“On the Flip Side.”
If calling 12 Grant Avenue had seemed like a good idea before she’d dialed the number, it wasn’t afterward. Hearing the closest thing to her boyfriend’s voice only made her miss him more, and she promptly returned to Mission Mix #9. All she wanted to hear right now was something sad, because that was how she felt. So she put her headphones back on and toggled to song #6, the same one that was playing when they nervously ate their slices of pizza on their very first date at the Sbarro in the Eaton Centre mall.
Click.
423rd Floor, The Big Building, The Seems
Down the seemingly endless hallway, past the elevators and next to the ficus tree, the door to office #423006 was locked from the inside. Normally, Clara Manning kept her door open so her co-workers could wander in and out and discuss how to negotiate the complexities of the Plan. But today that door was closed because the woman who looked more like a librarian than a Senior Case Worker had a visitor from upstairs.
“You’re telling me she did this all on her own?” asked Eve Hightower, holding up what looked like a middle schooler’s book report.
“She may have bounced a few ideas off Fixer Drane and some friends, but every word of it is hers.” Clara opened the file marked “Jennifer Kaley” and showed Eve the docket of Moves that every Case Worker was required to fill out when intervening for their clients. “Not a single Helpful Hint or Shove in the Right Direction.”
“Impressive,” admitted the Second in Command, taking a seat on Clara’s desk. “As much as this whole situation troubles me, I can’t remember seeing a more provocative SAT. And by someone so young.”
“Perhaps youth isn’t always wasted on them after all?” Clara smiled, and was happy to see her boss do the same.
It was expressly forbidden for Case Workers to play favorites within the slate of people in The World they were given to look after, but Clara always had a special place in her heart for a certain girl from Caledon, Ontario. The Case of Jennifer Kaley had migrated from tabloid fascination to political hot potato after her SAT had been unknowingly plucked from the slush pile and chosen for the first-ever internship in the Big Building. But whether or not the appointment would be approved was still very much in doubt.
“If I was inclined to support this nomination”—Eve leafed through the pages of Jennifer’s answer to Question #3—“how would we get around the fact that her unremembering is already set in Stone?”
Clara was ready for this exact question. The one-on-one with the Second had been scheduled early that morning and she’d been sipping Inspiration and jotting down notes on her junkyard of a desk ever since.
“On that count, Madame Second, I was thinking— what if the unremembering took place but she was allowed to keep the recollection of when she met Fixer Drane in the Dream? That way she’d remember how she first found out about The Seems, and if they bump into each other at Flip’s or the Cafeteria, it’ll be one of those ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ moments. After that, it’s up to the Plan.”
“Interesting.”
“I just feel . . .” Clara didn’t want to overstep her bounds, but if the 423rd floor couldn’t speak freely to the 1,000th, then what was the point? “She’s earned this internship on her own merits, and I’d hate to see her lose it because her boyfriend broke the Rules.”
“I’ll certainly take these thoughts into account.” Eve closed Jennifer’s SAT and hopped off the desk. “The Powers That Be will be voting on this later today and I’ll inform you of the—”
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Clara kicked herself for forgetting to put her Receiver on mute, but when she picked it up, she was surprised to hear the voice of Eve’s executive assistant.
“It’s for you, Madame.”
“Put it on speaker.”
Clara pressed the button and Monique’s voice came over the tinny line.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Madame Second, but it’s an emergency.”
“Let me guess.” Eve had had a long day and her frustration was starting to show. “It’s Mother Nature and autumn’s getting pushed again this year?”
“No, ma’am. It’s Warden Cyration.”
The executive assistant’s voice lacked any of her superior’s sarcastic wit.
“There’s a problem
in Seemsberia.”
Seemsberia, The Seems
Deep in the bowels of Seemsberia, the maddening klaxons that rang through the prison above were but a distant echo as Simly Frye wriggled like an earthworm through a tight stone passageway. A few feet behind him labored Permin Neverlåethe, and several hundred more behind, Thibadeau Freck’s cell sat empty, the hole in the wall hidden by the picture of a girl named Julee.
