The Lost Train of Thought (18 page)
“Fixer Simms is right, #19.” A deep and heavily accented voice echoed off the walls of the cave. “No one survives this place unscathed.”
Hassan and Lisa turned to see a tall figure emerge from the wind and snow outside. His eyes were covered by blue-tinted glasses and his left leg could barely support him, only underscoring the truth of what he said.
“Jelani!” Lisa’s face lit up at the sight of her dearest friend. “Now I
know
the storm is playing tricks on my brain.”
“Hardly. I just wanted to return this to its rightful owner.”
Fixer Blaque handed her back the bow he’d found buried at the End of the Line.
“I would love to hear you play again.”
Lisa brushed back a tangled lock of black and blue, then found her Toolkit and pulled out one of the less than seven hundred violins that had been constructed by the great Antonio Stradaveri. Her left hand unconsciously slid up the fingerboard, while her right brought the horsehair of the bow against the catgut of the strings—and all at once, with a single middle C, the Fixer began to play.
It was the Caprice No. 24 in A minor, the most difficult piece ever written for the violin, but by the time Lisa Simms was finished, three Fixers and a crusty old Hope prospector had joined Jelani Blaque in giving her a standing O.
“The eleventh variation was a little sharp,” joked Becker, who had taken three violin lessons before bagging it because it hurt his fingers. “But you still got it, Leese.”
Six hours later, the sun was just beginning its ascent as the second team reached the end of Hopeless’s trail.
“Talk to me, Mr. Drane.”
From Becker’s vantage point, he could make out dozens of tents scattered about the lush oasis some two hundred feet below. Most were shaped into squares, their black roof-cloths supported on all four corners by thin poles, while the largest of them formed a huge octagon at the center of the compound. And moving between them, cloaked in the same robes three of their fellows had displayed at the Far-Out Saloon, was the ancient tribe known as the Nowherians.
“I count at least two hundred, but who knows how many more are inside.” Becker lowered his Trinoculars, which were supposed to see through inanimate objects. “For some reason, my third eye can’t get through the tents.”
“That’s because they’re made out of Hide.” Fixer Blaque crawled forward on his hands and knees to take a look over the side of the ridge. “Nowherians are a very private people.”
The Octogenarian appeared over Becker’s other shoulder.
“Any sign of the train?”
“Negative. But check out that grove over there.”
Becker handed the Trinoculars to the team leader and pointed to a clump of palm trees on the southernmost portion of the camp. It was impossible to see what lay beneath the thick green canopy of leaves, but at six different entrance points armed guards stood sentinel.
“That’s an awful lot of people to watch some Fruits of Labor.”
“Agreed.” Blaque took one last glance about the oasis, then returned the glasses. “We better find out what they’re so intent on guarding.”
The three onlookers slid carefully away from the ridge, then rejoined the rest of the team. Their long trek over and through the mountains had finally bottomed out at a small plateau, where they’d hastily constructed a base from which to launch their covert assault.
“What’s the plan?” asked Hassan, his head seemingly back in the game.
“I suggest Jayson’s Triangle.” Like a sandlot quarterback, Fixer Blaque made a quick sketch of the Nowherian settlement in the dirt. “Hassan and Octo from the north, Lisa and I from the east, and Becker right down the face of the—”
“Ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’?”
In the shadows of a rocky overhang, Hopeless and Zebulon the mule were hiding from the newly returned heat. And they were not amused.
“Me and Zeb got ourselves a date with destiny and we don’t wanna be late!”
Zebulon used his Speed Demonless right front hoof to kick up a small cloud of dust.
Dang tootin
’.
“My apologies, Hopeless.” Fixer Blaque reached into his Toolkit and pulled out a folded up piece of parchment, on which a darkly drawn “X” marked the spot. “You have kept your part of the bargain, so allow me to keep mine.”
The old prospector could barely contain his shaky hand long enough to accept the map, and when he held it up to his mule, tears were already soaking his beard. “Can you b’lieve it, Zeb? The Eternal Springs . . . after all these years.”
Zeb shook his heavy head back and forth, on the verge of weeping himself, and the strange sight of a man and his mule brought to tears by the possibility of successfully completing their search made a strange spectacle to the Octogenarian.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what do you plan to do with all that Hope once you find it?”
“What do we plan to do with it?” Hopeless removed the weather-beaten hat from his head, incredulous. “Is she loco, Zeb?”
Plum loco.
“We gonna be rich, lady! Filthy stinkin’ rich!” Hopeless tossed the hat to the ground and would’ve started whooping it up were it not for the prospect of drawing Nowherian attention. “Next time you sees me and four-legs here, we gonna be square-dancin’ in Crestview or sittin’ on our new front porch on Easy Street!”
The thought of Hopeless and Zebulon at the Crestview clubhouse was almost enough to make Becker apply for a membership. But as the two prospecting partners headed back up the path that would eventually take them to a cave in a dried-out riverbed, Becker crossed his fingers that Hopeless would find what he was looking for, or that what he was looking for would find him.
“Remember, our main goal is to infiltrate the compound.” Fixer Blaque’s voice brought the team back to attention. “We only want to fight these people as a last resort.”
“Speak for yourself.” Lisa Simms tied an IFR bandanna around her head and flashed a wicked grin. “I don’t take kindly to having my brain scrambled.”
