The Lost Train of Thought (6 page)
“How big?”
“It’s the Rule that says I’m, uh . . . not allowed to know you.”
Jennifer’s blood felt suddenly cold in her veins, even more so because Becker was having a hard time looking into her eyes.
“Why aren’t you allowed to know me?”
“Because technically, when we met inside your Dream, I had access to the details of your Case File—your life— and there’s nothing more sacred in The Seems than the privacy of the people in The World.”
“But I want you to know the private details of my life. I want you to know everything about me. I mean, can’t I just sign a permission slip or something?”
“I wish. The truth is, I’ve already been put on trial in The Seems.”
“On trial?” Jennifer was flabbergasted. Becker had always spoken so glowingly of The Seems that she imagined it more like candyland or paradise, and never contemplated the fact that something bad could happen there.
“Yeah . . . in the Court of Public Opinion. I had a lawyer and everything.”
“Had?”
“My trial ended yesterday.”
Jennifer was afraid to ask, but there was nothing else she could do.
“And?”
“I was found guilty on all counts.”
The official sentence had come down around four hours ago, when Becker was stewing in his bedroom at 12 Grant Avenue, still hoping for a guilty
with
mitigating circumstances verdict. And even though the message that flashed over his Bleceiver was text only, the words somehow echoed between his ears in the stentorian voice of Alvin Torte:
By order of the Court of Public Opinion, Ferdinand
Becker Drane III has been suspended from active duty for a
period of one year, effective midnight today Sector 33-514
time. In addition, Fixer Drane will be summarily unremembered
of all knowledge pertaining to the existence of
Jennifer Kaley of Sector 104-11.
Ms. Kaley will in turn be unremembered of all knowledge
pertaining to Fixer Drane. Secondarily, Benjamin Q.
Drane will be unremembered of all knowledge of The
Seems, and any/all association with the Department of Public
Works suspended posthaste.
Lastly, Mr. Drane will have his Seems Credit Card
revoked until further notice.
Becker’s first reaction had been to smash his Bleceiver into a million pieces, which, though satisfying in the moment, brought little long-term comfort. He could stomach losing his unlimited account to all the best stores in The Seems, could face returning to the days when he told his little brother it was all just a story he’d invented, could even tolerate being unemployed for a year. But Jennifer? How was he going to tell the first girlfriend he’d ever had that everything they knew about each other, everything they had done, and (because of the previous two) everything they’d felt was going to disappear from their memories in less than seven hours?
For several long seconds neither said a thing, and together they listened to the sounds of Alton Forest. A
Picus canadensis
pecking the wood of an unseen tree. Squirrels chattering about their plans. Finally, Jennifer forced a smile.
“They’re looking for a stock boy at Norm’s Great Grocery.”
“At what?”
“The deli where I work.”
“You don’t understand, Jenny. This is really serious.”
Jennifer was afraid to ask. She remembered Becker talking about some awful place called “Seemsberia,” but would they really send a fourteen year old to prison? Or worse?
“How serious?”
“Well . . . the truth is . . .”
The mighty young Fixer who had stared down a Glitch, who had chased a Split Second through Frozen Moments of Time, who had even earned the respect of Melvin Sharp (the toughest/scariest kid in Highland Park) by beaning him in a game of bombardment, could not even bring himself to speak.
Then, out of nowhere, somebody spoke for him.
“Hey, Becker!”
It was a young man’s voice, echoing from somewhere down on the forest floor. Jennifer and Becker looked at each other, wondering if they were imagining the very same thing, because it didn’t sound like any member of Les Resistance.
“Becker, it’s me! Are you up there?”
As Becker leaned over the side of the platform to take a gander below, his only thought was, “It can’t be!” But it was.
“Simly?”
“In the flesh, sir!”
Impossibly standing at the base of the tree and snapping off a sharp-wristed salute was Briefer #356, also known as Simly Alomonous Frye. His trademark Coke-bottle glasses covered his eyes, while a bright white Toronto Maple Leafs jersey stretched from neck to knees—a clear effort at “fitting in” with the Canadians.
“What the heck are you doing here?”
“They sent me to find you and bring you back to the, um, ahem . . .”
Even from twenty feet above Becker could see Simly’s face turning bright red when he noticed Jennifer peeking down at him too.
“Don’t sweat it. She knows the whole deal.”
Jennifer waved and smiled. “Hey, Simly. Becker’s told me all about you.”
“He has?” Simly brightened up like a Christmas tree. “Well, he’s told me all about you too, and personally, I think this whole unremembering thing is a total—”
“Simly!”
The Briefer coughed a few times, realizing he was about to pull another Frye-paux,
9
then bit his tongue hard. “Sorry.”
“Who sent you to find me?”
“Central Command, sir! They’ve been trying to reach you for, like, hours, but for some reason, your Bleceiver’s not responding.”
“Um . . . yeah . . . it’s a little bit on the fritz.” Becker tried not to think about the wastebasket in his bedroom where what was left of his communications device blended with paper clips, junk mail, and gum. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t have high enough clearance to know for sure, sir. But word on the Street is that T&E lost an entire Train of Thought!”
“They lost what? But my 7th Sense
10
didn’t pick up a thing.”