“Dude, what is this place?” whispered the Briefer, fighting
his claustrophobia.
“My cell was once the home of the Time Bandits.”
24
Thib’s voice echoed back from somewhere in the darkness ahead. “This is the tunnel they used to escape.”
Simly’s hand slid over the wall of the tunnel, which felt like it had been chipped away with a Spork™. “But I heard the Time Bandits were locked in solitary confinement and they threw away the key.”
“That is what the Warden wanted us to think.”
“A breakout would be a permanent stain on Inkar’s career.” Permin’s face was soaked and his breathing ragged, but he still managed to keep pace. “He’s probably trying to recapture them
before anyone finds out.”
“
Bonne chance.
Everyone in The Know says they vanished into Thin Air.”
“Cool,” whispered Simly, who still had an illegal Time Bandits lunchbox (in mint condition) tucked inside his collectibles closet.
“Why, Sim . . . it almost sounds as if you admire them.”
Thibadeau grinned back at him, and for a second it was easy for Simly to forget everything his old classmate had done in the years since they’d left the IFR.
“Touché.”
At the end of the miraculous tunnel, the three escapees emerged into a crossroads filled with pipes, heating ducts, and electrical wires. Everybody enjoyed a breath of fresh air, while Thibadeau pulled out an old set of blueprints from his waistband and tried to figure out which way to go.
“I don’t get it.” Simly studied the faded schematics that looked like they’d been lifted straight from the frame in the warden’s office. “If you had the blueprints and a way out the entire time, why didn’t you blow this taco stand months ago?”
Thibadeau pointed to the edge of the blueprints, where the grounds of Seemsberia were encircled by the drawing of a wide moat.
“This moat is filled with Thirds from the Mountain Time Zone. Anyone who tries to swim across will be, how you say, like dust in the wind, before they take their first breaststroke.”
Thirds were minerals packed with the Essence of Time, and just a handful were enough to power the aging process of The World. But if the small silver circles scattered at the bottom of the moat meant what Simly thought they did, there were at least several dozen.
“Permin.” Thib looked at his old Tide comrade hopefully. “If someone were able to halt the flow of Time, would they not be able to make it across?”
The old man thoughtfully rubbed his chin.
“And is that not a Stopwatch you wear on your wrist?”
Permin’s right hand reflexively slid to his left forearm, where a leather band held the one personal item he’d been allowed to keep in Seemsberia as something to hold on to in his moments of dark despair.
“It is. But this one’s set to work at the normal flow of Time in The World. According to those drawings, the moat has almost
ten times
that much Essence!”
“Can it be done? Even by an old Ticky such as yourself?”
At the mention of the entry-level position from where Permin had begun his meteoric rise through the Department of Time, the ex-Administrator’s hunched old back seemed to straighten.
“I’ll need twenty minutes to rewind the gears, and another ten to calibrate the hands.”
“Voilà.”
Thib rolled up the blueprints and tucked them away. “That will give Simly and I time to take care of one final errand.”
But as Simly followed the Frenchman through a maze of steam tunnels, question after question began to seep into the Briefer’s skull. Like how was it that Thibadeau just
happened
to have been assigned to the exact same cell as the infamous Time Bandits? And how did he just
happen
to get his hands on an original copy of the Seemsberia blueprints? Worst of all, how could he, Simly Frye, just
happen
to be placing his trust in two convicted Tide felons?
“Hold on a sec, Freck.” Simly stopped in his tracks and pointed an accusatory finger at his fellow escapee. “I thought we were trying to escape!”
“We are. But even if we succeed, we are just three men in pajamas in the frozen tundra—hundreds of miles away from where the machinery that makes The World is under assault. If we are to save The Seems, we must find help.”
It was only then that Simly noticed he and Thibadeau were standing above what looked like a submarine hatch. Judging by the rust on the surface of the turning wheel, it hadn’t been opened in years—probably because the hatch was also covered by at least fifty stickers that delivered the exact same message: “Whatever you do, please, under any circumstances, do not open! (And we mean any!)”
“Where does it lead, Thib?”
“The Heckhole.”
“But Permin said there’s Glitches down there!”
