The Glitch in Sleep

by John Hulme

“You like gadgets, right, kid?” At the moment, it was trying to reason with Simly, who had been instructed to keep guard over the creature while his superiors arranged for extradition. “The Attak-Pak? Take it! Just get me out of this box!”

  “My orders are to hold you for shipment to Seemsberia.”

  “You don’t understand,” pleaded the Glitch. “This is all just a big misunderstanding. I’m on a Classified Mission from Quality Control to test the system and make sure everything’s up to par. Here—the papers are in my back pocket.”

  The Glitch motioned for Simly to reach inside, but he was not so easily fooled and quoted from the Manual instead: “Page 103, Paragraph 2. ‘Glitches are duplicitous creatures: crafty and persuasive. Never, ever listen to a Glitch.’ ”

  “Especially this one,” added Fixer Lake, as she and Becker stepped into the Tank with the Glitch’s transfer papers in hand.

  “Lake, you gotta believe me—it’s not what you think!”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I tried to be good. I swear. After what happened between us, I said to myself, that’s it, no more Glitching up the works. I gotta become a productive member of society.”

  Casey rolled her eyes as the Glitch’s voice took on a conciliatory tone.

  “I moved to the Outskirts, where I wouldn’t be tempted to hurt anyone again. I even started a farm. We grew Fruits of Labor and zucchini and it was a good life—I mean, I was building something, right? Instead of destroying! But then . . .”

  A dark shadow moved across its face.

  “I started to get those . . . urges again.”

  Against his better judgment, Becker was actually starting to feel sorry for the Glitch, and Simly couldn’t help it either.

  “First, it was just a few innocent fantasies—a little mass destruction here or there—and I tried to bury myself in work. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that I was living a lie—that I wasn’t being who I was meant to be! I mean, aren’t I part of the Plan? And if everything in the Plan is good, then aren’t I good, no matter what I do?”

  “The Plan still allows for free will.” Casey took a page from the School of Thought. “Who and how to be is your choice.”

  “Then I choose to be . . . me!”

  The Glitch started pounding on its cage with all three hands, gnashing its teeth, and spitting out expletives that cannot be reprinted herein. The assembled parties waited for the little ogre to finish its tantrum, but it never got the chance, for there was a knock at the office door.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll take it from here.”

  Two Guidance Counselors from Seemsberia strolled in, exuding a pleasant and easygoing vibe. Unlike prisons in The World, Seemsberia is known for its success in rehabilitating wayward souls (though Glitches are some of the toughest Cases (yet also the most rewarding).

  “Come now, Glitch. Is this really necessary?”

  The Glitch finally took a breather from trying to trash its cell.

  “I’ll show you what’s necessary, you two-bit quack.”

  The Counselors shook their heads, as if they had seen this kind of behavior before.

  “Once we get you back in a more ‘comfortable’ setting, I think you’ll find some of the new treatments most invigorating.”

  “Especially getting in touch with the Inner Child . . .”

  “He works wonders.”

  Casey and Becker shook hands with the prison staff and the transfer of custody was complete.

  “Fixer—don’t let them do this to me,” the Glitch was pleading with Becker. “They’re gonna turn me into a marshmallow up there!”

  “I’m sorry, bro, but it’s for the best. You’ll finally be able to get the help you need.”

  “But maybe I’m part of the natural order! How will you know if The Seems is working right if it’s not constantly being tested by a Gli—”

  But the door slammed, and with it, the Glitch’s reign of terror had come to an unceremonious end.

  “Well, I guess that’s a wrap,” chirped Simly. “Hoagies on me at the Briefer’s Lounge.”

  “Not yet, Sim.” Becker slung his Toolkit back over his shoulder. “There’s still one more thing I have to do.”

