The Lost Train of Thought (8 page)
“It is.” Eve smiled, as if she’d wrestled with that same issue many times herself. “At the end of the day, I guess it comes down to one thing: do we believe in the goodness of that Plan, with all its mysteries and imperfections? Or do we not?”
A young Mind Blower approached, clipboard in hand.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but since Administrator Thinkenfeld’s MIA, could you sign off on a Head Trip for Sector 109?”
“Certainly.”
While the Second in Command initialed the order, Becker fired up the replacement Bleceiver that the Toolshed had sent down for him and flipped through the Cases that would be affected should the Unthinkable happen. His hope was that in one of them, he could find a Mission Inside the Mission that would give him the inspiration to get back in the game. But he still couldn’t stop thinking about his own troubles.
“Oh, and in case you were wondering”—Eve returned the clipboard and led the young Fixer back toward the elevators— “regardless of whether or not you accept this Mission, your sentence is set in Stone.
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The suspension will take effect as soon as you return, as will the unremembering.”
Becker knew the Second in Command wasn’t a Mind Reader, but it sure felt like she was leafing through his.
“I hope you’ll look past your own concerns and join the second team. But if not, don’t let it bother you—it’s only the Unthinkable, right?”
The elevator doors again slid open and the Second in Command stepped inside.
“It’s not the end of The World.”
Trans Central Station, Beyond, The Seems
Forty-five minutes later, a man in a blue hat and red tie scanned the platform one last time, then pulled a pocket watch from inside his blazer. “15:59.” Oh well. Time to get the old girl going . . .
“All aboard the Trans-Seemsberian Express!”
A throng of excited travelers hopped off the wooden benches and up the steps of the train. Most, the Conductor figured, were headed out to the Black Market— which at this time on Sunday was just rolling out its best bargains—but he was quite sure the man with the old Air-Conditioner’s belt and his family were headed out to the Sticks.
“This is the local train, making the following station stops: the Outskirts, Obscurity, the Sticks, Seemsberia, and the End of the Line!”
By the time he announced the last stop, the only people left in the station were three owners of a Badge with a double-sided Wrench, none of whom seemed anxious to board the train just yet.
“All aboard!”
“Any chance we can get you to hold it for five more minutes?” asked the Octogenarian, still sitting on her handbag-style Toolkit.
“Sorry, ma’am.” The Conductor was unmoved by Sylvia’s famously sunny disposition. “The Trans-Seemsberian hasn’t been a single minute late since MJGVXXIII, and I’m not going to be the one to break the streak.”
“What’s the point?” Shahzad Hassan lifted his twin attachés. “Clearly, the child is not coming.”
The Octogenarian nodded sadly, and even the mysterious Hassan was disappointed at the fact that Becker Drane was nowhere to be found in this moment of need. But Fixer Blaque seemed more surprised than anything else.
“It appears you are right, Hassan.”
Blaque threw his weatherbeaten Toolmaster ’45™ over his shoulder, then leaned on his walking stick and headed for the crowded train.
“Don’t we need to call in someone for backup?” asked Sylvia, following him up the steps.
“I planned for this eventuality, although I hoped it would never come.” Blaque slowly led his colleagues through the train car, searching for an empty three-seater. “Fixer #2 has been living in Obscurity for quite some time now, and he’s agreed to meet us should the need arise.”
The Octogenarian looked at Hassan, who was as intrigued to hear that the reclusive Mr. X might be joining a multi-Fixer Mission as she was. But there would be plenty of time to discuss this and other developments on the long trip out to the End of the Line. The first order of business was finding a seat.
“Perhaps there is room in the dining compartment?”
As the three Fixers stepped between cars, the Trans-Seemsberian dragged itself into motion. The chandeliers jingled as they had for nearly a century, and the red velvet walls and sepia-toned photographs told stories of a long-vanished era. Unfortunately, every high-backed dining booth was full— all except for one, that is, where a single head leaned against the
window.
“Excuse me.” Fixer Blaque approached the lone traveler, who was lost inside a dog-eared text. “Would you mind if we joined you?”
The teenage boy put down his copy of Agatha Christie’s
The Orient Express
, took another sip of his iced Certain Tea, then turned to face the three weary Fixers. They were a strange lot to be sure, but for a Mission to the Middle of Nowhere, Becker Drane figured they would do.
“What took you guys so long?”
11.
The most popular amusement park in The Seems, featuring an Awesome Place to Eat, Awesome Things to Do, and the Most Awesome Ride Ever.
12.
99.9% of all Thought and Emotion is shipped in its raw form for people to do with what they will. The remaining .1%, however, is reserved for Case Workers to offer their clients Helpful Hints, Emotional Rescues, Songs You Can’t Get Out of Your Head, etc.
14.
The hallowed piece of marble onto which all Court of Public Opinion decisions are irrevocably engraved.
The Black Market, The Outskirts, The Seems
On Saturdays and Sundays between 9:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m., a normally muddy field in the thinly populated area on the edge of The Seems is transformed into a thriving metropolis of tents, tables, and vendors displaying wares of every shape and size. Most of the trinkets and keepsakes found here are of the perfectly legal (though often junky) variety, but for those who dig a little deeper, the Black Market offers items of a different sort.
“Seven Bucks?”
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The crusty, gold-toothed merchant angrily pushed away Fixer Blaque’s coin-filled hand. “I couldn’t buy my grandmother a dazzleberry pie for seven Bucks!”
