The Glitch in Sleep

by John Hulme

  “I’m not looking for any trouble.”

  “Well it’s looking for you.”

  Becker sized up the enemy and wished for a moment that he hadn’t given his Toolkit to Simly for safekeeping.

  “Le partir seul!”

  A voice rang out from the midst of the shadows, and everyone turned to see the source: an edgy-looking guy in a suede jacket and Serengetti shades, sitting in a back booth all alone.

  “I’ll take care of this one myself.”

  Whoever he was, the guy commanded respect, because the crowd instantly dispersed. Becker was about to say thanks, when he was stunned to see who had rescued him from the mob.

  A little older, shaggier, and more grizzled. But definitely someone he knew.

  “Thibadeau?”

  16. The “Dazzleberry” was scrapped back in the Day by the Food & Drink Administration (FDA) for allegedly being “too sweet” (and tasty).

  17. The leading newspaper in The Seems, including politics, World news, sports, arts &entertainment, the classifieds, and The Jinx Gnomes—a popular comic strip about the crack unit dispatched to The World whenever a person overcelebrates a bit of good fortune.

  18. Four letters: Aka “The Time Bandits,” Justin and _ _ _ _ F. Time.

  19. The IFR secret handshake, taught only to Candidates who have successfully passed the Practical.

  5

  Thibadeau Freck

  The Stumbling Block, Institute for Fixing & Repair, The Seems—One Year Ago

  “You’re shanking it, Draniac!”

  Becker looked over to Thibadeau Freck, his heart racing and sweat dripping in his eyes.

  “Shank this, Napoleon!”

  The two Candidates had reached the ninth (and final) level of the Stumbling Block—the IFR’s infamous obstacle course—and now stood side by side, desperately trying to untie their Gordian Knot before the other did.

  “This is what I love about you Americans,” jibed Thib, testing the thick ball of interwoven rope with his fingers. “You put ketchup on your fries, you have bad cheese and even worse coffee, and still you never give up!”

  The wind at this height whipped across their faces, making it even more difficult to see what they were doing. The Stumbling Block was built like a wedding cake, with concentric circular platforms stacked on top of each other, each containing a unique Fixing challenge. Every Friday, the Candidates would face hurdles as disparate as Number Crunching to getting out from under an Impression, and as usual, Freck and Drane were first and second in the race up to the top. In recent weeks, however, the gap between them had begun to close.

  “This reminds me of making monkey’s fists at camp!” Becker studied his own ball of rope, a simulation of the real Gordian Knot, which in Reality held together both ends of the Spectrum. “And if I just do this . . .”

  Becker “pulled the rabbit through the hole” (as his waterfront director David Lincoln had taught him to do), unraveling a large chunk of the cord—and for the first time ever, took a narrow lead over his closest friend in Training.

  “Sacre bleu!” exclaimed Thibadeau, still perplexed by his own tangled mess. Adrenaline coursed through Becker as he realized that triumph was almost within his grasp.

  “I would say congratulations to you”—the Frenchman almost seemed ready to concede—“but if I just do this . . .”

  At the bottom of the tangle, Thibadeau gave a single thread the gentlest of tugs, and all at once, his entire knot unraveled.

  “Catch you on the Flip Side, mon ami !”

  With a wink, Thibadeau scrambled up the ladder and disappeared to the top of the Block. Becker’s heart sank, but he managed to pull himself together, for he didn’t want to be overtaken by any of the other Candidates (who were no doubt right on his heels) and besides, how you handle defeat can be just as important as how you handle victory.

  “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride,” said Fixer Blaque, who was waiting for Becker when at last he reached the top.

  “Yes, sir. I really thought I had him this time.”

  The best part of the Stumbling Block was the finish—win or lose, you ended on a roof deck stocked with snacks, beverages, and some of the tastiest views in The Seems. Blaque was already preparing the end-of-the-week feast on a charcoal grill for his exhausted Candidates, while Thib was lazing back and forth in a hammock, peeling a clementine.

