The Glitch in Sleep (14 page)

“I’ve never been in the Dreamatorium before,” noted Simly, looking up through the glass Transport Tube that served as a front door.

“Well, tonight’s probably not gonna be your night.”

Due to the sensitivity and privacy of people’s dream lives, this was one of the most highly secure Bedrooms in Sleep. Unfortunately for Briefer Frye, it required a clearance level of eight-plus, but he was relegated to a six.

“But you can’t go up there by yourself!” Simly was apoplectic. If nothing else, Briefers were fiercely loyal to their Fixers and loathe to leave their side.

“Rules are Rules, my friend,” answered Becker. “Trust me, I’d rather have you with me.”

“You’re a Fixer—use your priority override!”

“This is my first Mission, and I want to play it by the book.”

“But they would never want you to face a Glitch on your own,” implored the Briefer. “Especially after what happened on the Big One.
²²
”

“There’s no time for an argument right now. Dawn’s gonna be here in”—Becker checked his Time Piece—“three and a half hours.”

“But—but—” Simly could barely get the words out.

“This conversation is over. I’ve made my decision.”

Becker felt bad about taking a hard line, but no matter how fond he was of his sidekick, he had to keep his professional distance.

“Fine.” Simly took it hard as Becker swiped the graphite pad with his Badge. An automated voice replied:

“Clearance level nine. Access granted.”

On that note, a suction sound began to build inside the tube and Becker pulled down his Transport Goggles and stepped beneath it.

“While I’m gone, get on the horn and find out anything you can about the Not-So-Great Depression. I think your source might have been on to something.”

“Yes, sir!” Simly perked up. “I’ll call the Librarian at the IFR and have her Blink me the Mission Report ASAP.”

“And keep your head up, Frye. Just because you’re not going up doesn’t mean I won’t need you.”

Simly saluted with newfound pride.

“See you on the Flip Side, sir.”

Becker felt the suction of the Transport Tube begin to pull at his shirt.

“On the Flip Side.”

As Becker cruised through the curves of glass like chocolate milk through a twisty straw, he was all too aware that the sand was beginning to run out. Though The World contains twenty-four distinct Time Zones, The Seems only has one, and the arrival of Dawn initiates all Chains of Events scheduled to take place. But if Today didn’t match up with Tomorrow, then the dreaded Ripple Effect would occur.

“Prepare for Dreamatorium arrival,”
announced the computer.

To be honest, Becker wished he was a little more prepared. He’d been to this Bedroom once before during Training, but it was more of a tour than a nuts-and-bolts education.

“Dreamatorium arrival in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .”

The moment the Fixer popped from the Transport Tube— “Whoa”—he found himself surrounded by bubbles—purple and glistening and floating through the air—except these bubbles were the size of basketballs. The Bedroom itself seemed built to accommodate them, for the walls were reinforced with pillows and there was not a sharp edge in sight. Becker was about to break out his Manual and do some further research, when—

“Tally ho!”

His head snapped around at the sound of a muffled shout. The voice had obviously come from inside the room, but no Tireless Workers were in sight.

“Higher, higher!” There it was again, louder this time. “They’ll never suspect an aerial assault!”

It took Becker a moment to realize that the voice he was hearing was not coming from his radio or from anywhere else in the room, but from
inside
one of the bubbles. A closer inspection of the one nearest to his head revealed the source of all the noise.

A young boy no more than seven sat astride the saddle of a giant bird, flying through the sky toward a shimmering city of glass. In his hand was a scimitar, and behind him, an army of warriors on winged steeds of their own.

“Come, boys! We’ll show these scoundrels who was meant to be the Ki—”

As the bubble was lost among its fellows, Becker quickly found that this was not an isolated phenomenon. Every single sphere in the room appeared to contain another world, utterly and completely unique from the rest . . . and that’s when he remembered what these bubbles really were.

“Becker to Simly. Come in, Simly.”

“Simly h . . . re. Wh . . . t’s goi . . . g on up th . . . re?”

“This place is crawling with Dreams!”

