The Lost Train of Thought, Page 2

  Fixer Drane unbuckled his Seat Belt and sprinted across to the garden where Minin and Pozharsky had stood since 1936. In the grass beside the statue was the hole that had released the pressure from the Winds of Change, but instead of a window into the infinite highways and byways of the In-Between, all he saw was a small section of denim peeking through.

  “That Patch held better than you thought,” Becker informed his elated Briefer, and he could hear the cheers of the Seem-stresses who manned the Department of Reality. “Just needs a little nip and tuck.”

  When Fixer Casey Lake had so famously sewn the Fabric back together, all she’d used for the job was a household needle and thread. But since this was more of a hole than a tear, Becker figured better safe than sorry. He used a Rounded Scopeman ’4000™ to clamp the dirt around the denim, then wrapped a feathered Boa Constrictor™ around the apparatus and pulled Reality back together tight.

  “Now call in the Cleanup Crew and tell them they’ve got a spill in aisle 66. All right, Sim?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  It wouldn’t be easy to conceal the fact that an entire Sector of The World had mysteriously paused for over a minute— especially a Sector as prominent as this. Memories would have to be disguised as Dreams, pieces of Misinformation scattered, and any existing video footage edited for content, but the Cleanup Crew was renowned for their spotless record.

  “There’s one thing they can’t hide, though.” Becker looked up to the crystal blue sky. “The amount of Change that slipped through the Fabric.”

  “You can’t stop The World from changing, kid.” Henry smiled and gestured to the crowd. “Far as I’m concerned, that’s a good thing.”

  Indeed, all was not as it once was in the heart of Red Square. The formerly talentless juggler was not only standing on the seat of his unicycle but had added a sixth and seventh ball to the mix. The lovers whose relationship was unraveling were locked in a warm embrace, and though not a single passerby was listening to the long-haired songwriter, a perfect arrangement of chords and heartfelt melody was emerging from his guitar.

  It was hard to tell how far and wide these new possibilities would spread, but the two co-workers knew for certain that the Mission known as “The Winds of Change” was complete.

  “Pleasure doing business with you, Drane.”

  “Likewise.”

  “And good luck in court tomorrow.” Henry extended his gloved hand and Becker shook it with appreciation. “Everyone at the agency’s pullin’ for ya.”

  “Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

  With a final tip of the cap, Henry Steele, Agent of L.U.C.K., pulled up his coat collar and vanished into the crowd.

  The late afternoon light was creeping toward evening and a group of Russian teenagers had begun to gather around the young guitarist, who was just beginning to test out some lyrics. The last thing Becker wanted to think about was what might happen tomorrow, so instead he busted out a Slim Jim and sat himself down to listen to the newly written tune.

  “Noviy dyen’ rassvetayet, noviy put’ lezhit pryamo peredo mnoy.”

  Though the Fixer couldn’t understand the lyrics without his Hearing Aide™, he knew the song wasn’t the only thing that had been affected by the Winds of Change. Now that they were here, he hoped maybe peace would reign on Earth. Maybe Pink Floyd would finally get back together and go on tour. Maybe Benjamin would even stay out of his room when the “do not disturb” sign was hanging on the outside of the door. (Fat chance.)

  As per his orders, all the Seemsian departments had redialed Sector 66 to its original state, and he pleasantly sampled their wares. The grass felt soft and loose beneath him, the Smell of Success teased his nostrils, and the return of Indian summer allowed him and his fellow concertgoers to remove their sweatshirts and gloves. Sooner or later, Becker would have to break out his Skeleton Key™ and get back to Jersey, where he would anxiously count down the hours until his fate was decided. But for now, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and listen to an ever-changing World.

  Little did he know that winds of change were sweeping across The Seems as well.

  1. All Tools copyright © the Toolshed, the Institute for Fixing & Repair (IFR), The Seems, XVUIVVII. For more information, please see: “Appendix C: Tools of the Trade.”

  2. After much debate, it was recently decided to combine the functionalities of the Blinker™ into one all-purpose communications device. Hence, Bleceiver.

