by John Hulme
“Les partir suel!”
En masse, the gang turned toward the voice of a gaunt figure that was approaching from the other side of the yard. His hair and beard were disheveled, and he was rail thin—though what there was of him was rock hard. Whoever he was, The Tide didn’t turn on him, which meant he merited respect.
“This don’t concern you, Frenchy,” the miner whispered under his breath.
“But it does concern them.”
The scraggly inmate unexpectedly hucked a rock up at the nearest tower, enough of a signal to catch the guard’s attention.
“There a problem down there?” The Corrections Officer took off his mirrored shades and shouted over a bullhorn. Nobody said a word, because nobody wanted to be tossed into solitary confinement or given extra sessions on the Couch. “I didn’t think so. Now break it up!”
He didn’t have to ask twice, and one by one The Tide began to reverse course and trickle back into the yard. But not before one of them gave Simly a vicious shove, knocking him into the wall and off his feet.
“I don’t care if you are Triton’s boy.” The Flavor Miner stepped right up to the one called Frenchy and spat directly in his face. “I’m personally gonna send you to A Better Place.”
“But I’m already there, monami.”
As the chess masters returned to their clocks, the bearded prisoner grabbed the newbie by the elbow and lifted him off the ice.
“Simly Alomonous Frye. What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”
Simly hadn’t recognized his savior at first glance, but the accent born of summers in Paris and winters in Chamonix left no doubt in his mind about who this stranger was. The two had trained together on the hallowed grounds of the IFR and faced the same gauntlet of challenges thrown at all his Candidates by instructor Jelani Blaque. But the Briefer shuddered at what terrible events could have transformed that debonair French teenager into the battle-scarred convict who stood before him now . . .
“Thibadeau?”
Executive Conference Room, The Big Building, The Seems
Eve Hightower sat one chair to the right of the head of the conference table, numbly clutching the twelve ballots in her hand.
“Eight to four?” She had already counted the anonymous votes reflected on the small white squares of paper twice, but she couldn’t stop herself from doing it again. “Eight to four?”
Since the other eleven members of the Powers That Be had already excused themselves, the Second in Command was left alone to figure out what had gone wrong. Only a single issue had come up on the docket today, that being whether or not to intervene in the matter of the Blue Poison Dart Frog. The amphibian indigenous to Sector 419 was on the verge of extinction, but the Rules governing Animal Affairs clearly stated: “tampering with the success or failure of any species is strictly prohibited.” Eve was beyond stunned, however, to find that hers was one of only four votes that advocated letting Nature take its course in this matter.
“How is this possible?”
She angrily tossed the ballots across the table, not because the actual issue had won approval, but because of what the results said about the Powers That Be themselves.
“What were you expecting, dear?” Out of the shadows in the corner of the conference room stepped an older woman with long silver hair. She was dressed more casually than the Second in Command— in a simple white blouse and jeans, with sandals on her feet—and she seemed far more amused by the vote. “A landslide?”
“Just the usual seven to five.” Eve’s annoyance only increased at the sight of the older woman’s smile. “But to flip-flop that far the other way?”
“Surely this isn’t the first vote that caught you by surprise.” The new arrival sat down upon the edge of the table and pointed to a famous painting on the wall. “You should’ve seen my face when the original Powers shot down my proposal for extra Time off for good behavior.”
“Mother, please! If I wanted to hear stories about the good ole days, I would call Sitriol Flook!”
Sophie Temporale quietly let Eve’s fury wash over her. No matter how hard she tried to be helpful, the woman known as “the Time Being” still couldn’t avoid getting under her daughter’s skin. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I thought you wanted me to be here.”
“I did. I do.” Eve took a deep breath, feeling typically guilty about flipping out on her mom. “But what I really need from you right now is advice.”
Ever since her mother had made an unexpected return to The Seems after fifty-plus years of exile, Eve had sought Sophie’s council. These were dangerous times, what with the rise of The Tide, and the Second didn’t know who she could trust anymore. “You saw the vote, heard the arguments. Who do you think sold me out?”