Fixers Blaque and Drane stood before a foldout table stocked with jars, glass bottles, metal pots, and tins, each containing a powder, oil, or extract from some far-off corner of The Seems. Becker even recognized an unused ounce of Sleep, which only underscored the truth of the handwritten banner that hung above the merchant’s head:
“Man of Substance(s).”
“I didn’t know your grandmother liked dazzleberry,” Blaque needled the merchant, then took another look inside the tarnished locket in his hand. “I’ll give you eight.”
“We’re talking the essential building block of Reality here, my friend. Be reasonable. The lowest I can go is a Bill.”
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Fixer Blaque closed the case, then handed it back to the merchant.
“Maybe I’ll just go see Powderfinger. He knows how to treat a customer.”
Blaque threw a subtle wink at Becker, as if to say, “Sometimes you have to be willing to walk away,” and started to do just that.
“Hey! Where you going, buddy? I’m just trying to make a living here.” The Man of Substance(s) threw up his hands. “Since it’s for a good cause, I’ll do it for nine—but that’s my final offer.”
“And a very generous offer it is. I shall accept.”
Fixer Blaque handed the coins to the vendor and the locket to Becker, who packed it into his Toolkit, along with the battery-powered Calling Card they’d purchased in case their Bleceivers malfunctioned in the Middle of Nowhere. The small metal square allowed users to project holographic images of themselves across great distances, usually to another Card holder.
“Your uncle’s a real skinflint!” the Man of Substance(s) crankily called out to Becker as he and Blaque walked away. “Tell him money only grows on trees in A Better Place!”
The Black Market totally reminded Becker of Englishtown—this outdoor shopping extravaganza in Jersey where he and his grandfather used to go— except much bigger and more exotic. There were endless rows of tables and booths, where shady characters hawked used Fixer Tools, pirated copies of the Plan, hubcaps, and square-cut french fries in brown paper bags. There was even an old Tinker selling T-shirts that read: “Stem The Tide: Bring Back Samuel!” And judging from his half-empty cart, business was booming.
“How many more stops do we have, sir? The Trans-Seemsberian should be done switching over from coal to electric in about ten minutes.”
“Plenty of time, son. Only one more item on the list.”
Jelani Blaque hobbled forward on his walking stick as a group of licensed Bargain Hunters toting nets and coupons passed by.
“I know you won’t believe this, Becker, but I signed that petition for your own good.”
Becker wasn’t going to bring it up, but now that the proverbial
elephant in the room was out in the open, he wasn’t going
to avoid it.
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“Take my word for it, when you start Fixing for yourself instead of The World, it’s a slippery slope. That’s how Hadley Eure lost her way, and Zachary Lake, and of course you know the story of Sir Reginald.”
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“I think I’m starting to catch your drift, sir. But imagine if you had to unremember Sarah or your kids. Even if you knew it was justified, would it make it any easier?”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
The two Fixers strolled silently for a while, cutting down a dark and trash-strewn alleyway. There were no tables here, only shadowy figures in dark alcoves, whispering of Fantasies and Frozen Moments stolen from the people of The World. Becker made eye contact with a woman in heavy makeup and costume jewelry who claimed to be a member of the Future Oriented, and she waved him toward her parlor. With a gentle tug from Blaque, he kept walking.
As soon as they stepped back into the light, the duo found themselves in the Tamishantery, a district on the edge of the market where men in brightly colored robes did battle to offer the latest in Seemsian hat wear. Bee Bonnets, Chrome Domes, Big Wigs—even an old World-Beater baseball cap— were all hanging from hooks and ready to be placed upon prospective heads. But when Fixer Blaque approached an old man too wrinkled and hunched over to even hold up a sign, Becker could tell he was looking for something that wasn’t on display.
“What is your pleasure, oh mighty Fixers of the World?”
The old man’s skin was the color of brown that can only be painted by a lifetime under the unforgiving sun, and his eyes were the milky white of blindness. Yet the unmistakable gleam of a born salesman was still behind them, a gleam that brightened considerably when Fixer Blaque began to speak to him in a language Becker had never heard before. It was harsh and guttural, one that the old-timer clearly understood, for it was only a matter of seconds before he flashed a toothless grin and called out in the tongue common to all Seemsians.
“Grandsons!”
Two teenagers sending text messages on their Seems Berrys snapped to their feet, and with a whisper from their grandfather, disappeared behind an ornate tapestry. When they reemerged, the boys were juggling four brass helmets that looked like they belonged on an old-fashioned deep-sea diving suit. One by one, Becker plopped them into his Toolkit—which, although it had plenty of extra Space, didn’t have unlimited weight. It was starting to get awfully heavy.
“What kind of helmets are these, sir?”
Fixer Blaque checked his Time Piece™, which indicated their train would be departing for Obscurity in less than three minutes.
“Let’s hope you never find out.”
“Next station stop: the Sticks! All aboard for the Sticks, Seemsberia, and the End of the Line!”
As the wellness colony of Obscurity slowly receded into the distance, Becker and Fixer Blaque retired to their sleeper cabins to sort through the gear they’d scored in the market. Meanwhile, Hassan and the Octogenarian were finishing up light lunches and watching the landscape shift from rolling green hills to marshlands and thicket. The crowd in the dining car had noticeably thinned since they’d left the Outskirts—most of the remaining passengers congregated on the stools around the lunch counter— leaving the two Fixers a booth to themselves.