Now that Fixer #11 had ban daged her wounds and joined the team, Becker felt a surge of confidence. Not only did she add one of the most highly skilled and experienced Fixing minds to the mix, but the very fact that she, like Greg the Journeyman, had survived, gave him hope that perhaps Casey Lake and Li Po were alive as well.
“Ladies and gentlemen . . . I believe we have a problem.”
Over by the lip of the ridge, Hassan’s mind was finally refocused on the Mission, and he was taking one last look down at the Nowherian settlement.
“What are they doing?” wondered Becker, though he didn’t really expect an answer, because it was quite clear to everyone what the Nowherians were doing.
Hundreds of feet below, the black-robed figures who had once been carrying baskets of food or making bricks of mortar or simply carry ing on conversations in various corners of the village had all at once turned and looked in the same direction.
Straight up at them.
“I think we need to be on our way
right now
,” whispered Lisa.
“I think you’re right.” Fixer Blaque backed away from the ridge. “Everyone to higher ground!”
But it was already too late, for down in the verdant oasis, the Nowherians were performing a single gesture en masse. One by one, each person placed what appeared to be a square metal visor over the hole in their robes where their eyes should be. Eyes that were now protected against what began to emanate from the heavily guarded clump of palm trees that had drawn Becker Drane’s attention. Terribly silent, and getting brighter with each passing second . . .
A strange white light.
30 Custer Drive, Caledon, Ontario Canada
Click.
Jennifer Kaley sat cross-legged in her bed, wearing the pair of fuzzy headphones she’d bought at Paradise Bound Records and clicking through the playlists on her laptop.
Click. Click.
Her door was locked and her iTunes opened to the series of “Mission Mixes” that Becker had burned for her so that when he was away on business, they could listen to the same tuneage. Jennifer briefly considered Mix #3, which was subtitled “Our Songs,” but she was afraid that if she played that one she might start to cry again. So she dropped down to #9 instead, “Songs for When Things Are Going Down the Drane,” and dragged the mouse over to the button with the symbol for Play.
Click.
Ever since Becker had been yanked from the headquarters of Les Resistance and ushered back to The Seems, Jennifer had sunk into a deep depression. It wasn’t just the separation, because Becker had been away on lots of Missions and normally she enjoyed missing him and waiting for him to come home. No, it was more like a premonition or a voice inside her head that kept whispering that something terrible was going to happen. And no matter how much TV she watched or how much homework she didn’t do, Jennifer couldn’t shake the awful feeling that her boyfriend wasn’t coming back.
“Mr. Sun, come out today, it’s a rainy, rainy day, you’re a
meanie anyway. Mr. Sun, come out to play . . .”
She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the lyrics, which were sung by this guy named Sid Friendly who played punk rock for little kids at Becker’s favorite coffee shop in Highland Park. But that only made Jennifer wonder if he was thinking about her, and if he was listening to the same song she was. Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer, so she picked up her cell and dialed a number in area code 732.
“Drane household.”
A voice that sounded uncannily like Fixer Drane’s picked up on the other end.
“Me speaking.”
“Hey, Me, it’s Jennifer. Jennifer Kaley.”
“I know who you are, silly. Don’t you think I recognize the voice
of my own girlfriend?”
“Ha, ha. You wish.” Jennifer smiled but it didn’t last long. “Listen, um, I was just wondering if you’ve, um, heard anything from Becker?”
“Becker Drane? The man, the myth, the legend?”
“No, the other Becker.”
“I haven’t actually talked to him, but according to ‘Missions in
Progress,’ everything’s A-okay.”
Even though Jennifer would have loved to believe what the Me-2 had just told her, she also knew that the replica was not just a good liar, it was a professional one, and programmed above all else to cover for its Fixer.
“Don’t lie to me, Me. I can tell when Becker’s blowing
smoke.”
“Honest, Jenny. He’ll be back before you can—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Jennifer’s fear turned to anger, but it didn’t make her feel any better. “’Cause I’m really worried this time.”
“You want the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
The Me-2 lowered its voice, not wanting a certain little brother to overhear.
“Last I heard, things were going pretty well. Becker’s
team found some tracks in the Middle of Nowhere and were following
them in to investigate. But since then there hasn’t been a
single deposit in our Memory Bank account.”
“What does that mean?”
“Probably nothing, ’cause everything gets fouled up in the
Middle. But I swear to Al Penske if anything was wrong, I would
be the first to know.”
“And you would tell me, right?”
“Cross my mechanical heart and hope to be shelved for a
Me-3.”
That made her feel a little better, but there was something else that had been gnawing at Jennifer ever since Becker had bolted from the forest.
“He was trying to tell me something before he left, Me. Something about his punishment for breaking the Rules.”
There seemed to be the slightest beat of silence on the other end of the line, but Jennifer couldn’t tell whether or not it was just her imagination.
“He got a six-month suspension and a ton of community
service.”
“That’s all?”
“Oh, and his Seems Credit Card got yanked too. Maybe that’s
what it was about.”
“Maybe . . .” Jennifer let her head fall back on her pillow. “If you hear from him, you promise you’ll let me know?”
“Promise.”
The Me-2’s voice softened just like Becker’s did when he was about to say good-bye.
“Catch you on the Flip Side,
okay?”