  “You did have me, Draniac.” Thibadeau handed a slice to the depleted Becker. “The Agents of L.U.C.K. were just on my side today.”

  That was the cool thing about his rivalry with Thibadeau— no matter how hard they fought (and they fought hard), it never got in the way of their friendship. Becker grabbed the nearest hammock and positioned himself in the center of the netting. For a few tranquil moments, they just looked out at The Seems.

  “Draniac, can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah, man.” Becker jumped at the chance because Thib had never come to him for advice before. “Anything.”

  “Do you ever wonder . . . ,” the Frenchman lowered his voice as if he didn’t want Fixer Blaque to hear, “why they made The World the way it is?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do you ever think that maybe they could have done a better job?”

  Becker wasn’t sure how to reply. He was still in awe of the very existence of The Seems, so he had never really thought much about it.

  “Better? How much better could it be?”

  “I don’t know, dude. It just seems like a lot of things are wrong. Like hurricanes or this kid I saw at Charles De Gaulle airport a couple days ago who could barely talk because he had some terrible disease.” Thib’s eyes wandered to the Big Building, which towered through the clouds in the distance. “I wonder why they let those kinds of things happen.”

  “I don’t know.” Becker struggled to find the right thing to say. “I guess it’s all part of the Plan?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. That must be it.” Thibadeau shrugged it off like it was no big deal. “Hey, look—here comes the Swede!”

  They leaned over the side to see Candidate Larsson arriving at the Knot in third place, and exhorted him to pick up the pace. In the back of Becker’s mind, Thibadeau’s question lingered, but he figured they’d have more than enough time to talk about such heady topics.

  He figured wrong.

  Office of the Instructor, IFR, The Seems— Nearly Eight Months Ago

  Fixer Blaque’s office was the most coveted space in the entire IFR, mostly because this was where Jayson once sat. Behind a rich mahogany desk, a slew of plaques and Golden Wrenches were posted on the walls, along with photographs of some of the most famous Fixers of all time. There was Blaque with Greg the Journeyman, with the Octogenarian, with Morgan Asher, and the Instructor looked up at them from his chair, wishing one of his peers could do what he had to do next.

  “Come in, Candidate Drane.”

  Becker stood in the doorway in his IFR warm-ups, soaked in sweat. He had just come off the Beaten Track, when one of the Mechanics had delivered the devastating news.

  “When did it happen?”

  “Last night. Twenty-seven hundred hours.” Blaque leaned back in his chair, weighing his words carefully. He had been through a lot of conversations like this in the past, but it never got any easier. “They tried their best to pull him out, but this is all that’s left.”

  On top of the desk was a box of personal effects. A Manual. A Toolkit stained with Tears of Joy. And a black IFR bandanna, salt where the sweat had once been. A label on the cardboard flap said it all: THIBADEAU FRECK.

  “I informed the rest of the class this morning. You’re the last to know.”

  Becker searched for any sign of grief in Fixer Blaque’s face. After all, Thib had been his prize pupil. But, as always, the telltale blue shades concealed all.

  “Thank you for telling me, sir.”

  “Sit down, Becker.”

  “That’s okay, sir. I was just gonna hit the show—
”

  “Sit down.”

  Becker took a seat in the brown leather chair. He tried to keep his emotions in check, but for the first time since Orientation, he felt like exactly what he was: a boy in a World he didn’t understand.

  “It’s not always easy to be part of this thing.” Fixer Blaque motioned with his hands, as if to imply The World and The Seems and everything In-Between. “Sometimes things will happen and you’ll start to wonder, is there really any Plan? Or is it just wishful thinking—a convenient delusion I’ve invented for myself?”

  Becker nodded, though he didn’t hear a thing. His eyes absently wandered to an old sepia picture of a younger Blaque, with Lisa Simms and Tom Jackal, geared up and about to hop on a train. He wondered what Mission this was and why Blaque wasn’t wearing his glasses, which he’d never seen him without.

  “At times like this, there’s only one thing we can fall back on . . .”