  Dreamatorium, Department of Sleep, The Seems

  Though the Bed Bugs and Pleasant Dreamers have always been kept in separate laboratories, the entire division of Dreaming had six months ago been put under the auspices of a new Vice President. At first, she was perceived as a corporate taskmaster, for Dreaming had always been a very casual operation where art was valued over science and dogs and foosball tables were de rigueur. But to the contrary, she turned out to be a very effective manager and showed the staff that productivity and creativity are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

  “This is highly irregular,” said the VP, intimidating in her gray pinstriped power suit. “Especially considering the charges that are pending against you.”

  “I know, ma’am,” agreed Becker. “I’m hoping it might help my case.”

  “Call me Carol.”

  “This one is very close to my heart, Carol.” Becker watched as she tapped her pencil on the table, debating the merits of his request. “I would consider it a personal favor.”

  That may have swung the balance, for such a thing from a Fixer is not so easily given.

  “Okay,” she relented, catching a strand of blond that had fallen out of her tightly pulled-back hair. “But there are some ground rules you’ll have to follow.”

  “Understood.”

  “First, the so-called negative elements of a #532 cannot be removed from the sequencing. They’re essential for creating the necessary emotional stakes, so the end-game of the Dream can have its desired payoff.”

  “Yes, that was my bad. I figured that part out after the fact.”

  Carol gave him a little extra stare to make sure the lesson had sunk in.

  “Second, entering into a Dream World can be quite dangerous. It’s a very seductive place, and you may find yourself experiencing the temptation to stay.”

  Becker promised to take that into account.

  “Third and lastly, I’m sure you’re aware of the restrictions of the Golden Rule, and given your obvious level of emotional attachment on this Case, I have significant concerns about—”

  “I understand what you’re getting at, Carol, but I assure you, it will not be a problem.” Becker smiled, assuming his most professional demeanor yet. “I’ve already broken enough Rules for one night.”

  Carol seemed satisfied and checked the slim Time Piece on her wrist.

  “Come with me.”

  Dreamatorium, Department of Sleep, The Seems

  The Vice President returned Becker to the bubble room, where he’d made his critical mistake and where he hoped to have the opportunity to set the record straight. Towering above him was the Dreamweaver, again churning out the soapy amorphous realms that would soon be inhabited by the dreamers of The World.

  “Give it a second, boss.” Becker was accompanied by a junior Pleasant Dreamer, who had been assigned to help him construct a 532 to replace the one he had destroyed. “Back in High School still has a few more drops to go.”

  One of the canisters containing the golden dream fluid was still feeding into the machine and Becker patiently cradled his own container in his hand. Synthesizing the new 532 had been a surprisingly easy process, mostly because the basic solution was already premixed, but he had thrown in a few of his own special touches from the Spice Rack.

  “You’re good to go.”

  As a bubble floated by with a forty-five-year-old freshman trying out for the school play inside, the PD began to frisk Becker thoroughly.

  “Watch the hands there, buddy.”

  “Just making sure you don’t have any sharp edges.”

  The Fixer had stripped down to the bare minimum—not even his Badge—and with his track jacket and old school corduroys looked for all intents and purposes like a regular k
id from Highland Park again.

  “Anything else I need to know?” asked Becker.

  “Just get out of there before she wakes up. Or else . . .”

  “Got it.”

  The PD clicked Becker’s canister into the machine, and the brightly colored fluid began to drain. It traveled down the filtration pipes, mixed with the soapy detergent, then slowly worked its way up to the billows, where it was finally expelled as a bubble with a fully realized world inside. Becker tucked his arms in tight and waited as the shimmering sphere gently floated toward his body.

  “Here goes nothing.”

  Dream 532 (b)

  Once he was fully engulfed, Becker opened his eyes and took in the reality that he, in part, had designed. It was the same playground that he’d witnessed before, with the same teachers chatting by the same wire fence and the same sounds of children permeating the air. Despite his training and experience, the Fixer had never been inside someone else’s Dream before, and he was amazed at the attention to detail. The freshness of the air and the feeling of the sun on his face was as good, if not better, than the real thing.

