The Lost Train of Thought (21 page)
“Sometimes an enemy must be reminded of its commitments. The theft was simply a warning shot.” Suddenly, the Chieftain grabbed Becker around the neck and lifted him into the air. “And if it is not heard
loudly
and
clearly
, then the next will land directly atop your Big Building!”
“Consider us reminded.” Becker spat out the words through gritted teeth. “And I personally guarantee that after you return the train, the Powers That Be will construct a fifty-foot wall from the End of the Line to Contemplation so that no one will ever trespass on your lands again.”
Kalil squeezed even harder, but somehow, some way, Becker didn’t break.
“Isn’t that . . . right . . . sir?”
“It’s already part of the Plan.” Fixer Blaque touched the Chieftain’s shoulder, banking on the fact that years ago there had been some modicum of mutual respect. “Now let him go.”
Becker’s face had turned a nasty shade of purple, but the defiant expression remained unchanged.
“I want the wall a
hundred
feet high and finished within
three
months.” The Chieftain continued to tighten his grip until Blaque nodded his head yes, and only then did he release the stranglehold, dropping the gasping Fixer to the ground. “And you, boy? You and your friends can have your Train of Thought—
after
you’ve been punished for trespassing on our sacred burial grounds.”
The crowd was itching to satisfy its bloodlust and their Chieftain did not disappoint.
“Prepare the Towers of Silence!”
In an instant, the tent exploded in a cacophony of light and
sound, the oil in the lamps igniting, the ceremonial drums pounding, and the Nowherians dancing with maniacal glee. The old sorceress even blew a handful of Scratch into the air, and by the time it had dispersed, the blue cloud had transformed into a miniature version of The World—which, cackling like a hen, she promptly crushed upon her wrinkled palm. Amid the barely controlled hysteria, Kalil reclaimed his position on the wicker throne, then rang the Chieftain’s bell.
“Take them to the prisoners’ quarters!”
“The prisoners’ quarters” referred to the circuslike tent into which a motley collection of Seemsian employees were crowded. Becker counted at least two dozen of them— Thought Provokers and Collectors, Signalmen from the End of the Line, even the Conductor of the lost train—all still dressed in the clothes they must’ve been wearing when they’d come face-to-face with a strange bright light. And all with the same weird, blissful expressions on their face.
“Come, brother.” A badly sunburned Thought Chipper gestured for the Fixer to join him by a basket of dried-out dates. “Have something to eat.”
“No, thanks. Not really hungry.”
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” The Collector smiled in a way that reminded Becker of Greg the Journeyman at Who Knows Where. “To worry about the needs of the flesh when one is in the presence of something Amazing?”
“Yeah, totally.”
As the Collector rejoined his friends around a ragged but giddy drum circle, Becker applied some Al’s-O-Vera™ to his injured ankles and struggled to make sense of his predicament. Judging from the workers’ blistered skin, they’d followed the Nowherians back across the Middle on foot. But what had driven them to make such a journey was another thing entirely.
“I found them, Mr. Drane!”
Becker turned to see Fixer Blaque step from behind a dangling blue curtain. He put a finger to his lips, then motioned toward the two heavily armed figures who blocked the only flap that led to the outside. “Let’s not raise any alarms just yet.”
Becker nodded, then followed Blaque through the corridors of the tent. It was much more plush than he expected, filled with countless rooms and alcoves, and Becker figured that maybe the Nowherians weren’t expecting this many uninvited guests. But it was in an antechamber walled off by tapestries that they found Fixers Simms and Hassan asleep on a pile of cushions, right beside a semiconscious Octogenarian.
“Sylvia, are you okay?” Becker gently lifted the eighty-four-year-old woman’s head, but for some reason she couldn’t seem to focus her eyes.
“Octo, can you hear me?”
“Easy, Mr. Drane. The fact that she’s awake at all is a testament to her remarkable constitution.”
Becker laid the Octogenarian back down upon a huge golden-tasseled pillow, and she curled up like a lazy cat. “Hers is nothing compared to yours, Fixer Blaque.”
This was undeniable. Out of everybody who’d come in contact with the light, his old instructor was the only one who showed no noticeable effects.
“As I told Greg, blindness as a handicap is severely overrated.” For the first time that Becker could remember, Blaque removed his signature blue shades to reveal eyes that were just as seared as the Journeyman’s. “And when you’re facing a mysterious light, it even has certain advantages.”
Becker studied the featherweight Eyeglasses™, completely blown away by all Fixer Blaque had been able to accomplish despite his lack of vision. “I’m sorry, sir. I had no idea.”
“How could you? The 7th Sense doesn’t tell one when a blind man’s in the room.”
Becker returned the miraculous lenses, his mind filled with more questions than he knew how to ask. But the team leader was already a whirlwind of motion, propping up Fixers Simms and Hassan on the couch, then tossing over a handful of fruit.
“Try some lemon juice. It should help them return to their
senses.”
“What are you gonna do, sir?”
“Look for some way out of this place. The towers will not take long to construct.”
Blaque slipped from the alcove, while Becker did as instructed and squeezed a few drops of lemon on the Octogenarian’s lips. Fixer #3 didn’t exactly jump to her feet, but the sourness bit at her tongue and began to bring her around.
“Becker? What are you doing here?”