  Fixer Blaque picked up Thibadeau’s Badge, which had melted into a jagged square.

  “Our faith.”

  But right now, Becker was far too angry to be comforted by another one of his Instructor’s famous lessons. Thib was the best friend he’d had since Amy Lannin died, and now he was gone too.

  “Faith in what, Fixer Blaque?” Becker’s eyes began to tear. “Faith in what?”

  The Slumber Party, Department of Sleep, The Seems—Now

  “Dude, I can’t believe it!”

  Becker shook Thibadeau by the collar, as if trying to convince himself that what he was seeing was real. “You’re still—”

  “Alive?” Thibadeau smiled at his friend’s exuberance. “And kicking.”

  After a few more shakes, Becker finally let go, and he joined the Frenchman at the private table. The sounds of the Slumber Party quickly dropped away, muted by the violet curtains that hung over the alcove.

  “Fixer Blaque said you had fallen into a Well of Emotion and they couldn’t get you out and . . . and . . . this is great!”

  “Nice Badge.” Thibadeau took a sip from his glass and eased back into the shadows. “Did anybody else make it?”

  “Not yet. But C-Note and Von Schroëder are close.”

  “Von Schroëder? Wow, that’s a dark horse call. I would have put my euros on the Swede.”

  “The Swede?” Becker smiled. “That’s a Story for Another Day.”

  There was an awkward silence and the young Fixer started to feel uncomfortable. Back at the IFR, when he and Thibadeau had been best friends, there was a certain je ne sais quoi about the Frenchman. An aura that when you stepped inside of it, made you feel special too. But that feeling had shifted somehow. Now, Becker almost felt a little scared; that same five o’clock shadow and secondhand jacket that had once made Thib so stylish and suave had taken on a very sinister edge.

  “Why didn’t you Blink me or get in touch?” Becker tried not to look hurt, but he obviously was. “I mean, I thought you were—”

  “Sorry, mon frére. I know I should have called. But there were things going on that I couldn’t speak to you about.”

  “Like what?”

  A waitress passed by carrying a tray of multicolored liquids.

  “Truth Serum, Love Potion, Nectar of the Gods?”

  “Not tonight, honey.” Thibadeau waited for her to leave. “Do you want the truth or do you want me to candy-coat it?”

  “What do you think?” Becker was insulted that he even had to ask.

  “It’s hard to explain. I loved Fixing, you know I did. But there were some things that just didn’t . . . make sense.” Thibadeau idly fiddled with his Slumber Party matchbook. “Remember that time on the Block? When I asked you about The World being better than it was?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, it was just a feeling back then, but I couldn’t shake the questions. If The World was so great then why were there all these problems? Why were the Powers That Be letting it happen?”

  “Everybody has those questions,” admitted Becker.

  “Well, I had to find out the answers.” The saxophonist kicked into his solo, and Thibadeau took a moment to appreciate the jam. “Fixer Blaque couldn’t give them to me, so finally I went to the Big Building, but all they did was spew out the usual mumbo jumbo about how ‘everything happens for a reason,’ and ‘you can’t have the good without the bad.’ I just couldn’t accept that anymore . . .”

  The crowd applauded as the band wrapped up their second set.

  “That’s why I had to bail on the IFR—to search for why. That whole Well of Emotion thing was a setup. I had to make it look like something had happened to me or I would’ve been ‘humanely unremembered,’ if you catch my drift.”

  Becker didn’t know what to say.

  “But . . . but you were the best.”

  “At what? Fixing something that was broken beyond repair?” The older of the two shook his head. “I needed something that I knew beyond a Shadow of a Doubt was worth fighting for. And it wasn’t the so-called Plan.”

  Becker was starting to feel sick inside.

  “Then what was it?”

  Thibadeau reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a silver necklace with a black talisman dangling from the end. Etched on to the pendant was the image of a wave, foaming and about to crash down upon the shore.

  “I think you already know the answer to that.”

  Back at the bar, Simly had busted out his Briefing pad and was conducting random interviews. Right now he was in the process of interrogating a large, hairy guy in a tutu.