  3. Little Unplanned Changes of Kismet. Note: For more, please see Appendix A: “Glossary of Terms.”

  1

  The Court of Public Opinion

  Court of Public Opinion, Department of Legal Affairs, The Seems

  Waldy Joels, Seemsian News Network’s chief legal correspondent, straightened his perfectly coiffed hair and looked deeply into the camera.

  “We’re inside the Court of Public Opinion, where a verdict is expected today in the trial of one of The Seems’ most decorated Fixers. Should the defendant be found guilty on all counts, he faces the severest penalties under the law— immediate Pink Slip, incarceration in Seemsberia, and, worst of all, permanent unremembering of The Seems itself.”

  A murmur went through the packed courtroom as the door to the judges’ chambers slowly creaked open.

  “Here come the judges now.”

  Waldy’s cameraman trained his lens on the proceedings, where a grizzled old bailiff stepped to the front.

  “All rise. The Court of Public Opinion is now in session.” The crowd rose to its feet as the three members of the tribunal took their seats on the bench. “The Honorable Eve Hightower presiding.”

  Second in Command Eve Hightower, the highest-ranking official in The Seems, tucked in her robes and reviewed the motions submitted by the prosecution and defense. To her right was the Administrator of the Department of Legal Affairs, Alvin Torte, Esq., while on her left sat a sixth-grade teacher at the School of Thought by the name of Eleanor Altman, who, in accordance with Seemsian law, had been picked at random from the general population.

  There was only one case on their docket today but it was a big one, and the hardwood benches were crammed with spectators. Most of them were holding battery-operated fans in front of their faces to combat the heat caused by a breakdown of the court’s main air-conditioning unit. The one exception was the solitary figure sitting in the defendant’s box, facing the crowd in a suit and tie his parents had bought him at the Menlo Park Mall.

  “The court will now hear closing arguments in Case #00009876 BBJ-24, Fixer #37, Ferdinand Becker Drane III.” Second in Command Hightower banged down the gavel, which loudly echoed off the high ceilings. “You may be seated.”

  Despite the fact that the same Ferdinand Becker Drane III was considered a rising star in Fixing circles, he had also become a figure of some controversy. Ever since his career began, he’d shown a tendency for bending (if not outright breaking) the Rules that governed the conduct of all employees in The Seems. And though a certain leeway was given to Fixers— it was commonly known that their work often involved the gray areas of the Plan—#37’s wiggle room had quickly run out when he had violated the “granddaddy of ’em all.”

  According to affidavits, “The defendant has systematically and repeatedly violated the Golden Rule by engaging in an unauthorized relationship with Jennifer Kaley of Sector 104, Grid 11— an association that began in a Dream world designed by the defendant himself after fully accessing Ms. Kaley’s confidential Case File. Furthermore, when confronted with the allegation, Fixer Drane not only refused to remedy the situation but persisted in violating the aforementioned statute.”

  Although Becker was presumed innocent and allowed to remain on duty, the trial had fast become a media circus in the world that makes The World. Throngs of people had shown up on the steps of the Halls of Justice, while others routinely followed the proceedings via SNN, the Daily Plan, or CPO-TV.4. But these viewers were more than just fans of reality TV, for they knew that in the Cou
rt of Public Opinion, their voice could make the difference.

  In the Court of Public Opinion, every Seemsian had a say.

  “In my opinion, the Golden Rule is golden for a reason!”

  In the fourth row of the courtroom, a man in a three-piece suit twirled his walrus mustache.

  “If it was bendable, breakable, or up for discussion, the original Powers That Be would have called it the Bendable, Breakable, Up for Discussion Rule!”

  “Here! Here!” Several voices rang throughout the room, until Second in Command Hightower banged her gavel again.

  “Please continue, Manager Dozenski.”

  Manager Dozenski had once been Administrator Dominic Dozenski of the Department of Sleep, but after a Glitch almost caused a devastating Ripple Effect, he’d been reassigned to the Flower Plant. Though the symbol on his lapel had changed from Sleep’s closed eye to Nature’s maple tree, his crusty demeanor had not. “I say send him to the Flavor Mines and be done with it!”