  “Who are you?”

  Becker turned to see a fourth grader drawing a house in the dirt with a stick, who seemed shocked to have witnessed a kid with shaggy hair stepping directly out of a tree and into his lunchtime recess.

  “I’m a Fixer from The Seems.”

  The child was dumbfounded (yet impressed), and Becker just winked and headed on his way.

  To be honest, Becker had hoped to arrive after the bullying had begun so he didn’t have to watch it happen all over again, but there was no such luck. It was even worse in person, as again the crowd gathered and the water balloon flew, and this time he could literally hear it slap her in the face. It took all of his combined Training to keep his composure and resist the urge to go down there and bust some heads, but he couldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  “See you later, alligator,” said the meanest of the mean girls, and the mob begrudgingly dispersed.

  This is where Becker had interceded last time and he watched as the girl with dirty blond hair and green eyes picked herself off the ground and found her way to a lonely bench. This time, however, someone came over to greet her.

  “Is anyone sitting here?”

  Jennifer Kaley looked up at Becker, her hair still wet and her eyes streaked from crying. She shook her head no, assuming this stranger was just another foe who’d come to add insult to injury.

  “I saw what happened before.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Me too.”

  Jennifer didn’t exactly seem interested in talking to some random kid, and after what had just taken place, Becker didn’t blame her.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” the Fixer asked.

  “It’s a free country.”

  He took that as an invitation, then watched as the crow he’d inserted into the Dream as a nice distraction landed on top of the jungle gym right on cue.

  “I’m Becker.”

  He reached out a hand, and after a long period of silent debate, she finally took it.

  “Jennifer.”

  “Um . . . this is a little hard to explain, but you see . . .” There was no other way for Becker to say it. “I’m what they call a Fixer in this place called The Seems—which is this place that makes our World—and um, they were trying to send you a Dream tonight, but because of a Glitch in the Department of Sleep, they couldn’t get it to you, and then by accident I popped your Dream because . . .”

  Jennifer was looking at him like he was totally out of his mind, and Becker worried he was botching the whole thing.

  “Sorry, I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense . . . it’s just . . . there was something special in that Dream and because of me, you couldn’t get it. So they let me make a new one and deliver it myself.”

  Jennifer glanced around the schoolyard—the place that had been her own personal Nightmare ever since she’d moved from Vancouver to Caledon.

  “You’re telling me this is a Dream?”

  “Yeah. I made it in The Seems.”

  “Then why did you make it so bad?”

  “Well, it’s about to get a whole lot better, if you want it to . . .”

  Becker could tell that Jennifer wasn’t quite buying his story, but she didn’t exactly say no.

  “Then follow me.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she finally got up from the bench, and Becker led her back in the direction of the trees through which he’d arrived. The kid in the dirt was still there, codesigning a two-car garage with a freckle-faced third-grader.

  “Who’s that?” asked the smaller of the two.

  “No one. He’s just a Fixer in The Seems.”

  The kids shrugged, as if that were all but obvious, then went back to their architectural plans. Neither seemed to notice that the trees that had once loomed over their shoulders were no longer there, having been replaced by a tall, wrought-iron gate—the kind that might adorn a deserted amusement park— complete with rusted turnstile that led to the other side.

  “I’ve never seen this here before,” observed Jennifer.

  “I told you, this is a Dream,” said Becker. “Anything can happen.”

  “Tickets! Tickets!”

  A vintage ticket taker with a red, white, and blue carnival hat sat on a stool beside the turnstile, waiting for the only two customers of the day.

  “Hey, Dr. Kole.” It was Becker’s English teacher, who he’d specially chosen for this part.

  “Hello, Mr. Drane! I hope you have your tickets in hand, because I cannot allow our personal relationship to influence the performance of my duties!”

  Becker pulled two shiny new tickets out of his back pocket and handed them over.

