“Classic Nowherian rope trap.”
Fixer #37 covertly shot Fixer Blaque a wink, as if to say his wasn’t the youngest name on the Duty Roster because he made the same mistakes twice.
“
Now
let’s Fix this bugger.”
With five of the most talented repairmen and-women The World has ever seen focused like laser beams, it was only a matter of twelve pulse-pounding minutes before the stalled Train of Thought lurched forward, with steel miraculously beneath its wheels. White puffs coughed from the smokestack, while Casey Lake floored the throttle and shouted over the locomotive’s roar.
“Keep shoveling, mates! We need more speed!”
On the other side of the cabin, Becker and Lisa frantically shoveled piles of coal into a firebox. With each scoop, the flames grew hotter and the water in the boiler vaporized into more steam, powering the Train of Thought back through the underground tunnel.
“Careful.” Fixer Simms kept a worried eye on the boiler’s safety valve. “If she gets too hot, we could lose pressure again, or crack the head.”
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take.” The heat from the fire was fogging up the front windshield, and Casey struggled to see through the glass. “Can somebody go check on Fixer Blaque?”
“I’m on it!”
Becker dropped his shovel, then scrambled up the rungs of the access ladder to the top of the train. Though the wind and smoke bit at his eyes, he couldn’t stop himself from admiring the size and scope of the cavern. Judging from the stonework of the bridge they were now traveling across (not to mention the man-made waterfall) the Nowherians had somehow carved out this place by hand— using a completely different method of architecture than Fixer Blaque’s Scratch.
“How those tracks coming, sir?”
Out on the nose of the train, only a few feet in front of the same smokestack that had scalded a lightbulb and teardrop into Greg the Journeyman’s chest, Jelani Blaque sat cross-legged with his hands pressed together.
“See for yourself.”
He motioned down toward the bridge, where, illuminated by the locomotive’s yellow headlights, there was a spanking new set of train tracks. They came complete with wooden slats and painted steel spikes, courtesy of the Scratch he’d purchased at the Black Market. Most of the blue powder he was now rubbing between his two palms was generating just enough friction to heat his very thoughts into reality.
“Are they gonna be long enough to get us back home?” asked Becker at the top of his lungs.
“Not if you don’t let me concentrate, Mr. Drane!”
Blaque smiled without looking back, and as Becker started back toward the ladder, he felt an uncomfortable twinge of guilt.
“Sir, I’m—”
“It’s me who’s sorry, Becker.” In the four-plus years they’d known each other, this was the first time Becker could remember Fixer Blaque using his first name. “And I look forward to the day when you and I and Mr. Freck can sit atop the Stumbling Block and put these last few years behind us.”
This time the teacher did turn to smile at his student, and the student responded in kind.
“Me too, sir. Me too.”
As Blaque returned his attention to making train tracks from Scratch, Becker scrambled back down the ladder, feeling much lighter than he had only seconds before.
“So far so good, Case.”
Casey nodded and flipped the switch on the intercom above her head.
“Lake to Hassan, how we doin’ on those tarps?”
Fixers Hassan and the Octogenarian had gone to the back of the train in an attempt to secure each car with a tarpaulin so they would not lose even a single chip of Thought. But their response to Casey’s query was little more than static.
“These trains are still using old radio receivers for their intercoms,” said Lisa, leaning on her shovel and wiping the sweat from her brow. “Might need to wait ’til we get out from under the mountain.”
Becker grabbed his own shovel off the floor, but before he could get back to using it a harsh light suddenly bombarded the cabin, and the train exploded from beneath the mountain. As it roared across the desert on the eastern side, Casey blinked away the stars, then gave the intercom another try.
“Hassan, Octo, I need a report, over!”
Just as Lisa predicted, the intercom signal had cleared up the moment they left the darkness of the cavern. But it was not the voice of Shahzad Hassan or the Octogenarian who responded over the tinny receiver . . .
“You’ll have to come down here and get it.”
In fact, the speaker’s name was Kalil.
Two dozen cars back, in the roaring wind and scalding sun atop the train, the Chieftain of the Nowherians and his men removed their robes and girded themselves for battle. This would not be a fair fight—they numbered more than thirty— but Kalil had underestimated the enemy once before, and he would not do so again.
