The Lost Train of Thought

by John Hulme

  Outside his windshield, the railroad tracks sliced due south through the rocky canyons on the edge of the Middle of Nowhere. Soon those tracks would pass the same sign welcoming all visitors to “Where the Thinking Process Begins!” that he and Hassan had gathered under two days ago. He laughed at the memory of how spooked they were by the eerie silence— Becker had known so little about his teammate then, and knew so much about him now. About all his fellow Fixers, who he hoped more than anything were opening up serious Cans of Buttwhuppin’™ on a bunch of Nowherians right now.

  With two minutes to go, Becker pulled the rubber handle dangling over his head, sending a sharp whistle of steam into the air. The crew of Thought Provokers up at Contemplation would’ve undoubtedly heard him coming by now, but he wanted to make sure they weren’t anywhere near the tunnel when he came screaming through. Most of the train would vanish directly into the In-Between in a matter of seconds, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be plenty of shrapnel flying around. Not to mention the train’s conductor.

  On some level Becker knew that, worst-case scenario, he’d be going to A Better Place, where long-lost loved ones would be waiting to greet him on the shore, along with a lifetime of Frozen Moments. His entire account would arrive from Daylight Savings about two days after he did, giving him the chance to re-experience the best moments from his life of fourteen years. Like his ninth birthday party, when his mom and dad brought him and Benjamin and all their best friends to Action Park. Or the time he and Thibadeau hung out in Thib’s dorm room at the IFR one Saturday afternoon and did nothing but lie on the floor and listen to The Wall from start to finish. Or every time he got some Time with Amy Lannin.

  But he knew the first Frozen Moment he would melt and step inside of was that night in Alton Forest when he kissed Jennifer Kaley for the very first time. Or more truthfully, she kissed him, because he’d been too much of a wimp to make the first move. Becker knew in that one moment that he was going to break whatever Rule he needed to to be with her, and he’d never regretted that decision even once. The only thing he did regret was that he almost certainly would never be seeing Jennifer Kaley again, not in the real World anyway.

  And that hurt.

  Yet standing there on the train and careening toward a collision with a boarded-up mineshaft, it wasn’t the fact that he had A Better Place to go that made him feel okay. It was the fact that when he spun over the totality of his life, with all its twists and turns and good things that turned out to be bad and bad things that turned out to be good, the part of him that believed in the Plan outweighed the part that didn’t. Yeah, maybe it was only 51% to 49%, but at this moment, that 2% made all the difference.

  His mind cleared and focused only on what was happening right now. The “Welcome to Contemplation” sign passing on his right and the mining colony rapidly approaching ahead and the train’s odometer, which said Becker had to let go of the throttle and make a run for it in 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

  Then he was climbing up the ladder and onto the roof of the locomotive and leaping into the car behind him and thank the Plan, there was a tarp on there and it didn’t take nearly as long to get there and cut it as he thought it would . . .

  . . . and he grabbed the four corners of the tarp and made a parachute and the last thing Becker remembered as he jumped off the train was the screeching sound of metal being torn apart like paper and the feeling of splashing into cold, salty water . . .

  . . . then everything went dark.

  27. After years of fruitless research, funding to strip the number 13 of its destructive properties has been officially suspended. Superstition, a sub-department of the Department of Everything That Has No Department, issues the following warning: “The prime numeral 13 has been proven to possess properties both unpredictable and unsound. Those encountering the cursed integer in elevators, motels, or books are advised to proceed with extreme caution.”

  14

  Triton

  Office of the Second in Command, The Big Building, The Seems

  Two days later, Thibadeau Freck sat outside the boardroom that was serving as the temporary office of the new Second in Command. The Frenchman wore jeans with a blazer and a tie, and with his thick black beard shaved off, cut quite a handsome figure to the young interns who worked on this floor. The only things that gave them pause were the scars visible on his neck and face, and a certain sadness that was draped over him like a blanket. Of course, when they got a look at the name on his laminated Badge, everyone knew exactly where that blanket had come from.

  As Thib crossed his legs and perused the morning’s Daily Plan, he tried to remember the name of the Fixer who sat on the couch across from him. The middle-easterner wore semiformal attire as well, his silk suit perfectly tailored and his shoes the soft black shine of quality leather. Thibadeau remembered seeing the man’s face inside a pack of Fixer trading cards, and up on the group portrait of the active Duty Roster that hung at the IFR, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Several lifetimes, in fact.

  Hassan. That’s what his name was. Shahzad Hassan.

  “If it makes you feel any better, he knew.”

  “Excuse-moi?”

  “Becker knew that you were on our side.” Hassan crossed a leg and absently tightened the band on his ponytail. “Blaque told him the whole story.”

  Thibadeau’s eyes asked the question he was afraid to pose aloud.

  “I don’t know how he took it, but if I had to hazard a guess? Hurt that he never knew, guilty about some things he said, and anxious to have you back as his friend.”

  At that last part, Thibadeau felt something rising in him that he didn’t want to display in public, so he bit the tip of his thumb as hard as he possibly could. It worked, but just barely.

  “Merci, sir. I am very glad to know that.”