  “Remember, the park closes promptly at dusk!” He ripped the tickets in half and handed one stub to each of them. “And be careful, my dear—this one’s quite the ladies’ man.”

  “Is that so?” Jennifer laughed, and for the first time since they’d met, Becker could feel her spirits lifting. He knew that was probably because she could glimpse what was on the other side of the gate.

  “Shall we?”

  Dream 532 was only ordered in the most dire of circumstances and it entailed the revealing of The Seems to a person in The World. It was only done inside a Dream because the aforementioned person was not actually being recruited for employment (in that case, they would have gone to Orientation), but rather needed a little help in negotiating the peaks and valleys of ordinary life. And even if they remembered everything that happened, they would no doubt write it off as a Dream, while hopefully the experience they had within would be memorable enough to change the way they looked at things when they woke up the next day.

  The specific places that person visited in the dream varied on a Case by Case basis, but Becker wanted to give Jennifer “the deluxe.” First, he took her to Time Square—the quaint town center in the Department of Time, complete with Second Hand Stores, Daylight Savings (FDIC), and Magic Hour—arguably the best coffee shop in the Seems. Then they stopped at the Sound Studio (where they design everything we hear) and the Olfactory (and all the things we smell) and they even dropped by the Weather Station, where Becker could show off a bit, because he knew the guys up there from a previous Mission.

  “Briefer Drane,” exclaimed Weatherman #3, upon seeing Becker with his wide-eyed companion.

  “That’s Fixer to you, Freddy!”

  “Hey, congrats. How ’bout Yesterday? Was that a perfect day or what?”

  “Keep up the good work.”

  Jennifer was impressed that Becker knew the people responsible for Weather, and she wasn’t afraid to throw in a request of her own.

  “Um, do you think you guys could do me a small favor?”

  “For a friend of Fixer Drane . . . anything!”

  “Well, I was just wondering if you could, like, bri
ng down another ice age or something on this little town called Caledon.”

  “Caledon? Ontario, Canada? Sector 104?” The Weatherman quickly flipped through his log of local forecasts. “No Ice Age scheduled there for another thirty-two thousand years. How ’bout a Cold Spell? I could do that without having to get approval.”

  Jennifer laughed. “As long as I get a couple snow days out of it.”

  Becker knew where this was coming from. “Don’t let a few bad apples spoil the bunch.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Right. I’m sure there’s a lot of cool people I just haven’t met yet.” On the way out the door, though, she looked back and flashed Freddy the signal to hit ’em with everything they got, and the Weatherman gave her a thumbs-up.

  But it was at the Big Building itself where Jennifer was really blown away.

  Though it’s strictly against the Rules to meet your Case Worker in person (even in a Dream), Becker made arrangements to stop by when the entire staff was out to lunch. While they rode the elevator up to the 423rd floor, Becker filled her in.

  “. . . and so each Case Worker has about twenty-five individual Clients that they manage, and their job is basically to help you in any way they can. Like sending you Happy Thoughts or nudging you down the right path, or in your Case, ordering up this Dream.”

  “And they let you design it?”

  “The Pleasant Dreamers helped me out.”

  “That’s a pretty cool job.”

  “Totally.”

  The elevator dinged and they wandered down the seemingly endless hallway to office #423006. A knock on the door confirmed that no one was there.

  “C’mon . . .”

  Inside the office was a messy desk with a nameplate: “Clara Manning, Senior Case Worker,” and posted all over the walls were pictures of her Clients. You really have to love your people in this job, and it was clear that even though the two had never met, Clara felt that way about Jennifer.

  One section of the wall was entirely devoted to her and there were Moments up there that Jennifer herself had nearly forgotten—like the time she had won a bronze medal at the Pacific Dolphin swim meet, and the time she hiked to the top of Hominy Hill and caught this amazing view of the valley and the church steeple and wished more than anything that someone could be there to share it with her. There was even a yellow Post-it note slapped on the corner of the laptop computer that read: