Briefer who had distinguished himself on seventeen challenging Missions, but particularly on his most recent assignment to the Department of Weather.
The entire Fixer and Briefer corps were sporting their dress blues, while higherups from the Big Building sipped cocktails and ate “pigs in a blanket” in the late summer air. Over by the punch bowl, Becker tried to steal a moment for himself, for even though it was fun to be the center of attention for a little while, the endless schmoozing, handshakes, and pats on the back had started to become a little much.