  “I’m sorry, Dominic, but you’re hardly an impartial witness.” An attractive woman in a power suit rose to her feet on the other side of the room. “Fixer Drane’s disagr—”

  “All members of the public wishing to speak will raise their hands or be asked to leave the hall!” Clarence the bailiff had worked in the Hall of Justice since back in the Day, and he ruled the room with an iron fist.

  “My apologies to the court.”

  “Please continue, Administrator Sandeye,” said Eve High-tower.

  “I’m simply pointing out that Fixer Drane’s conflict with former Administrator Dozenski on the night of the Glitch is well documented.”

  “That has nothing to do with this!” shouted Dominic, his face turning bright red. “Rules are the foundation of any good organization—which is why I imagine you informed Fixer Drane that the Golden Rule would be invoked when he entered into the Case in question’s Dream.”

  “Of course I informed him. But as you well know, Dreams can often be hard to let go of.”

  Carol Sandeye should know, for she was once VP of Dreams before being promoted to replace the outgoing Dozenski. From the obvious tension in the room, it was safe to say they wouldn’t be sipping Love Potions together at The Slumber Party.

  “Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt but . . .” Judge Alt-man tentatively raised her hand from the bench. “Can I get a clarification of the Administrator’s comment and specifically how it relates to the Golden Rule?”

  “Perhaps one of my staff can better explain.” Administrator Sandeye looked up to the mezzanine. “Dr. Seymour, will you please stand up.”

  In the back of the second-floor balcony, a pale lab-coated figure tentatively rose. No one sat within five feet of him, for few were the Seemsians who longed to be in the presence of one of the infamous Bed Bugs.

  “Um. Well, you see . . .”

  The technicians whose sole responsibility was to concoct the Nightmares of The World were not known for leaving their laboratory often (if at all) and the disheveled doctor’s voice was quaking uncontrollably.

  “Relax, Dr. Seymour.” Eve Hightower lent some support from down below. “We’re all co-workers here.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” The Bed Bug lifted his green visor to reveal bloodshot and sensitive eyes. “When mixing a Dream, we use ingredients especially designed to create a heightened Reality— so the messages, experiences, and visions the recipients receive will stick with them until morning and beyond. The Dream in question, which I believe was a modified #532, is especially difficult to shake because it also includes elements of a Nightmare.”

  “Does that answer your question, Judge Altman?” asked Administrator Sandeye.

  “Oh yes, ma’am,” said the little old lady, who still could not believe she was in the presence of so many Seemsian luminaries (let alone the Second in Command herself). “I believe that about covers it.”

  Administrator Sandeye nodded and turned to the rest of the tribunal. “I would only ask that the court consider leniency in this case.”

  “Your request is duly noted for the record, ” Judge Alvin Torte coldly nodded to the stenographer, who was tasked with keeping track of every syllable in every trial. “But leniency is more of an issue for sentencing.”

  Whispers rippled through the press box, which was over-flowing with Wordsmiths and reporters from the Daily Plan. Judge Torte was known to be a strict constructionist when it came to interpreting the Plan, which was why most experts believed he would come down hard on the side of a guilty verdict. But if the defendant was worried on the inside, he didn’t show it. Fixer Drane sat expressionless on the stand, taking notes and waiting for Torte to continue.

  “What I’d like to get are some opinions about the defendant’s wanton disregard for the Rules, especially when it comes to the subject of his younger brother.”

  Torte, of course, was speaking of Fixer Drane’s alleged violation of another sacred Seemsian law: the Keep Your Mouth Shut Rule.5. Upon his acceptance as a Candidate at the Institute for Fixing & Repair, Becker had been granted a semi-exemption of this clause, because he was only ten years old at the time and still living at home with his parents. This gave him the freedom to tell tall tales and bedtime stories about The Seems to Benjamin, who was often troubled by deep-seated fears and unanswerable questions.

  But last summer, when Benjamin stumbled upon two identical versions of his brother— the real Becker and the inflatable Tool known as a Me-’2™—no mere semi-exception to the Keep Your Mouth Shut Rule would do.

