by John Hulme
When he finally landed on the tiled floor, Thib found himself in what appeared to be an abandoned hospital or insane asylum. Fluorescent lights cast a pale glow, garbage was strewn everywhere, and the halls were lined with padded cells. There was even a torn-up old straitjacket discarded on the floor.
“Duplicitous creatures, crafty and persuasive,” Thib whispered to himself. “Never, ever listen to a Glitch.”
The mantra that had been drummed into his head during his days at the IFR was interrupted by the unlikely sound of a ukulele coming from the cell to his right. He cautiously approached the door, and when he lifted the food slot, what he saw inside was a scraggly haired fellow, no more than four inches tall, wearing a tie-dyed shirt and gently strumming a tune on its cot, “If I had a hammer . . . I’d hammer in the mornin’ . . .”
The eyes may have lost their mad jaundice, and the peace-sign medallion around its neck might’ve indicated a shift in personal ideology, but the Glitch’s third arm and jagged-toothed maw told Thibadeau he had come to the right place.
“Come on in, friend.” The inmate kept on strumming, then used its free hand to hold up a bongo drum. “Let’s jam.”
Thibadeau realized to his horror that the door to the cell was indeed unlocked. Every fiber of his training told him to run as fast as he could, but the time for avoiding confrontation was over, so he swung the door open and cautiously stepped inside.
“I would love to, mon ami. But I did not come to the Heck-hole to rock out.”
“Then why, brother?”
“I need to speak with your, um . . . mom.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
As the little beastie hopped to its feet and happily escorted Thibadeau down the fetid hall, something about its face jogged a memory. It was the slightest of scars— more like an impression, really— in the shape of what appeared to be the four fingers of that Fixer Tool known as a Helping Hand™.
“Pardon, but are you not the Glitch in Sleep?”
“I was that terrible force of destruction once,” it said without malice. “But once I got in touch with the Inner Child, I realized who I really was. I don’t want to hate anymore. I want to love and be loved !”
“Quite a breakthrough.”
“Thanks, brother. From this point forward, I’m all about making a difference.”
The friendly Glitch in Sleep stopped in front of a door several inches thicker than the rest.
“Now, let me do the talking, ’cause Ma can get a little . . . testy.”
Students of Seemsian history will attest to the fact that a single Glitch, if left to its own devices, is capable of eating its way through the machinery that makes The World in a matter of days. Yet there is one above them all whose powers exceed the combined talents of her offspring. One who, during Operation Clean Sweep—when the Fixers forcibly removed every known Glitch from the system— easily eluded their grasp. It was only when the bulk of her boys ended up incarcerated in Seemsberia that she turned herself in, in exchange for the chance to keep her family intact.
“Hey, Ma?” The Glitch in Sleep knocked on the half-open door to the cell. “You in there?”
No one answered, but Thibadeau could clearly hear the sounds of cooking inside, and the smell of bacon, eggs, and pancakes wafting through the crack of the door.
“Ma?”
The door suddenly swung open, nearly knocking both Glitch and the Frenchman off their feet.
“Didn’t I tell you not to bother me during Price Is Right?”
Much to Thibadeau’s amazement, the Mother of All Glitches was standing before him in a nightgown, rollers in her hair and slippers on her feet.
“This better be good!”
The Glitch in Sleep gulped for courage, then whispered out its request.
“A buddy of mine wants to see you, Ma.”
“Don’t you call me that, boy!” The three-inch-tall matriarch abruptly smacked her peace-loving son across the face. “You’re a disgrace to the family!”
“But Ma—”
“Go back to your cell and sing ‘Kumbaya’!”
Behind the furious mother, Thib glimpsed what was clearly the penthouse suite of the Heckhole. It came with a private bathroom and a small kitchenette, in which she was cooking a huge breakfast. There was also a black-and-white TV set on the formica countertop, and judging from the sight of Bob Barker and his shock of white hair it was set to WTC.25
“I apologize for interrupting your program, madame. I only wish I had the luxury of coming at another time.”