  Thibadeau waited for the feeling to return to his thumb, then flipped back to the Daily Plan’s front page. Headlines still celebrating the failure of The Tide’s master stroke and the last-second reversal of the Unthinkable were hard to enjoy, so he flipped to an article about the unexpected shake-up among the Powers That Be. No one was surprised that Eve Hightower had tendered her resignation, not after the near full-scale collapse of The Seems, but the speed at which the Court of Public Opinion had selected her replacement caught everyone off guard.

  “Come in, Mr. Freck.”

  Thibadeau waved a farewell to Hassan and headed for the office, rolling up the newspaper so he would have something to do with his hands. He probably should’ve brought a briefcase or a laptop or something to this meeting, but since he was only here to collect a single piece of paper, he figured it was best to travel light.

  “You can shut the door behind you.”

  The new Second was tall—at least six feet five—with steel blue eyes and a thick head of brown hair. He reached across the desk that was strewn with papers and files and boxes to shake Thibadeau’s hand, and the Frenchman was surprised to feel how calloused his fingers were. Most politicians he’d met hadn’t done a day of honest work in their lives, but Samuel Hightower clearly wasn’t most politicians.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Freck. This won’t take long.”

  Thibadeau watched Samuel pull out an official-looking form and begin to sign and date it.

  “Now I know Central Command already debriefed you, but there are a few matters of controversy on which you might be in a unique position to offer an opinion.”

  “Fire away, sir.”

  “Permin Neverlåethe?”

  “Whatever he did in Time Square— whatever we did— Permin is a good man. He will never accept a pardon because he has yet to pardon himself, but three life terms seems a bit . . . severe.”

  “Agreed. I was thinking two more years in the minimum-security wing, and perhaps a chance to train prisoners in the skills necessary to become a Ticky or a Minuteman in Time?”

  “More than fair, sir.”

  Samuel finished signing the document, t
hen stamped it with the official seal of the Second in Command. “And the Glitches?”

  “I thought that affair was settled.”

  According to the rolled-up newspaper in Thib’s hand, it was. As soon as the Mother of all Glitches had reluctantly returned control of the departments to the Powers That Be, she and her children had been declared “free to live out their lives in peace and harmony.”

  “Yes, but where do you think we should send them?” asked Samuel. “I mean, we can’t exactly rent them a thousand-bedroom condo up in Crestview.”

  “May I speak freely, sir?”

  “Always.”

  Samuel’s relaxed vibe said this wasn’t just an empty promise.

  “I believe it was a mistake to banish the Glitches to Seemsberia in the first place. Oui, they are destructive, and their temperament a bit . . . difficult, but they are ingenious when it comes to the inner workings. And if The Seems is ever going to raise its technology to the standards The World deserves, the Glitches must be brought in to test and retest the system.”

  Thibadeau grimaced, having spoken a little more freely than he’d intended to.

  “I’m glad you said that, Mr. Freck. Because it’s already done.”

  “What’s already done?”

  “The Mother of all Glitches moves into her office in the Big Building next Tuesday. Other than a corner view, a seventy-two-inch plasma TV, and some loft space in Alphabet City for her kin, she had very few demands.”

  The Second in Command rose to his feet and began running off copies of the form on a mimeograph machine.

  “Lastly, on the subject of Triton, you’re absolutely convinced that Robert Marcus is no longer a suspect?”

  “Totally. I watched them speak to each other in Seemsberia.”

  “Anyone else jump to the front of the list?” Samuel’s steel blues locked upon Thibadeau’s hazels. “’Cause I hear you got to know Triton quite well during your assignment.”

  The Frenchman only shrugged.

  “I never saw his face.”

  “You’re sure? The matter of The Tide will never be closed until this man’s been caught and punished.”

  “Let’s just say that if I met him in person, I believe I would be able to identify him. But in my heart, I feel that has not happened yet.”

  Samuel was visibly disappointed, but he shrugged it off as he handed Thibadeau the original copy of the document in his hand.

  “Then you’re a free man.”

  The official title of the form was “Executive Pardon #104Z” but the only words that mattered were the ones at the bottom: “. . . Thibadeau P. Freck is therefore granted clemency for all crimes committed ~ By order of the Powers That Be.”

  “Now that the truth is out, you can have any job in The Seems your heart desires.” Samuel casually leaned on the corner of his desk. “But if you ask me, you’re still a natural-born Fixer.”

  Thib folded up the page and placed it in his pocket.

  “To be honest, sir, I just wanna spend a few weeks in Chamonix and do nothing for a while. Reconnect with my family, maybe track down an old girlfriend or two.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  The two shook hands again, and Thib headed for the door.

  “Mr. Freck?” Samuel’s voice grew solemn. “Whatever happens with Fixer Drane, I promise you, one day it will all make sense.”

  The Frenchman paused in the doorway, wanting badly to bite his thumb again.

  “How do you know that, sir?”

  “Because you and I and the rest of The Seems are going to make sense of it.”

  Thibadeau nodded, feeling for the first time in a long time that maybe the right person was in charge of the world that made The World.

  “Do me a favor, send Fixer Hassan in on your way out.”