“Permin did not lie. And yet, we must let them out . . .”
Thibadeau spat into his hands and rubbed them together, then began to turn the ancient wheel. The hinge squealed and the iron oxide crumbled away from the hatch— but not before Simly finally reached his breaking point. In a gangly tumble of elbows and knees, the Briefer leapt upon his former friend and threw him roughly to the floor.
“I’m not gonna let you try to destroy The World again, Thib!”
Beneath his thick brown beard, Thibadeau smiled sadly.
“Trust me, Simly. I’m not trying to destroy The World, I’m trying to save it.”
“And if I
don’t
trust you?”
“Then the minute I step inside this door, lock it behind me and do not open it again until you have contacted the proper authorities. Of course, by that time The Tide’s sleeper cells will have seized control of each and every department in The Seems, and The World will be under the control of Triton himself.”
Thib tentatively rose back to his feet, and with one more twist the hatch opened with a hiss of stale air.
“What will it be,
mon ami
?”
The Weather Center, Department of Weather, The Seems
“This is SNN Special Correspondent Waldy Joels reporting live
from Seemsberia, where a violent uprising has left this normally
loving facility teetering on the edge of chaos. Nearly two hours ago,
reputed Tide boss Robert Marcus began an armed uprising against
Warden Inkar Cyration and his staff. Special Forces have been dispatched
from the Big Building and Second in Command High-tower
insists the riot will be brought under control before our next
scheduled update. Stay tuned to this special continuing coverage of:
CRISIS IN SEEMSBERIA. Jim, back to you.”
“First the Unthinkable, now this!” Weatherman #1 turned down the volume on the fuzzy black-and-white TV and flopped into his chair. “So much for working together to build a better World.”
His tired eyes scanned the control panel and the dials that orchestrated every aspect of The World’s Weather, from the humidity in the Amazon rain forest to the smallest flurry of Tasmanian snow.
“This never would’ve happened when Samuel was in charge.”
“Don’t worry, #1.” Weatherman #2 placed a reassuring hand on his boss’s shoulder. “They’ll Fix it.”
“They always do,” concurred Weatherman #3.
In the time since #2 and #3 had joined the team, they’d cut their trademark ponytails and got rid of the piercings that once kept them from moving up the ranks in the conservative Department of Weather. Their recent promotions to the Control Room couldn’t have come at a better time, for after twenty-three years on the job, the #1 meteorologist in The Seems was finally starting to burn out.
“Listen, Harry,” Weatherman #2 suggested. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off. Me and Freddy can man the Board.”
“You guys wouldn’t mind?” #1 perked up for the first time since his fourth Pickmeup of the morning. “I could surprise my wife with lunch over in Love.”
“Beat it.” Freddy pushed his boss jokingly out of the middle chair. “And don’t worry, we promise not to sink another continent until you get back!”
“Thanks, fellas.”
Weatherman #1 shook his co-workers’ hands, pulled on his tattered trenchcoat, and made for the elevators with an extra spring in his step. But as soon as he was gone, #3 got up from the board and locked the door that separated the Control Room from the rest of the Weather Center. Then he removed a small magnet from his pocket and placed it against the security camera that monitored the Board 25/7, effectively neutralizing the recording.
“Ready to change The World?” asked #3, loosening his tie and revealing a small black tattoo on his neck.
“I can’t do it, Freddie!” #2 sat before the Board, running his shaky fingers through his freshly cut hair. “I just can’t do it.”
“Yes you can, bro.”
#3 walked over to the wide pane of glass that gave view to the sprawling Weather Center. Dozens of Weathermen in white shirts and black ties sat in front of Doppler radar screens keeping tabs on every sector of The World, little knowing that their department was about to change forever. “Remember what the big man promised? No more hurricanes or tidal waves wiping out entire countries. No more freezing to death, no more droughts or mudslides, no more anything! Just perfect weather every day.”
Down on the Weather Center floor, a Storm Placer was waving in his direction. She had clearly noticed that the security feed to the Control Room had gone to static, and gestured as if to say, “Is everything okay?” #3 simply smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.