  “So, let me get this straight—you’re a Tooth Fairy?”

  “Yeah, you got a problem with that?”

  “No, I just always thought that was a trick parents in The World played on their kids.”

  The Fairy rolled his eyes, as if this was a common (yet irksome) misperception.

  “Nowadays it is. But once upon a time, we used to do it, and let me tell you—we got respect. Then Collections got combined with Lost and Found and we got squeezed out. Don’t even know who I am anymore.”

  “Bummer.” Simly could almost feel his sorrow. “Maybe you should go back and get another degree . . .”

  “It’s too late for me, man. Once you’ve had the thrill of pickin’ a lock on a window, grabbin’ that tooth, and leavin’ a silver dollar for a kid under his pillow? Knowin’ he’s gonna wake up in the morning and say, ‘Mom, the Tooth Fairy came!’—well, there just ain’t no place to go after that.”

  The Tooth Fairy shook his head, lost in the wistful memory, then threw back another Shot in the Dark.

  “But enough about me. How can I help you, chief?”

  “Well,” said Simly, dropping his voice to a whisper, “it’s about this Glitch . . . ”

  The crowd in the VIP room had begun to build, despite the argument that was heating up in the corner.

  “We don’t want to destroy The World.” Thibadeau pounded his fist on the table, his voice infused with the fervor of a true believer. “We want to save it!”

  “Is that what you were doing when you poked holes in the Bags of Wind?” Becker yelled back. “Or what about the Rain Tower—I could’ve been killed on that Mission.”

  “We tried a peaceful solution a long time ago, but the Powers That Be refuse to listen. So now we have to take matters into our own hands.”

  “But what about the damage to The World?”

  “Change always comes with a price. One day, when everything is different, you’ll see that it was worth it.”

  Thibadeau pointed Becker’s attention to a huge flat-screen Window, where images from The World were being projected as part of the club’s funky ambience.

  “The World is a lost cause, Becker.” At that moment, an image of an orphan flashed upon the screen, crying and wandering through the streets of Rio de Janeiro. “What kind of Plan allows for something like that?”

  Becker stared up at the child, who slowly dissolved into an exploding volcano.

  “Once it might have worked
, but suffering is an old idea. It doesn’t do anybody any good, so why is it still here? Because the Plan fell apart long ago.” Thib’s hand found its way to his pendant. “If there ever was a Plan at all.”

  Becker was thunderstruck. During Training, Thibadeau had often mused about the beautiful intricacies of the Plan.

  “Our time is coming, Becker. We’ve infiltrated every department, every corner of The Seems, and when the word is given, the Tide will rise and seize the means of production to make a better world. A perfect world.” For a moment, Thibadeau’s expression softened, and Becker felt like he was back with his old friend. “Join us, Draniac. I promise, it’ll be sweet.”

  Becker considered his classmate’s offer. Of course he had his own doubts—everybody did, and it was tempting. Especially when things in The World didn’t always make sense and it seemed so easy for The Seems to change them. But Becker had also made a choice . . .

  “The beauty of The World is how it is, Thib. Not how it isn’t.”

  Thibadeau fell back into his chair.

  “Blaque really got to you good, didn’t he?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’m sorry it had to be this way.” Thibadeau looked like he genuinely meant it. “The Tide could use a man like you.”

  “Well, at least I know where the Glitch came from.”

  Thibadeau laughed out loud.

  “Please—we would never unleash something that impossible to control. Besides, when we make our next move, you’ll know it. And you won’t have to ask who’s responsible.”

  Becker felt his ire rising but kept it in check, because the Mission had to come first.

  “Is there anything you can tell me? For old time’s sake?”

  Thibadeau thought it over long and hard, then pulled out a ballpoint pen.

  “I can only tell you what I heard under the Radar.” He finished writing and handed Becker the matchbook he’d been fiddling with. “But next time we see each other . . . it won’t be the same.”

  Becker got up and flipped a coin into the open guitar case in front of the band.