“If you ask me, the question is not who, dear, it’s why. Why would they approve a motion that is so obviously and noticeably against the Rules?”
“And I’m sure you have an answer for that too.”
Sophie nodded. “The Powers That Be have always been and always will be mere reflections of what’s happening in The Seems at large. And any fool can see that the people are beginning to lose faith in the Plan.”
“That sounds more like Samuel talking.” Eve was surprised by the coldness of her own voice. “Or Triton.”
“Ignore the truth in your enemy’s words at your own peril, sweetheart. And speaking of Samuel, you might want to consider heeding his advice instead of dismissing it, else those who sold you out take it as a sign that you fear his popularity.”
“First of all, it was I who asked him to be a consultant to the Powers That Be. And secondly, the day I’m afraid of Sam Hightower is the day pigs fly.”
“Then why isn’t he living at home anymore?”
This time Sophie knew she’d crossed the line that safely separates mothers and daughters, especially when it comes to personal matters.
“Y’know what, Mom?” Eve calmly rose to her feet and headed for the exit. “I liked you better when you lived in New York.”
She slammed the door shut behind her, then angrily made her way back to the corner office from which she oversaw the operations of two entirely different but intricately connected worlds.
“Hold all my calls, Monique.”
Eve’s personal assistant nodded without looking up, then handed her a fistful of messages. Once inside the frosted glass door, the Second in Command tossed those messages onto the ever-increasing pile in her inbox and collapsed into the chair behind her desk.
“Stay calm, Evie. Stay calm.”
As she opened up a tin of Tiger Balm and rubbed it on her temples, Eve knew it was easier said than done. She had lost control of the Powers, that much was for certain, and her mom was right about one thing: all that mattered was finding out why. Were the eight members who had voted against her wishes merely sending a message that it was at last time to revisit the Plan? Or was it more insidious than that? Were they flat-out planning to oust her and bring back her husband? Either way, she wasn’t going down without a fight.
“ Ma’am, I have Human Resources on line one.”
Eve pressed the intercom button, irritated.
“I thought I said to hold my calls.”
“I know, ma’am, but Director Dejanus says it’s an emergency.”
“Of course it’s an emergency,” she thought. An entire Train of Thought is lost, a CLOT just popped up in Zurich, and her mother was driving her up the wall. She reluctantly picked up the phone.
“Second in Command.”
“Sorry to bother you, Madame Second, but it just couldn’t wait.”
“Not a problem, Nick. How can I help?”
“Madame, are you aware of the existence of Proposition HR 1647-14?”
“The new internship at the Big Building?”
“Exactly. The first time a person in The World will be given the opportunity to observe the Plan in action. After a lengthy review process, I’m delighted to inform you that a consensus has emerged
as to the best Candidate for the position.”
“Great. So what’s the problem?”
“Ahem. Well . . . you see, the thing is . . .”
“Out with it, Nicholas. I have a lot on my plate right now.”
“Of course. It’s just, there appears to be a conflict of interest with a recent decision handed down by the Court of Public Opinion.”
“What’s the Case number?”
“Number 423006-74634, A as in apple, V as in Victor, 323.”
The Second in Command rolled her chair over to the set of Windows on her desk and toggled directly to the Case File database. But as she was typing in the encrypted sequence, Eve realized she already knew the associated name. It was one she had heard for the first time in a briefing about the Glitch in Sleep, and it had nearly become a household name during one of the most celebrated trials in the history of The Seems. It had to be a mistake.
“You don’t mean Jennifer Kaley?”
20. A radical group of environmentalists who believe that the natural resources of The Seems should not be “wasted” on The World.
21. The locked safe where the Food & Drink Administration keeps their sweetest treats.
7
Brainstorm
Far-Out Saloon, Who Knows Where, The Middle of Nowhere
Crackoom!
Thunder rolled and lightning flashed outside the dusty windows of the Far-Out Saloon. The sawdust on the creaky floorboards jumped and danced, the bottles lining the mirrored bar rattled, and the gaslit chandeliers that hung from the barrel-gilded ceiling flickered on and off. Just as they had all night.