  As the door to his office gently closed, Samuel Hightower leaned back in his chair and rubbed his aching temples. His first day back had been a long one, mostly occupied with formalities like parking spots and personality scans and a physical at the Department of Health. But since he’d taken office in a time of crisis, Samuel didn’t have the luxury of easing into the job, and his list of things to do had been lengthy.

  Already he’d knocked off fifty or so items, including the dismissal of Inkar Cyration as Warden of Seemsberia (and the promotion of the Inner Child), the issuing of an all-points bulletin for the escaped Time Bandits, and the transfer of Captain Robert Marcus and all known agents of The Tide from the maximum security wing to the bottom of the Heckhole. But it was the Freck meeting he’d been dreading the most, partially because of the affection he felt for the deep-cover agent, and partially because there was no telling what he—

  “You summoned me, sir?”

  Fixer Hassan. He’d almost forgotten.

  “Yes, yes. Thank you for coming, Shahzad. Please sit.”

  Hassan gingerly took the same chair as Thibadeau, the injuries suffered at the hands of the Nowherians not quite healed.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fortunate to be alive.”

  That was an understatement. After Becker Drane and the rest of the train had disappeared, five Fixers squared off against thirty Nowherians with every expectation that death would come swiftly. But strangely, Kalil had called off his men, tossing the amulet of the winged sun back to Hassan before retreating in the direction of the mountains.

  “Any word from the search parties?” asked Samuel, leafing through Fixer Blaque’s Mission Report.

  “Negative.” Hassan shook his head with great sadness. “Lake and Simms are in the Middle right now, but they’ve found no sign of Li Po whatsoever.”

  Samuel winced. Losing two Fixers on the same Mission (and one to Who Knows Where) was nothing less than a full-scale disaster. Human Resources would have to redouble their efforts, and it might be time for a few promotions as well.

  “What about Blaque and the Octo?”

  “Scouring the In-Between for any sign of Fixer Drane.”

  “As they should be.”

  “As I should be as well, sir.” Hassan rose to his feet, still shaken by what he’d seen at the crash site in Contemplation. Not only had all evidence of the Train of Thought vanished, but most of the rubble from the collision had been sucked into In-Between as well—along with whatever was left (or not left) of Becker Drane. “I would like to rejoin the search, if you don’t mind.”

  “And you will, Hassan. But before you go, I know there’s something you’ve been chasing after for quite some time. A certain chapter missing from a certain book?”

  The Fixer laughed, at last feeling free of his lifelong quest.

  “Things changed for me in the Middle of Nowhere, sir. I’ve decided to give up my search to concentrate on the things I have, not the things I haven’t.”

  This time it was Samuel who laughed aloud.

  “Funny how the Plan works, isn’t it? The moment you stop looking for something, there it is.”

  The Second in Command reached into his bottom drawer and pulled out a rectangular box made of Time-resistant glass. Inside was a collection of old parchment pieces, perhaps thirty, handwritten and bound with twine. And sketched on the top page in charcoal was the image of a winged sun.

  “What is this?” whispered Hassan, feeling every molecule of air rapidly being sucked from his lungs.

  “It’s the story of where your people come from and who they truly are. Many years ago, it was removed from the Library at Alexandria by members of the Cleanup Crew, and the reason why you could never find it again was because it was locked inside a vault in this building ever since.”

  “Why would they do such a thing?”

  “At the time, the Powers That Be believed there was information in these pages that compromised the security of The Seems, and to be honest, they were right. But personally, I don’t see there being any harm in letting you take it to one of the reading rooms on the 734th floor for a few hours.”

  Samuel lifted the glass conta
iner off his desk and offered it to the Fixer.

  “If you’re still interested, that is.”

  The strangest feeling came over Shahzad Hassan, standing there, looking at the artifact that had destroyed his father, his father’s father, and every one of his ancestors for no less than a thousand years. It was something like terror mixed with good helpings of betrayal and rage.

  “The Chieftain of the Nowherians told me that the Powers That Be are liars as an order of business.” Fixer #19 locked eyes with the Second in Command. “Is that so?”

  “It used to be, Hassan. But not anymore.”

  Barely able to control his shaking fingers, Hassan reached across the desk and gently lifted the 13th Chapter from Samuel Hightower’s hands.

  “Do you think it was wise of you to let him read it?” asked Sophie Temporale, Samuel’s last meeting of the day. “Seems to me you’re just opening up a can of worms.”

  “It won’t be the last one.” Samuel poured some Creative Juices into a glass. “If Kalil wants war— and everything in Blaque’s Report suggests this is a strong possibility— then we’ll need all the allies we can get.”

  The new Second polished off his drink in one long gulp.

  “To recruit them, we must have the truth on our side.”

  Sophie sat back in her chair, trying to keep a straight face, and waiting for Samuel to lose his. She didn’t have to wait long.

  “I realize how hypocritical that sounds.” He chuckled. “But I actually meant it when I said it.”

  “So how does it feel to be back on top?”

  “Good. It feels very good.”

  “It should. Everything worked out even better than you planned.”

  “Not exactly. When I showed you where they were hiding the Most Amazing Thing of All, I expected you to attempt a break-in much sooner.”