The Split Second

by John Hulme

  “I don’t know if I can do this, sir.”

  “I do.”

  “But I’m afraid.”

  “So am I.” Jackal looked his Briefer in the eyes one last time and allowed her to see the truth of his proclamation. “That’s what my MIM is for.”

  In Missions past, Shan Mei-Lin would have said, “I don’t have much use for the MIM, sir,” as she had done with Fixer Chiappa earlier on this fateful day. But the darkness of Meanwhile had steered her to a different place inside herself, and the utility of the Mission Inside the Mission was quite apparent. As was the identity of hers . . .

  “Bohai,” she whispered aloud, then shut her eyes again and reached out with her 7th Sense. This time, the fear that clouded her awareness disappeared before the love she felt for her long-lost brother, and just as Jackal has suggested, the path became clear. The very tips of the fingers that held the Catch-All seemed to measure the Split Second’s loop and knew exactly when would be the right moment to interrupt it . . .

  “Sorry . . . to bother you guys . . .” On the roof of the Containment Field, Fixer Drane was struggling with all his might to keep his grip upon This, That & The Other Thing. “But if you’re gonna do this, you better do it now!”

  Indeed, the cracks in the walls that had once been microscopic were expanding to the size of icy tendrils, and worse, the thin strips of metal that welded the ten-foot squares of glass together had begun to rattle like a radiator. Tom Jackal’s eyes fell to the crumbling dirt beneath him, the blue light breaking through it in ever-increasing streaks. In his right hand was half a Second, an exact replica of the one that was about to explode through the floor on its way to the unsuspecting World. Regardless of the danger, it was long past time to Stitch the two together.

  “Start your countdown, Shan.”

  Frozen Moment Channel, The In-Between

  “Use your imagination?”

  Briefer Harold Carmichael was still suspended in the In-Between, still struggling to weld the uncooperative Q-Turn into the Animal Affairs Tube. Tony the Plumber’s idea had been brilliant in theory, but installing a heavy metal pipe inside a transparent-walled, magnetically-powered, electrified Tube wasn’t exactly the same proposition as fixing a leaky faucet.

  “That’s easy for him to—ooof! ”

  All the wind was suddenly and forcibly yanked from the C-Note’s lungs, and he didn’t need Li Po or any other master of the 7th Sense to tell him that something very wrong had just happened in The Seems. His Blinker said the same thing it had for the last half hour or so—“Split Second repair in progress”—but that feeling of being out of breath only got worse when the Receiver on his belt started to blare.

  “Briefer #321 here, over.”

  “Listen to me, C.” C-Note immediately recognized the caller as his favorite Fixer from the isle of Staten. “You need to get yourself outta that Tube RIGHT NOW.”

  “Why, what’s the 411?”

  “All’s I know’s the kid and his team were about to Stitch that crazy thing together, but something must’ve gone wrong.” Tony the Plumber’s voice had none of its usual swagger. “ ’Cause the Essence of Time is coming your way!”

  “How much?”

  “Enough to trash a whole city—let alone you.”

  The med student in Briefer Carmichael recognized that the weak feeling spreading throughout his body was the sympathetic nervous system contacting the chromaffin granula, activating the adrenergic receptors and resulting in a surge of the first messenger hormone commonly known as adrenalin. “How long I got?”

  “Less than sixty seconds.” Tony didn’t beat around the bush. “Don’t try to be a hero, kid.”

  “But didn’t you say the Essence was gonna take out a whole city?”

  “There ain’t nothing you can do about that now.”

  C-Note took five of those less than sixty seconds to listen to the roar of the In-Between and clear his heart and mind.

  “We’ll see about that,” he said, before gently hanging up the phone.

  Only a week ago, Harold Carmichael had been at wit’s end—convinced that he didn’t have what it took to be promoted to “the best job in The World.” But a sloppy dollop of clouds painted by a former classmate of his had changed all that, and given C-Note the Confidence to do what he was about do now.

  From within his Case, the Briefer removed a long sheet of Time-resistant fiberglass. It had originally been reserved for one of the Powers That Be who wanted spoilers on his car that would never rust.

  “Sorry, dogg. I’m gonna have to get you next week—if there is a next week.”

  C-Note curled the fiberglass into the shape of a funnel, which he then inserted into the mouth of the Q-Turn, which he then connected to a brand-new catalytic converter that he had spit-shined himself. When clamped together, this combination added up to a makeshift version of the same remarkable device he’d seen with his mind’s eye . . .

  A car engine.

  “Hope it takes premium.”

  Meanwhile, The Seems

  “Whoa.”

  Becker Drane blinked away the stars from his eyes and slowly lugged himself back to his feet. He was amazed to find himself still atop the Containment Field, which, despite the physical trauma of the last few minutes, had managed to stay in one piece. The same could not be said for the inside, however . . .

  “You guys okay down there?”

  Huddled together in the center of the field were two people dressed from head to toe in the same white fabric. They hugged each other tightly, for only a small patch of dirt remained beneath them, most of the floor having collapsed into the highways and byways of the infinite blueness below.

  “I think I’m fine, sir.” Briefer Shan looked up at the boy on the glass ceiling above. “Fixer Jackal?”

  Tom Jackal’s eyes were closed tightly behind the goggles of his Sleeve, and for a second Briefer Shan feared the worst . . . until a weary voice emerged.

  “No worries, kids.” The Fixer finally opened his eyes. “I take a licking, but I keep on ticking.”

  Satisfied that his team was okay, Becker took a seat on the edge of the roof, ran a hand through his shag of sweaty hair, and tried to process what had just happened.

  On the count of three, Shan had extended the Catch-All into the path of the Split Second, and despite its incredible velocity, it had stuck to the surface like a fly on a paper. The Second itself had been another matter, though. The two halves magnetically repelled each other at first, and when Jackal tried to force their reunion, a large stream of Essence had squeezed out. The Fixer shoved his Briefer out of the way, and though he was soaked from head to toe, his brute strength allowed him to finally Stitch the sphere back into one piece.

  “Got a present for you, Drane.” Jackal released his grip on Shan to hold up a silvery object that was wedged inside their bear hug. It kind of looked like a basketball, except made of shiny metal and with a single lace that wrapped itself all the way around. “Make sure you stop by the Fun House and thank them in person!”

  Becker couldn’t believe his eyes—the Stitch had actually worked, and the volatile Second was no longer split. It was just an ordinary rock that could go back to doing its job of helping provide a pleasant rate of Time in The World.

  Ring! Ring!

  “This had better be good news,” Becker thought to himself, as he lifted his Receiver for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day. “#37 here.”

  “Kid—it’s me, T the P.”

  “Please tell me that Tokyo isn’t a dustbowl . . .”

  “A dustbowl? Nah, you got it all wrong!” Becker had only heard Tony this giddy one time—five minutes before his beloved New York Jets blew a chance to make it to the Super Bowl. “Our main man C-Note built himself a Time Machine!”

  “A Time Machine? What the heck is that?”

  “It’s like a V6 engine, except it don’t run on fuel. Runs on Essence of Time—and it sucked up every last bit!”

  “Way to
go, C!”

  “They’re sayin’ this could be the reusable energy source The World’s been looking for!”

  “Do me a favor, T.” Becker knew from experience what this meant for Briefer Carmichael’s career. “Make sure you ask him if he knows how many Fixers there are in The World.”

  “Done. How we doin’ in Meanwhile?”

  Becker wanted to shout at the top of his lungs, “We did it! We did it!” but he remembered what one of his mentors Casey Lake used to say at times like this. “We’ve still gotta cross our I’s and dot our T’s.”

  “Roger that, kid. T the P out.”

  The chief “I” for Becker to cross was getting his people out of that Containment Field, so he rolled up his own Sleeve and pried a hole in the thin, semipermeable membrane. From there, it was quick work to lower a rope down to his two partners . . .

  “You first.” Jackal gently squeezed Shan’s shoulder, and both could feel how heavy the protective fabric had become. “If you don’t get out of this thing soon, I’ll have to call you Ye Ye.”

  As she grabbed the rope, the Briefer smiled at the use of the Mandarin term of endearment for grandmother. She asked, “Ni hue bu hue shuo zhong wen?”

  “Shuo de hen cha.” Jackal replied.

  Becker lugged Shan out of the Containment Field and back onto the roof, then began to help her out of her Time-drenched Sleeve.

  “We need to get you out of this thing and over to the Department of Health for a full checkup. And maybe even some more of that Anti-Aging Cre—”

  But when he lifted the mask and goggles away from Shan’s face, Becker couldn’t hide the shock and horror on his own.

  “What is it, sir?”

  The Briefer’s Sleeve had clearly soaked through, for what was once the face of a nineteen-year-old girl was now a woman in her early thirties. Becker didn’t answer her question, only helped her out of her gear and wrapped her in a blanket. But if it had done this to Shan, what had it done to Tom Jackal, who had Stitched the Split Second with his very own hands?

  “Tom, you gotta get out of that Sleeve right now.”

  “It’s too late, Becker.”

  Shan could sense some awful knowledge passing between the two Fixers and she didn’t like the way it made her feel. “Too late for what?”

  “For an old man who’s already lived nine lives.”

  Tom Jackal took off his Goggles and peeled back his Sleeve so only his head was revealed.

  “No,” said Becker.

  Already, Tom’s hair and beard were turning gray, and deep wrinkles were forming around his eyes. His back had also begun to hunch forward, as if it could no longer bear the weight of his body.

  “Don’t look so glum, people. These are what they call the golden years.”

  Whereas the effects of Shan’s exposure seemed to have run their course, the Essence had not finished wreaking havoc upon Jackal’s body. He struggled to remove the rest of the Sleeve, but even shedding himself of the soaked clothing didn’t seem to stop the aging process at all.

  “Surely there’s something we can do . . . ,” Shan’s eyes asked Becker, but all the Fixer could do was shake his head, while beneath her blanket, the Briefer began to cry. Not for the twelve years that were gone, but for the man who was losing his life because he had saved hers.

  “Becker . . .” Jackal willed himself forward and staggered down a thin strip of dirt that led from the center of the Field to the edge of the glass. “Get me my Toolkit.”

  The old Toolmaster 44, scarred and weathered from a long life of service, sat on the floor outside the Containment Field. As Becker hopped the ten feet down and dragged the leather saddlebag over to the glass, he could not look Shan in the eyes, because he didn’t want her to see what was about to pour out of his.

  “Bring it over here, boy.” Jackal’s voice was getting raspy and weak, so Becker had to lean in close to hear him.

  “I know you’re wondering how I could have left my family, knowing that I would never see them again.” Becker shook his head no, but Jackal saw through it. “They wouldn’t let me stay—not knowing what would happen to The World and that I had the power to stop it. They forced me through that Door.”

  With the crooked finger of a ninety-year-old man, Jackal feebly pointed to a pouch on the side of his Toolkit.

  “I brought something to show you.”

  Becker unsnapped the pouch and there was only one item inside. It was a small Polaroid photo of the Jackals—Tom, Rhianna, and their children—piled on top of one another in a heaping mound of snow.

  “I told you it was real, Becker.” Despite his age, Jackal’s eyes burned as brightly as they ever had. “It was all real.”

  Becker Drane forced a smile because he wanted the last moment of this great man’s life to be a happy one.

  “Don’t feel bad for us, son, because our love will survive anything.” The Fixer willed his lungs to draw one final breath. “And I know I’ll see them in A Better—”

  With that, Tom Jackal leaned his tired head against the side of the glass, and right before Becker’s eyes, crumbled into dust.

  29. Though Superstition, a sub-department of the Department of Everything That Has No Department, is believed to be close to breaking the stranglehold of the number thirteen, usage of the cursed integer is still not recommended.

  30. “A stitch in time saves nine.”

  14

  Frozen Moments

  Alton Forest, Caledon, Ontario

  Jennifer Kaley stood beneath the fortress of Les Resistance and looked up at the night sky, disappointed. The distinct feeling she’d had ever since a mammoth tree smashed to the forest floor had mysteriously vanished without a trace. It wasn’t the most pleasant sensation—a mix of chills, goose bumps, and nausea—but now that it was gone, Jennifer almost missed it. Like hiccups.

  “Hello?” No one was allowed in the park after dusk (including JK) but she could’ve sworn she heard a footstep. “Is anybody out there?”

  The woods had seemed almost enchanted when she returned to this spot, but now that magic hour had passed, and with it the promise of something extraordinary, she felt more than a little bit frightened.

  “Marco?” The crunching through the leaves seemed to be getting closer, and judging by the rhythmic “pit-pat,” they were not the tracks of a deer or chipmunk. Jennifer waited expectantly for the “Polo” in return, but all that echoed back were footsteps that were growing in frequency and pace.

  “C’mon, you guys. This isn’t funny.”

  But then it hit her that none of her fellow club members knew that she was still in Alton. In fact, no one knew that she was—not her parents, not her friends, and not the rangers who had closed up the park for the night. The sounds of the forest rose up like a choir and the night seemed to turn even darker, and Jennifer couldn’t take it anymore. She had to make a run for it . . .

  Back through the brushes, over the waterfall, and around the rock formations she went. All kinds of terrible images flashed through her head, of other girls she’d seen on the news and stories people always told at school, and this only prompted her to move faster—until suddenly the footsteps stopped in their tracks. For standing in front of her was a boy about her age, with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a badge on his chest.

  “Jennifer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s me, Becker.” The boy stepped farther into the pale moonlight, and even though she’d only seen it once, almost a year ago, Jennifer immediately recognized his face. “Becker Drane.”

  If Becker was hoping for a soldier’s reunion, he didn’t quite get it. Not because Jennifer wasn’t ecstatic to see him, but because she was convinced this had to be another dream. She looked the soon-to-be eighth grader up and down, his outfit only confirming that this was definitely a night vision or a hallucination from working too hard on the fort and not drinking enough water.

  “Are you one of those dream-stalkers I read about in Omni?” Je
nnifer asked, figuring that since she had to be in an alternate reality, she could pretty much say anything she wanted.

  “No,” Becker returned. “This time it isn’t a dream, it’s real. Look.”

  Becker took a few steps closer before he realized the girl was truly scared. But she let him pinch her arm anyway.

  “So?” She was still a lot more than doubtful. “I can get pinched in a dream and it’s still a dream.”

  “Here.” He threw the girl his Blinker. “Digital clocks don’t work in dreams.”

  Jennifer studied the weird device, which was not exactly a digital clock and not the kind of object one might use to prove that everything is as it should be, but the accurate time and date onscreen at least gave her pause. She looked Becker up and down, then pinched herself one more time.

  “Ouch.” A little too hard. “So wait—if you’re really here”— Jennifer was starting to accept the fact that he was—“then are you telling me that everything that happened last time in my dream was . . . real?”

  “Um . . .” It wasn’t totally lost on Becker that he was in grave violation of the Rules. Not just the Rule Against Using the In-Between for Personal Transport, not just the Rule of Thumb, not just the Keep Your Mouth Shut Rule, but the granddaddy of ’em all (and the one he’d recently promised not to break)—the Golden Rule. But after all that had happened tonight, he didn’t really care.

  “Yes.”

  For the next few minutes Becker spilled the beans and Jennifer picked them up, one by one. The Fixer let her look inside his Toolkit, showed her the Mission Report that explained “the bizarre incident of the falling tree,” even led her to the locked and rusty Door on the side of the park ranger’s hut, which he had used to make the journey here. By the time the two finally sat down on a hollow log in a patch of ferns, Jennifer was in the state of catatonia that can only come from finding out that everything you thought was real—including the very world in which you lived—was actually not what you thought at all.