“Today’s my lucky day, Emmett.” A man with a crinkled ’49er hat, muddy boots, and suspenders polished off his drink and slammed the empty glass on the bar. “I can feel it!”
Emmett the bartender cracked a smile and poured the old prospector another shot of Sunshine. “Hope so, Hopeless.”
The grizzled old-timer knocked back another one, then tried to pinch the waitress as she passed.
“Get yer paws offa me, you ol’ buzzard!”
The rosy-cheeked young woman slapped the prospector with the hand that wasn’t carrying a tray, then headed upstairs to deliver some much-needed sustenance to the patron in Room #1.
“Wish I’d lost my marbles out there, Charity. Then maybe you’d make a bowl’a soup for me!”
“In your dreams, old man.”
When Hopeless wasn’t scouring the Middle of Nowhere for the Eternal Springs of Hope, he could usually be found right here in his favorite watering hole in his favorite frontier town. Who Knows Where was the last of a handful of such outposts that sprang up during the Head Rush, when Seemsians had flocked to these parts with dreams of fast fortune. But tonight the aged prospector wasn’t the only one seeking solace in the Far-Out Saloon. Tonight, thirtysome-odd people had gathered here to collectively ride out a wicked Brainstorm.
Crackoom! Crackoom!
“Think this place is gonna hold up, Emmett?” A Back Scratcher who was sitting with four other men at a card table called out when the windows and ground stopped shaking. “Haven’t seen one this bad since Ophelia.”22
The bartender twirled his handlebar mustache, then shrugged. “Ophelia was bad, but she warn’t no Lulu.”
“Right about that. Lulu was one mean lady!”
One of the other players in the poker game tilted up his Stetson. “Son, is you playin’ cards, or is you swappin’ spit?”
When the blowing winds and shifting sands of the Brainstorm had kicked up, so had a friendly game of Who Knows Where high-low. The Back Scratcher was joined by the town doctor, a Snake Oil salesman, and two Idea Smugglers who had cut short their run when the skies above had darkened. By now, deep stacks of Miracle Cures, Strokes of Genius, and Chips off the Old Block had formed a massive pot.
“Call,” said the Scratcher. “I trust Time in a bottle will suffice.”
As Doc dealt the hand’s final card, a boy no more than seven in his best bib and tucker ran up to the bar.
“What’s the worst Brainstorm you’ve ever seen, Mr. Emmett?”
“Levi McCoy, you hobble your lip!”
The boy’s mother chased after him and brought him back to the corner table. In addition to the outlaws and mudsills, Who Knows Where’s few respectable citizens were anxiously waiting out the storm as well.
“Nothin’ but a thing, Eudora.” Emmett wiped his hands on his apron, then leaned his elbows on a faded spot on the bar. “Tell the truth, boy, worst storm I ever seen was Malachi . . .”
The boy’s eyes went wide as he jumped up onto his pa’s lap. Even the three figures robed in black who had slipped into town with the first gusts of wind and done little but quietly whisper among themselves turned to hear the tale.
“Thing about Mal’ was, when he come through, there warn’t no warnin’ t’all. No clouds, no rain, no nothin’. Just dropped right down on our heads. We tried to run, crammed the whole damn town into this here cellar, but ol’ Mal just reached down and ripped the roof right off.”
The boy called Levi looked up at the ceiling, quaking in his little boots.
“And I don’t gotta tell you what happens in a Brainstorm when all that Scratch is heated up and whippin’ ’round your head.” A dark shadow passed over the barkeep’s face at the memory. “The worst things you can imagine literally come to life.”
The loudest crack yet seemed to snap Emmett out of it.
“Come to think of it, this here storm kinda reminds me of Malachi. Don’t it, Percy?”
The bartender swiveled to his right, where an old piano player stroked the keys of a grand piano, as he’d done every night since back in the Day.
“Sho ’nuff, Emmett. Sho ’nuff.”