“Neither did mine.” Though Simly Frye was Seemsian by birth, he was one of the rare few of his kind who’d managed to unlock a Fixer’s greatest Tool. “That’s what scares me.”
Becker backed away from the railing, feeling the same fear as his favorite Briefer. But as his mind played out the possible consequences of the event, the Fixer found it hard to escape what
he
was about to lose in just a few hours.
“Isn’t there someone else they can call, Simly? I’m kind of busy right now, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s okay.” The last thing Jennifer wanted to do was get in the way of the fate of The World. “Why don’t we just hang out when you get back?”
“Because we can’t! I mean . . . of course we can, it’s just—”
Jennifer watched Becker angrily stomp to the other side of the platform, then peered down at the Briefer, who helplessly shrugged back at her. To be honest, part of her was glad that Becker wanted to stay, because she had this weird feeling that if he walked away right now, she would never see him again. But the look on Simly’s face said this Mission was a lot bigger than either of them.
“Maybe if you fix this thing, you won’t be in so much trouble anymore,” she whispered.
Becker wanted to shout back that Jennifer didn’t understand and that this was probably the last chance they would have to hang out together, but at the same time, maybe she had a point. Maybe the Powers That Be had reconsidered and were offering him a second chance.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
After the slightest hesitation, Jennifer nodded, and Becker quickly gathered his belongings. Meanwhile, down on the forest floor, a Toronto Maple Leafs fan was anxiously awaiting his
orders.
“Get your Skeleton Key ready, Sim.”
“Yes, sir!”
As Simly happily scrambled to find a secluded spot to create a portal into the In-Between, Jennifer slumped back into her chair. She was happy that she’d done the right thing, but that awful premonition was still there, stuck inside her chest, and it made her feel like crying. Sadness had descended over the Fixer’s heart as well. Chances were good that the next time they met, they wouldn’t even recognize each other, and he still didn’t have the courage to tell her. So Becker pulled Jennifer close and kissed her instead, hoping it would say everything he wanted to say right now but couldn’t.
“I’ll call you when I get home.”
7.
“Pretend The World was being remade from Scratch. What kind of World would you create?”
8.
Flopheads: a progressive tribe of teenagers known for wearing Doc Martens, listening to cool music, and shaving one side of their heads so the remaining hair will flop over.
9.
Frye-paux (n): 1. A violation of accepted although unwritten Rules. (From the Seemsian, meaning “Another foot-in-mouth moment, courtesy of Simly Alomonous Frye.”)
10.
An innate sense or feeling that something in The Seems has gone wrong and will soon affect The World. Fixers often use this skill to track the location and/or nature of a Malfunction.
With the discovery of the fields of Thought and corresponding Wells of Emotion, The Seems was confronted with a new set of ethical challenges. While providing Good Night’s Sleep, tying Rainbows, and combining the H2 and the O were virtual no-brainers, introducing these powerful new elements threatened to violate the spirit of personal freedom that the original Powers That Be were determined to guarantee. In the end, it was decided that The World should think and feel for itself, and the architectural firm of Mind, Body & Soll, LLC was finally allowed to break ground on one of their most innovative departments to date.
From
A Penny for Your Thoughts (and Emotions):
The True Story of How T&E Almost Didn’t Come
—to Be
by Sitriol B. Flook (Copyright ©
Seemsbury Press, MGBHV, The Seems)
Office of the Administrator, Department of Thought & Emotion, The Seems
Eve Hightower stepped to the front of the executive suite, having exchanged her judge’s robes for the business casual attire of her office. But there was nothing informal about the way she cleared her throat and began to address the four others who’d been asked to join this classified briefing.
“I know you probably expected the administrator of T&E to run this meeting, but as you’ll soon see, Dr. Thinkenfeld’s absence is not a coincidence.”
The Second in Command grimly turned to the first page of the Mission Report and continued.
“Yesterday morning at exactly 7:35 a.m., a train loaded with all The World’s Thought for the next six weeks departed on schedule from the End of the Line. Unfortunately, it failed to reach the next station stop in Seemsberia—let alone deliver its precious cargo back to this department.”
The gasp that slipped from Becker Drane’s mouth wasn’t the only one in the room.
“When all attempts to reach conductor or crew proved futile, the decision was made to assemble a team of Fixers whose combined skills made them uniquely qualified to locate and retrieve the missing train.”
Eve Hightower pressed the intercom button at the head of the table.
“Kevin?”
As the AV Mechanic dimmed the lights, Eve swiveled her chair around to face a flat-screen display.
“Central Command received the following transmission early this afternoon.”
The images that flashed onscreen shook like a home movie— barely focusing on a flip-flopped foot, a mound of sand, and the bright blue sky above before tumbling crazily toward something new. But whoever was operating the camera soon got her bearings, and a wide and barren landscape finally came into view.
“I hope you guys are getting this.”
Becker immediately recognized the Australian accent of Casey Lake, and deduced that the footage had been shot via the wireless Seeing-Eye attachment available on all the Toolshed’s latest optics.
“We lost radio contact with Central Command approximately
one hour ago, but we’ll continue broadcasting just in case.”
A gust of wind caused Casey’s microphone to pop and skip, but the audio quickly recovered.
“Update is as follows.”
