The Lost Train of Thought (23 page)
Back in the prisoners’ tent, tears of rage were already spilling down Becker’s face as he roughly threw his captive to the floor.
“Meet Triton, everybody! His real name is
Jelani Blaque
!”
Over on a U-shaped couch, Fixers Hassan, Simms, and Octo had only been awake for a minute or two when mayhem had tumbled into the room. Now they looked just as flabbergasted by Becker’s accusation as Fixer Blaque himself.
“Easy, Becker.” Lisa Simms calmly pulled him a few steps back. “Give the man a chance to breathe.”
After he’d witnessed Blaque’s conversation with Thibadeau Freck, Becker hadn’t waited for his former instructor to make another call. Like a crazed tiger, he’d leapt from his hiding spot behind the huge tapestry and slapped on the same chokehold Blaque had taught him in “Fight or Flight” class back at the IFR. But instead of dishing out some frontier justice, Becker wanted the leader of The Tide to know what it was like to face a jury of his peers.
“How could you, sir? After everything you taught us?”
Down on the rug-covered floor, Blaque coughed his way toward oxygen, then looked up at his student.
“Take my word for it, Mr. Drane. You did not see what you think you saw.”
“Becker, this is absurd!” Judging by the hoarseness of her voice, Lisa Simms was struggling to shake off the effects of the Nowherian light for the second time in three days. “Jelani is no more a member of The Tide than I am, let alone—”
Becker interrupted her by pulling out the device he’d confiscated from Fixer Blaque and tossing it over. “Ask him why he was carrying a Calling Card, Leese! Or who was on his last transmission!”
Fixer Simms quickly toggled through the Card’s incoming calls. She’d known Jelani Blaque since she was a wide-eyed, seventeen-year-old rookie, but the first hint of doubt crept into her mind when she saw the number at the top.
“Area code 322. Isn’t that . . . ?”
“Seemsberia,” whispered Hassan, his body wracked with shivers from his own recovery. “I presume he was ‘meeting’ Thibadeau Freck again?”
“Exactly!” Becker shouted. “I heard them plotting to overthrow The Seems and celebrate on the steps of the Big Building.”
Fixer Simms handed the Card to the Octogenarian, hoping she might find some explanation that her own desperate brain could not. But Sylvia couldn’t deny the evidence in front of her eyes.
“I’m afraid this looks bad, Jelani. Very bad.”
The subtle nods of his three Roster mates said they agreed, so Blaque limped over to the nearest couch and fell heavily into the cushions. This was terrible timing, but if there was ever a moment to trust in the intricacies of the Plan, he figured it was now.
“Four years ago, while he was still in Training, Candidate Freck was approached in the IFR Library and offered membership in The Tide.” The retired Fixer’s voice sounded old and tired, but there was a certain relief in finally revealing the truth. “The reasons for his recruitment are well known, for Mr. Freck was never shy about expressing his doubts regarding the Plan. And yet, even though he was sorely tempted to venture to The Slumber Party that night to begin his initiation, it was my office he came to first.”
Blaque waited for the clamor outside the tent to quiet down, then continued.
“It was there that Mr. Freck and I hatched our own plan: to insert a deep-cover agent into The Tide, one that could feed us information about their infrastructure, their long-term strategy, perhaps even discover the true identity of the one you are now accusing me to be.”
Becker watched surprise, maybe even shock, bounce across the faces of his fellow Fixers, and knew that if he found his way to a mirror, it would’ve already landed on his own. “You must think we’re idiots, sir. It was Thib’s team that blew up Time Square and nearly caused the end of The World as we know it!”
“Indeed it was. And I have no doubt that Mr. Freck’s loyalties were severely challenged by his time undercover. But it was also Mr. Freck who purposely revealed himself as the leader of that attack, who offered up the location of the Split Second, and who, as I recall, put his own life on the line to save yours.”
Becker was loathe to admit it (and he didn’t aloud), but the memory of Thibadeau standing between him and four Tide members bent on tossing him off a roof in New York City was undeniable.
“I assume there is some corroboration for this claim?” wondered Hassan, the shivers replaced by curiosity.
“Only two people besides myself are aware of Mr. Freck’s mission. Casey Lake . . . and the Second in Command herself.”
“Convenient that neither are here to confirm your story.”
Hassan was not ready to let him off the hook.
“My Calling Card has been adjusted to the peculiar frequencies available in the Middle of Nowhere. I would be more than happy to contact the Second’s personal line”— Blaque shot the Persian a confident grin—“especially now that according to Mr. Freck’s report, The Tide has begun a full-blown assault upon the Powers That Be.”
Combined with what Becker had heard in the Nowherian Chieftain’s tent, this intelligence had the sickening ring of truth. He snatched the Card from the Octogenarian and dialed the Big Building’s number, not totally sure whether he was hoping to exonerate his mentor or call his bluff. The high-pitched whine was just being replaced by the soft white noise of a connection,
when suddenly—
“I suggest you put that down.”
Becker’s ears only understood the Nowherian tongue because his captors had neglected to remove his Hearing Aide when they’d tossed him into the prisoners’ tent. Due to the fact that he was now surrounded by a dozen black-robed figures bearing swords and hunga-mungas, he could only assume the Towers of Silence were ready for their new owners.
“Guys, if you could just hold on one second, I have to ask someone a—”
Just as the other end of the line picked up, the biggest Nowherian slapped the Card from Becker’s hands, then ground it to bits and bytes beneath his sandaled feet.