“Here they come, Sire!”
His men pointed to the front, where three figures stood poised atop the locomotive. One by one, they began to hop from car to car.
“They are courageous, these Fixers,” admired Joachim, the Chieftain’s most trusted lieutenant.
“We shall soon see.”
As Kalil lifted two gold-handled scimitars from their scabbards, Fixers Hassan and Octo struggled to free themselves from their bindings. The duo had been surprised by the Nowherians just as they were installing the final tarp, and now sat back-to-back atop a pile of stray Thought.
“I am sorry, Sylvia.” Hassan’s left eye was closed shut from the butt end of a Nowherian blade. “I should have offered up a
more suitable defense.”
Fixer Octo shrugged and delivered a typically sunny take on their situation.
“No apologies necessary, Shahzad. And as soon as I get these wrinkled paws free, I’m going to teach these hooligans to respect their elders.”
Hassan couldn’t help laughing at the image of an eighty-four-year-old woman cleaning the clocks of thirty warriors, and his own despair instantly melted away.
“Blaque was wise when he chose you for the team, Sylvia. I only wish he had been so with me.”
“Mission’s not over yet,” she whispered. “Not by a long shot.”
But all evidence pointed to the contrary, as two heavily muscled arms lifted them both into the air like babies.
“What shall we do with these?” asked Joachim, dangling the Fixers over the side of the train.
“Get rid of them.”
“You are a hateful man, sir.” The Octogenarian shook her head at the Chieftain like a disappointed schoolteacher. “The king of a hateful lot.”
Kalil ignored the insult, for the three approaching Fixers were close enough now to see that one was Jelani Blaque and his walking stick. No, not a fair fight at all.
“A final request, mighty one.” Hassan did his best to avoid looking down at the swiftly moving landscape below. “If this day is to be our last, then at least grant us the honor of joining our comrades in battle.”
The Chieftain gave Joachim the nod. But as his lieutenant began to loosen the Fixers’ bindings, Kalil noticed the amulet that hung from Hassan’s neck. “What is that you wear?”
“The winged sun . . . the ancient symbol of my people.”
“Of
your
people?” Kalil tore the amulet off Hassan’s neck and held it up to his equally surprised men. “Of
his
people!”
Hassan’s confusion was apparent, especially when Kalil showed him what had been branded onto his own chest during the ritual of manhood so many years ago: the same winged sun.
“I do not understand.”
“Understand this, my brother.” Kalil snapped the ropes around the Fixers’ wrists and dropped them roughly onto the boxcar. “The Powers That Be are liars as an order of business. It is what they do, who they are. And they will never be anything else.”
Hassan and the Octogenarian cautiously backed away to the other end of the car, still expecting to be tossed over the side at any moment. But the Nowherians stayed as motionless as their Chieftain, patiently waiting for their enemy to gather in full strength. They didn’t have to wait long.
“Did it really have to come to this?” asked Lisa Simms, flanked by Casey Lake. “Surely we can find a peaceful way to resolve this dispute, as we did at the Eternal Springs.”
“The time for negotiations is over, woman.”
But as his men effortlessly slid into formation around him, two things troubled Kalil. Where was the boy who had so blatantly defied him back in his own tent? And more important, what happened to the old cripple? Only moments ago, Jelani Blaque had staggered behind the others, but now only four Fixers stood before him. Had he fallen off the train somewhere along the way? Or was he—
“Sire,” whispered Joachim beside him. “Why are we moving so slow?”
As if waking from a daze, the Chieftain realized his lieutenant was right, and that the train had begun to precipitously lose speed. His first thought was that they were trying to slam on the brakes in order to jar the Nowherians off the top, but then Kalil saw a man with blue-tinted shades climbing up the ladder that led to the space between this car and the one in
front of it.
“Because they just disconnected us from the rest of the train.”
Executive Conference Room, The Big Building, The Seems
If it hadn’t been for his mask of digital fuzz, it would have seemed to everyone in the Conference Room that Triton was really there and walking among them. His projection stepped off the metal square of the Calling Card and approached the Second in Command.