That was no exaggeration. There was one with an old man inside, staring into a bathroom mirror at the visage of his younger self, who shook his head sadly. A chocolate Lab rolled about in an endless field of grass, with all the rawhide chew toys it could ever want. And a teenaged girl stood at home plate in a packed Yankee Stadium, with two outs and the bases full and the chance to etch her name into World Series lore.

Not all of the Dreams were fantastical, though. Many of them featured mundane scenarios such as people chatting or waiting for the bus, while others were so bizarrely constructed as to be indescribable. All of them floated aimlessly, like they had no dreamers to dream them.

“I got a bad feeling about this, Brief. None of them are being sent to Central Shipping at all.”

“. . . can’t . . . hear . . . y . . . bre . . . ing up . . .”

The transmission was garbled, which was not unexpected, given the pillow-reinforced walls.

“Affirmative. Let me see if I can find better reception.”

Becker put his Receiver back on the hook. It was bad enough that he had lost touch with his Briefer, but now his temples hurt and he felt a closeness in his throat. There was no other explanation for it—the Glitch was in this room and he now faced the prospect of Fixing it all by his lonesome.

To be fair, Becker considered calling in for backup. There were still a handful of active Fixers who had been a part of Clean Sweep and would have been more than happy to Leap into The Seems and lend their expertise. But he was a rookie, desperate to make his mark, and sometimes Pride can be your worst enemy.

So he rolled up his sleeves and decided to go it alone. “C’mon, baby. Come to papa . . .”

Down on the floor below, Simly had downloaded the Mission Report from the IFR Library and was now hard at work reassembling the Glitchometer.

“Mamma Frye’s pride and joy needs himself a Special Commendation.”

He tentatively flipped the repaired switch and the needle bounced into action, focusing itself back on zero.

“Yeah, baby. . . that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

But just as the device was starting to hum, black smoke churned out the sides again, along with a stream of green fluid.

“Slamnit!”

The Briefer chucked the machine aside, utterly dejected. In the history of the IFR, only two Seemsians had ever been promoted to Fixer,
²³
and either Simly had to do something splashy soon or he would be doomed to the path of the Fryes who came before him—professional Brieferhood (totally respectable, yet short on glory) or accepting a desk job at Central Command.

“Concentrate, Simly. Imagine you’re from The World.”

With eyes closed so tight that steam was almost coming out of his ears, Simly tried to do what Becker had suggested earlier. He pretended he was a schoolboy from Amsterdam or São Paulo (places he had always wanted to visit but never had the chance) and sought to isolate the feeling that something had gone wrong in The Seems. But trying to locate his 7
^th
Sense was like trying to use a muscle that you just didn’t have, and facts were facts: Simly was born over here . . .

. . . and Fixers were born over there.

SHHH-KUH . . . BUBBA . . . GLUBBA . . . RATTA-TATTA
. . . WHOOSH.

The machine that towered over Becker was a contraption unlike any other in The Seems. Well, that’s not exactly true. The Wish Washer from the Department of Everything That Has No Department was also canister-fed, but instead of a blue detergent, this behemoth used a golden speckled fluid. Once that fluid left the canister, it was stream-fed through a web of filtration systems, combined with a cleansing agent, then carefully billow-blown through a four-pronged revolving wand, which churned out the world-containing bubbles one by precious one.

SHHH-KUH . . . BUBBA . . . GLUBBA . . . RATTA-TATTA
. . . WHOOSH.

Becker didn’t need to check his Manual to know that he was looking at the Dreamweaver, and judging by the veridical crispness of the worlds it was creating, it seemed to be in perfect working order.

“Simly, you there?” He whispered into his Receiver, but only static came across. At this point, Becker had little choice but to pry open the complex machine and try to locate the Glitch inside the cross-woven circuitry. But before he could reach into his Toolkit, something unexpected passed before his eyes.

It was a big black Dream bubble—or at least darker in shading—and the first of its kind that Becker had seen. There was still a world taking place, but it was different, less fun, and strangely enough, there was someone he recognized inside.

“Jennifer Kaley is a haley, and she has no friends!”

Becker was stunned to see Jennifer Kaley, the girl from Canada who had become his Mission Inside the Mission. She was on the playground of her school, encircled by a group of jeering kids.