  “Zis is an outrage!” A flamboyant figure with smears of paint and Ingenuity all over his smock jumped to his feet in the eighteenth row. “I have had ze personal pleasure of instructing Benjamin Drane, and I tell you, ze boy is a natural!”

  Figarro Mastrioni, the famed Maestro of Sunset Strip, was perhaps the greatest artiste to ever grace The World’s sky at dawn or dusk. He also owed Fixer Drane a favor, which he was happy to repay by giving Benjamin art lessons.

  “Someday zis Benjamin will make ze sky itself weep!”

  “This isn’t about Benjamin Drane’s talent as an artist, sir,” Torte replied from his place on the bench. “You of all people should know better than to disclose the secrets of The Seems to someone who hasn’t been vetted by Human Resources!”

  “Bureaucrats in their ivory tower! What about ze people of Ze World? Have we forgotten zat zis should be our main concern?”

  Figarro was as surprised as anyone when a round of applause exploded through the room.

  “Order! Order in the court!” Second in Command High-tower angrily slammed down the gavel and brought the hall to silence. “I know a lot of people have strong feelings, but this trial is about more than one man’s job. It’s about who we are as The Seems and what kind of World we want to create.”

  “Hopefully not one filled with Rules and regulations.” A disgruntled Nature Buff stood up without raising her hand. “Whatever happened to thinking for ourselves?”

  “Sounds to me like you’re surfing the wrong wave, sister.” A Minuteman from the Department of Time got right in her face. “Maybe we should see what kind of necklace you’re sporting.”

  Again, the Hall of Justice fell into disarray as the two workers charged at each other and had to be restrained by security. But this time, the pounding of gavels had no effect whatsoever.

  “Order!” shouted all three judges to no avail. “Order in this court!”

  While most in The Seems still had faith in the Big Building and its Plan, in the past year the underground movement known as The Tide had continued its alarming rise. Their efforts to remove the Powers That Be and take over The World had grown more brazen, and though few would publicly admit sympathies, the group’s proposals were starting to gain traction with the public. Which is why fights like this had become all too common.

  It was only when a tall man with steely blue eyes raised his hand from the very back of the room that the hall grew quiet once more. Slowly at first
, then all at once, as each person in the crowd realized who was requesting permission to speak.

  “The court recognizes Samuel Hightower.” The Second in Command’s voice remained decidedly professional, even though everyone in the room knew their relationship was anything but. “Do you have an opinion in this matter?”

  The tall man leaned back against the wall behind him and smiled.

  “It’s my opinion that everyone should take a deep breath and remember that we’re all on the same side.”

  When Samuel Hightower spoke, people in The Seems listened. His term as Second in Command had been the longest in recorded History and his approval ratings astronomically high. Though he had unexpectedly resigned his post seven years ago, he was still a consultant to the Powers That Be and with all the political upheaval, calls for his reinstatement had become louder and louder. Oh, and there was one more thing that made the gossip columnist for the Daily Plan lean forward in the press box.

  Samuel was Eve Hightower’s husband.

  “These are tenuous times in The Seems, are they not?” He lifted a well-worn cowboy boot to the rail in front of him and polished the toe with his thumb. “Who among us thought there would come a day when metal detectors lined the doors to every department? When Special Forces roamed the Field of Play, checking every bag and knapsack? When brother and sister would turn on each other as they haven’t since the terrible days of the Color Wars?”

  Though he never looked at the Nature Buff or Minuteman, the reprimand was clear, and all who’d engaged in the scuffle dropped their eyes to the floor.

  “It’s no secret who is responsible for the situation we now face. And though we can all agree that The Tide’s methods are distasteful—if not downright criminal— they’ve also forced us to ask some tough questions. Questions we’ve been avoiding since back in the Day. And trust me, no one avoided them more than I did, when I sat in the chair at the head of this room.”

  Heads shook throughout the hall, as if to exonerate the man who had led them for so many peaceful and productive years, but Samuel would hear none of it.