As Percy’s bony fingers effortlessly switched to a haunting version of “Riders on the Storm,” Hopeless had to chuckle, for he’d heard Emmett spin this tall tale before. Besides, he had other things on his mind, like—
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Thirty-two heads slowly turned toward the boarded-up front door of the saloon.
“What was that?” asked the Snake Oil salesman.
“I didn’t hear nothin’,” whispered the Back Scratcher.
“Me neither,” one of the Idea Smugglers agreed, but he joined his partner in pulling out a Pea Shooter just in case.
“Everybody take it easy,” said Emmett. “Just the blowin’ of the wind.”
But when the banging came a second time, louder and unmistakable, there could be little doubt as to the cause: someone was on the other side of the door. Or something.
“We have to let them in, Emmett,” said Charity from the top of the stairs, her voice trembling with fear.
“The heck we do!” The Snake Oil salesman grabbed his winnings and ducked beneath the card table. “We don’t know if it’s a man out there or a man’s worst fear!”
“But what if they need our help?”
Charity looked down at Emmett, who only dropped his eyes and polished up his bar. “Far as I’m concerned, anyone stupid enough to be out in a Brainstorm deserves what’s comin’ to ’em.”
From the nods that rippled through the room, most of the patrons who had sought sanctuary in the Far-Out agreed. In fact, only Hopeless the prospector begged to differ, getting off his stool and ambling over toward the door. Something in his old bones told him that the break he’d been looking for all these years had finally arrived, and if he could just keep everyone’s britches from getting in a snit, this would indeed be his lucky—
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
It was louder this time, and more urgent. Outside, the winds had whipped into a frenzy.
“Charity’s right, Emmett.” Hopeless reached for one of the boards that had been nailed across the door. “We gots a responsibility.”
But Hopeless’s fingers stopped short when he heard a loud click behind him. He didn’t have to look to know that Emmett had exchanged his barman’s towel for a sawed-off I’llshoo
t-youdeadwhereyoustandyoulowdownnogoodsonuva Gun, which he was now pointing directly at the prospector.
“I’m the sheriff in this town, Hopeless— not to mention the mayor, the Bill collector, and the justice of the peace—and my only responsibility’s to the people who elected me. Especially when there’s women and children involved.” Emmett gave the ’Sonuva Gun a second pump. “Door stays locked.”
“Here, here!” said the salesman, taking a sip of Liquid Courage just in case. But even though the decision had been made on the inside, whoever or whatever was on the outside had different ideas.
Crash!
When the smoke finally cleared, the barricade was gone, and the two swinging doors of the saloon blew back and forth on their hinges. Wind and rain and blue-tinted sand gusted through the entrance, followed closely by four figures that looked as if they’d stepped right out of a deep-sea diving expedition. They wore strange bodysuits and brass helmets, and though they were tethered together by what for all The World looked like toilet paper, the last one in line was being dragged facedown along the floorboards.
“Everybody get back!”
As Emmett hopped over the bar and trained his weapon on the new arrivals, he didn’t have to ask his customers twice. Everyone piled to the back of the saloon or cowered beneath their tables, utterly convinced that a fisherman in the Sea of Confusion had been lost in the gales and seen his or her worst Nightmares come to fruition.
“Shoot ’em, Emmett!” someone shouted. “Shoot ’em!”
The sheriff/bartender was aimin’ to do just that, when the leader (and shortest) of the sand-encrusted pilgrims reached up and began to unsnap the buckles on his metal hat. Steam hissed out and no one in the saloon breathed or moved a muscle until the helmet fell to the floor, revealing a sweat-soaked teenager with a shaggy mop of hair.
“Is there a doctor in the house?”
Becker Drane had been to some pretty fantastic places in his time, but when he wiped away the sweaty bangs from his eyes, what he saw might’ve taken the cake. He and the second team had somehow stumbled onto an Old West show run amok, with cowboys and townsfolk and a mustachioed sheriff ready to settle things the old-fashioned way. There was even a little “Sin-bad” thrown into the décor, ornate tapestries hanging on the walls beside stuffed animals and wagon wheels, and three robed Bedouin-looking dudes pointing curved swords in his direction.