“Leave me alone!” she begged.

“But Jenny . . . we love you!” said one of the girls, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “We’re
so
happy you came to our school.”

Jennifer tried to call for help from the teachers, who were busily chatting by the fence, but amid the cacophony of recess they didn’t seem to notice what was going on.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because it’s fun!” said one of the boys, unrepentant. All the kids laughed and Jennifer tried to make a run at the side of the circle, but she was quickly pushed back into the center.

“Where you going?” asked another of the mob. “Don’t you like us anymore?”

Helpless, Jennifer fought back tears, until someone from the crowd hurled a water balloon that struck her right in the face. She fell to her knees, where she buried her head in her hands and cried. But as the throng laughed even louder, none took note of something high above them in the sky. . .

Becker Drane’s enormous face, hazy and distorted by the bubble’s walls.

The Fixer didn’t understand what he was looking at. He knew this had to be Jennifer Kaley’s 532—the Dream that was supposed to make her feel better—but it didn’t seem like it was going as Planned. Instead of brightening her hopes for tomorrow, this was going to destroy them altogether, and there was only one explanation for what was going wrong. He was too late, and the Glitch had already trashed the Dreamweaver, causing it to spew out mixed and mangled Dreams.

“Jennifer?” he tried to shout through the hazy membrane. “Can you hear me?”

Inside, there was no reaction, except more kids gathering around the awful spectacle.

The Rulebook was specific, especially where the Plan is concerned, and Becker knew he probably shouldn’t get involved, but he couldn’t just idly stand by and watch someone be tortured for no apparent reason. He didn’t even know what he was trying to do—maybe Fix the Dream or at least disperse the crowd—but the moment his hand touched the surface of the bubble, it began to wobble and shake, and soon thereafter . . .

POP-WHAM!

When Becker recovered his bearings, he was immersed in total darkness. All he could hear was the falling of debris and static booming over his radio when he tried to reach his Briefer. He quickly shuffled through his Toolkit and found his Night Shades™, so he could get a better look at his surroundings.

Wherever he was, it certainly wasn’t the Dreamatorium anymore. The explosion had sent him back through the wall of that chamber and into one of the sealed-off rooms he’d seen on the Sleep Foreman’s blueprints. Through the infrared lenses, it looked to be an abandoned laboratory, filled with dusty test tubes, beakers, and canisters of the same make and model as those that fit into the Dreamweaver.

He brushed himself off and approached the cobwebbed walls, still trying to figure out where his Mission had taken him. On the outside of the old canisters were peeling white labels, inscribed with arcane symbols that he couldn’t quite decipher. Good thing for Becker that Night Shades came with a language filter, and he flipped through the settings—“Gaelic,” “Toltec,” “Aramaic,” “Obbinglobbish”—until he found the one he was looking for:

“Olde Seemsian.”

The labels instantly translated, and Becker could now read what they said:

MONSTER IN THE CLOSET
LATE FOR THE FINAL EXAM AND FORGOT TO STUDY
THE BOTTOMLESS PIT

All in a rush, a wave of panic flooded his brain. He tried to make a run for it, because he knew whose territory he’d unwittingly stumbled upon, but an awful sound froze him in his tracks.

Giggling . . . evil and full of malicious glee.

“C’mon, Becker. Get yourself outta here.”

He sprinted again, but the pathway back was blocked with wreckage from the explosion and the lab seemed to have no exit at all. Suddenly, the lights flipped on.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

There were three of them, each wearing lab technician’s coats that bore the insignia of the single closed eye. This meant they were officially Tireless Workers, but their teeth were rotted, their skin was pasty, and their eyes were swollen from toiling in the dark.

“Such a fine sepcimen . . .”

“So young . . . so tender . . .”

The technicians poked him like a melon.

“Get your hands off me,” said Becker.

Ever since he was a young boy, Becker’s mom had given him the same admonition right before she turned off the lights. A warning that she thought meant nothing—without realizing that many of the sayings of our World come from obscure corners of The Seems. He now found himself face-to-face with the origins of one of those sayings, a pack of mad geniuses whose specialty was designing the most horrible Dreams imaginable, “affectionately” known as . . .