The Mother looked up at Thib with something like utter disdain.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Thibadeau Freck, and I have a proposition that I believe you will find most entic—”
“Wait ’til after the showcase showdown!”
She abruptly turned and scrambled up to the front of the TV, where a ratty old recliner was placed not two feet away from the screen.
“I’m afraid it must be now.” Thib helped the cowering Glitch in Sleep back to its feet, then followed it into the cell. “The fates of both The World and The Seems are at stake as we speak.”
“So what? They can both go to Heck for all I care!”
The Mother resumed control of a frying pan that was filled with rapidly scrambling eggs, never taking her eyes off The Price Is Right.
“Lower, you moron! Bid lower!”
As the contestant onscreen ignored her advice (and lost a brand-new car), Thib could feel his moment slipping away.
“All I ask is a single favor, madame. And in return, I will help you and your children escape Seemsberia once and for all time.”
The hand that held the Mother’s spatula paused for the slightest of seconds before flipping another flapjack. The other two hands began cracking twelve more eggs against the hard edge of the skillet.
“Do I look like the kind of broad that does favors for The Tide?”
“I’m not here on their behalf, madame.”
“That charm around your neck says different.”
Thibadeau’s fingers grasped the black and cresting wave that had hung from his neck ever since he’d been initiated into The Tide. Once it had represented an exciting new assignment, charged with intrigue and danger, but now it felt like a burden that he could no longer bear. So he decided to play his final card . . .
“I am not a member of The Tide, madame, nor have I ever been. I am an agent of The Seems who was tasked with secretly infiltrating their organization, in hopes of bringing it down from within.”
Thib imagined the words sounded as strange to the Glitches’ ears as they did to his own (for he had never spoken them aloud), but that didn’t make them any less true. And whether it was real or just his perception, the kitchen seemed to go silent save for the sounds of boiling water and eggs frying in a pan.
“You expect me to believe that malarkey?” asked the Mother.
“You gotta learn to trust people, Ma!” implored the Glitch in Sleep, hopping up to the counter. “Only when we let our walls come down do we truly begin to connect.”
The Mother’s answer was to scoop up a rapidly frying egg and huck it at her ponytailed 1,435th born.
“Speak when spoken to!”
As the Glitch ducked behind the recliner and did as it was told, the Mother of them all turned her attention back to Thibadeau.
“Got any proof?”
“Only in the authority I’ve been granted by the Powers That Be. To free all the Glitches from Seemsberia, with but a single condition.”
Thibadeau could tell that calculations were running through her crafty and duplicitous mind, but it was impossible to tell if his offer had gotten the job done.
“What about the moat? How you plan on passin’ the test of Time?”
“It will lose its Essence long before we hit the water . . .”
“And our Attak-Paks®?”
“Buried at the top of the Heap. We will have to commandeer a vehicle to get
there, but with the combined talents of a thousand Glitches, I somehow doubt that will be a problem.”
The three-inch-tall matron nodded, simultaneously turning off all the dials on her crusty stove. The water stopped boiling, the eggs stopped frying, and the pancakes stopped pancaking. As two of her hands began divvying out heaping portions on paper plates, her third reached above her head, where a large dinner bell was dangling from a string. One pull, and a loud clang echoed through the Heckhole.
“Breakfast!”
Thibadeau heard the eerie sound of countless doors flying open, followed by the pitter-patter of creepy little feet. In a matter of seconds this cell would be filled with the gnashing teeth and crazed giggles of a thousand lunatics, but he tried to keep his nerve, for all that mattered was what their beloved ma had to say. For her part, the Mother of All Glitches picked up a slimy cigar from her ashtray by the sink, put it between her cheek and gum, and took a deep and glorious drag.
“Now tell me more about this little favor . . .”
The Middle of Nowhere
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 ’Doo
zy™.”
25. World Television Classics (specializing in vintage favorites such as The Merv Griffin Show, T. J. Hooker, and Murder, She Wrote).
12.5
The Lost Train of Thought
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—”