“This battle has gone on far too long, Madame Hightower. All
we’re asking for is a peaceful transfer of power from you to a demo
cratically elected Second that is more reflective of the people’s
views.”
“What do you know of the people?” scoffed Eve Hightower from the seat beside him. “You’re nothing but a terrorist who preys on their worst fears!”
“And you are nothing but a slave to a Plan that was obsolete on
the day that it was born!”
A digital fist noiselessly pounded the conference table.
“Weather, Nature, Energy, Time, Reality . . . The Tide now controls
every key department in The Seems. So whether you like it or
not, Madame Second, The World WILL be put on hold, and the
Plan WILL be revised!”
Triton appeared to run a hand through his hair, as if to steady his emotion.
“Your final act as Second will
be to decide if it is done through honest discourse . . . or through the
use of force.”
Eve’s mind raced unsuccessfully to find some stratagem that could halt the rising Tide when the conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“The Care Givers are here, Lena,” said one of the henchmen.
Lena Zorn looked to the image of her boss—who assented with an absent wave of a hand— then cautiously opened the door herself. “Be quick about it, Doctor. The future of The World is being decided here.”
“Of course.”
A young Care Giver carrying a black Department of Health bag hastily entered the room, accompanied by a uniformed nurse. Several people had been badly injured during the attack on the Conference Room, most severely Eve Hightower’s personal assistant.
“Monique, can you hear me?” The doctor lifted the injured girl’s head off the floor. “My name is Doctor Carmichael and I’m going to take good care of you, okay?”
Strange. Eve had attended every graduation from the Department of Health’s med school since taking her position and couldn’t recall a Doctor Carmichael ever taking a diploma
from her hands.
“Where are you hurt, Madame Second?” prodded the Care Giver’s assistant.
“Don’t worry about me. There are others with far greater injuries than me.”
Eve was about to push the busybody nurse away when she suddenly realized it wasn’t a nurse at all. It was a Chinese woman in her midthirties, with streaks of white in her jet black hair, who just happened to be the most talented Briefer on the Duty Roster.
“Are you sure, Madame?” asked Shan Mei-Lin, skillfully remaining in character. “Because there’s a whole
team
of Care Givers waiting on the floor below, and they can be here at a moment’s notice if the need arises.”
Eve snuck a look at the “doctor,” and Fixer Harold “C-Note” Carmichael threw back the subtlest of winks. They were clearly the vanguard of a Central Command counterstrike— one the Second only wanted to use as a last resort.
“I’m fine, Nurse. But please stay until you’ve made sure everyone’s okay.”
Briefer Shan nodded and made her way through the Powers That Be, who, like the members of The Tide, were completely unaware of who was in their midst.
“There’s no point fighting him any longer, Eve.” Candace Morgan had lost her bravado, but not her point of view. “The writing’s on the wall.”
“As it was with the Blue Poison Dart Frog, I suppose.”
“Excuse me?”
Eve just shook her head and smiled, finally understanding how thoroughly she’d been outmaneuvered. Looking at the faces of the Powers That Be, all caught somewhere between fearfulness and hope, it hit her that Triton must’ve reached out to those in this room long before his minions actually entered it.
“Do all of you feel this way?” she tested.
Of the eleven other members, only one Power shook his head no.
“I’m still with you, Eve,” said Herb Howe. “Come Heck or high water.”
The old Reality Checker’s loyalty put a lump in her throat, but she wasn’t ready to make the call until someone else weighed in. “Mom?”
As usual, Sophie Temporale had watched the proceedings without ever offering an opinion— but this time a mother’s concern replaced her usual detachment.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt, sweetheart. Maybe a fresh voice at the top will end all this pointless bickering.”
Eve nodded, torn between her disappointment that the Time Being was tacitly supporting Triton’s agenda, and practically moved to tears that her mother was actually worried about her for the first time since she could remember.
“I suggest we put it to a show of hands.”
Triton rose to his digitally garbled feet.
“Yea, and the Second in Command tenders
her resignation, The Tide stands down, and a new dawn arises in
The Seems and The World. Nay . . .”