Fixer #3 may have been renowned for her sunny disposition, but the look on her face as she shook and stretched the kinks from her aging body was something entirely different. It was as if she’d just awoken from the greatest dream imaginable, and Becker couldn’t help feeling the slightest tinge of envy that he hadn’t experienced that dream himself.
“Was Li Po right, Sylvia? Was the light the Most Amazing Thing of All?”
“All I can tell you is that it didn’t feel like a weapon to me.” The Octogenarian’s smile slowly faded. “Though the Nowheri-ans appear to be using it that way.”
An awful clamoring rose up outside the tent, and Becker
didn’t have to see through the Hide to know that the Towers of Silence were almost ready.
“See if you can get these guys up and running.” He tossed the Octo another lemon. “I’ll get Fixer Blaque.”
As Becker stepped back into the hallway, he tried to shake the first real tingle of fear from his legs. Only two days ago, being unremembered of Jennifer Kaley was the harshest sentence he could have imagined. Now it seemed like a slap on the wrist.
“Fixer Blaque, where are you? Fixer Blaque?”
Again and again he called out the name, but being in this
tent was like being trapped in Meanwhile or a Nightmare. The thick and billowy curtains caught Becker’s words and dampened them to whispers, and the farther he went into the maze of hallways, the more lost he felt. Why would Fixer Blaque have wandered so far away from the rest of the team? Unless something had happened to—
“. . . it’s too dangerous. There must be another way.”
Becker was flooded with relief, for the voice he heard on the other side of a wall-sized tapestry had a Nigerian accent. He was about to shout out again, when he heard another voice.
“Perhaps. But none that I can think of in the time allowed.”
Wherever Fixer Blaque had sequestered himself, he was clearly talking to someone. The other voice was strange and tinny, however, like it was over a speakerphone with a bad connection. Becker dropped to his hands and knees and crept closer to the source of the conversation.
“How will you get the Glitches out of there once they get in?” asked Fixer Blaque.
“With all due respect, that is not our concern right now. All
that matters is that we regain control of The Seems.”
Heart pounding, Becker peeked behind the tapestry to see Jelani Blaque addressing someone on the Calling Card they’d purchased at the Black Market. The image of that person was broken up, though, and it brought back bad memories of similar broadcasts Becker had seen over the last few tumultuous years— those made by Triton, the infamous leader of The Tide.
“Just be careful that you don’t exchange one enemy for something even worse,” said Fixer Blaque.
“Don’t worry. I will make her an offer she cannot refuse.”
Both Blaque and the image chuckled like co-conspirators, a sound that only furthered Becker’s fears that the person on the other end of the Card was indeed Triton. But if that was true, then it meant his mentor, the man who had trained him in everything he knew about Fixing— not to mention what he’d taught him about life—was a member of The Tide.
“Then do what you must. And if anyone asks, I take full responsibility.”
But when the image suddenly cleared up and the person behind it flickered into view, Fixer Drane realized that the truth was so much worse.
“I only hope they will ask,”
said Thibadeau Freck
. “Instead of
shooting first.”
The Frenchman’s beard was longer and his face thinner than Becker remembered, but the bitter hate he felt toward his old classmate remained. Fixer Blaque apparently didn’t feel the same way, though.
“I know these last few years have been hard on you, son. But the battle has reached its final hour. And if all goes well, you will be remembered as a hero.”
“That was never my intention, sir. My only concern was for the
future of The World.”
“As is mine.” Blaque anxiously checked his Time Piece. “Which is why I must call the Second in Command and inform her that The Tide is about to come washing up on her door. And have faith, Mr. Freck—we will be celebrating on the steps of the Big Building before you know it!”
And as the image of Thibadeau Freck snapped off a salute and vanished from view, the truth slapped Becker Drane like a bucket of freezing cold water. Fixer Blaque hadn’t been talking to Triton on his Calling Card at all . . .
Fixer Blaque
was
Triton.
Conference Room, The Big Building, The Seems
About an eighth of a world away, things were going even worse for the Powers That Be than Kalil’s spies had reported. The speakerphone at the center of the table was ringing nonstop, and Eve Hightower switched lines to take yet another frantic call.
“Department of Energy to Big Building, please come in!”
“Talk to me, Energy.”
“Sorry to bother you, Madame Second, but I’ve tried Central
three times and we’re running out of Juice down here. If I don’t
get a Fixer pronto, the lights are gonna go down on Broadway.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
The Second in Command made an emergency breakthrough to the fortified ops center in the basement of the Big Building. After a frustratingly long number of rings, the voice of Central Command finally picked up.
“Dispatcher here. Sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am.”
“Energy says they’re running out of Juice and they’ve called three times for a Fixer.” Eve tried to keep her cool, which wasn’t so easy when the Powers That Be and your mother were watching. “Don’t tell me you guys are falling apart too?”
“Negative, ma’am. It’s just that every Fixer I have is out on
a job.”
“Isn’t dos Santos finished tweaking the Color Palette yet?”
“Already sent her to Nature to get Photosynthesis back online.”
The Dispatcher’s voice remained stoic but did little to instill confidence.
“To be honest, all I’ve got left on the Roster is Briefers.”
“Then start Bleceiving them!”
“Aye, aye, ma’am!”