“Where you and your friends are going, you won’t need to know the answer.”
With a bunch of sharp objects pointed in their direction, the second team put aside their disagreement and anxiously rose to their feet. Becker made eye contact with Simms, who nodded to Octo, who coughed at Hassan, who, against his better judgment, scratched a cheek in the direction of Blaque, who began whistling the theme song to
Don’t Be a Tool III:
How to Fix Your Way out of 10 Impossible Fixes,
the classic IFR training film. But before Becker could initiate the maneuver they all were thinking of, he noticed something strange poking beneath the headdress of the Nowherian at the front of the line.
A pair of double-braided pigtails.
“Now I don’t mean to frighten you, fellas . . .” In a whirl of movement, the black robe fell away to reveal a girl with flip-flops on her feet and something big and nasty in her hands. “But this here’s what we call a ’Doozy™.”
25.
World Television Classics (specializing in vintage favorites such as
The Merv
Griffin Show
,
T. J. Hooker
, and
Murder, She Wrote
).
How Cassiopeia Lake managed to survive the mysterious light unscathed, then make her way across the desert and over the Peak of Experience to infiltrate the Nowherians is a Story for Another Day.
26
All that mattered as far as the fate of The Seems and The World were concerned was that with one blow of her Didgeradoozy—an Australian horn modified by the Toolshed to use sound as a weapon—she flattened the crew of guards and led the groggy second team to freedom.
“Nice ’n’ easy, mates,” Casey whispered under her breath. “Far as anyone knows, we’re just out for a midday stroll.”
Becker and the others followed her straight through the center of the village and back toward the mountain. They were all now dressed in the traditional garb of their captors, having “borrowed” them from the bound guards they’d left behind in the prisoners’ tent. Those few Nowherians not yet gathered around the newly constructed Towers of Silence paid them no heed.
“No sign of Li Po, Casey?” The Octogenarian was still worried for the lone unaccounted for Fixer.
“Negatory. Been on my own since I dug my head outta the—”
Somewhere in the distance, the old Nowherian sorceress unleashed another blood-curdling cry, and chills shot down Becker’s spine. “They’re ready for the show.”
“Stay frosty, #37. We’ll be long gone by then.”
Becker nodded, then stepped closer to Casey and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Casey, I need to ask you something.”
“If it’s about the way we stonkered you in court, you didn’t leave us any—”
“It’s not that. It’s Fixer Blaque.”
Casey kept her eyes locked on the ground ahead, which was sloping back toward the mountains. “What about him?”
Becker peeked over his shoulder, where the subject of their conversation limped only a few yards behind them. “Back in the tent, I caught him talking to Thibadeau Freck on a Calling
Card. But he claims Thib’s—”
“One of us?”
Becker nodded, and by the way Casey winced as she said the words, he knew instantly that all of it was true.
“Sorry, mate. We had to keep it a mystery bag, or Freck was DOA.”
A numb feeling of regret came over Becker, one he barely had time to process because Casey suddenly stopped and drew everyone’s attention to the mountainside, where a wide, dark tunnel was carved into its sheer face.
“Thar she blows.”
The tunnel was directly below the ridge that Becker had been perched upon, which explained why he hadn’t seen it through his Trinoculars—and he mentally kicked himself for being so obsessed with finding out what was in the secret grove that he hadn’t bothered to simply turn around. But it wasn’t his own stupidity or even the Nowherians gift for excavation that caused him to incautiously jog toward the black semicircle in the rock.
It was what gleamed and shined inside of it.
“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,” marveled Lisa Simms, jogging right beside him.
By the time the second team reached the locomotive, they were already fanning out between the cars and conducting a tactical assessment.
“Thank the Plan you lot showed.” Casey ditched her disguise and squatted beside what was left of a broken wheel. “’Cause this ain’t no one-Fixer job.”
That was an understatement. Not only were at least a dozen wheels in need of significant repair, but the coupling rods were bent and several cracks ran through the bottom of the chassis. Even worse, the boiler responsible for generating enough steam to get the cars in motion was unable to maintain pressure. Much of the damage had undoubtedly occurred when the rails beneath the train had suddenly vanished—a side effect of the fact that
they’d been made from Scratch instead of iron or steel.
“At least the Thought’s all here!” shouted Hassan from atop the nearest freight car. “This train is stuffed.”
The Octogenarian checked her Time Piece, but it wasn’t working any better than Becker’s. “Is it even possible? The Unthinkable could happen any minute.”
“Won’t get done chatting about it,” said Fixer Simms, face blackened from digging around in the coal car. “Cassiopeia, if I can steal your Pressure Cooker™ for a moment, I think I can get this boiler back online.”
Casey handed over the Tool, but she shared Sylvia’s doubts. “My main concern is finding Scratch to build a new set of rails. I’ve been scouring this camp since yesterday, and haven’t seen a single grain.”
Fixer Blaque smiled and showed her what was inside the locket around his neck. “You get it rolling, and I’ll make sure there’s something to roll on.”
“Aces!” Casey emptied the contents of the only remaining Toolkit in their possession onto the ground, and grabbed a lug wrench. “Let’s Fix this bugger, mates!”
“Hold on a sec!”
Becker caught Casey by the shoulder and gently tossed a rock up into the booth of the locomotive. The moment it landed, a circular section of twine that had previously been hidden beneath the engineer’s chair violently snapped closed. Had a person just sat down there—say, the owner of a surf shop in Adelaide—she would’ve been neatly sliced in two.