The Split Second (2 page)

“The Maestro?”

“That’s the one.” The Sarge knew what else his Fixer was wondering, because everyone in The Seems had received the same memo in the mailbox this morning. “Too early to tell if our ‘friends’ were involved.”

“What about the replacement Sunset?” Becker looked up at the huge canvas that had been cobbled together as a backup for the original painting. “Anything we can use in there?”

“The light and texture are fine, but the clouds are rushed, and the Memory Triggers are all over the place . . .” The Sarge spoke under his breath, so as not to offend the anxious Scenics who toiled on ladders and scaffolds. “If you ask me, it’s a wash.”

The beauty of the Sarge—#1 on the Briefing Roster—was that having him on board was like working with a second Fixer. His Tool recommendations were impeccable, and his Mission Log read like a history book at the Institute for Fixing & Repair. Becker didn’t have to look at the canvas twice to know it wasn’t gonna cut it.

“How much time we got?”

“Rotating Dusk begins in fifty minutes.”

Fixer Drane did the calculations in his mind. Rotating Dusk meant that the same exact Sunset would be seen all across the globe, as opposed to the usual practice of giving each Sector its own individual painting. This was a rare event—much like an Eclipse or Meteor Shower—and intended for billions of viewers worldwide. But even a Scenic as talented as the legendary Maestro would be hard-pressed to craft a new Sunset in that amount of time.

“Take me to the Edge.”

The Edge of Sanity, The Seems

Sunset Strip, a sub-department of the Department of Public Works, had been built overlooking the Stream of Consciousness, and for good reason. The Seemsian sun set in the north, casting a warm glow over the tranquil back lot, while a pleasant hike down the Path of Least Resistance led to the Stream itself. But perhaps its most eye-catching spot was the Edge of Sanity—a jagged outcropping high above the weaving canyon— which attracted many a Scenic looking for a never-before-imagined shade or hue. But it also drew a different sort of visitor.

“How the heck did he get all the way down there?”

Becker lay flat on his stomach and peeked over the Edge. Far below him, a lone figure was huddled on a narrow sill jutting from the face of the cliff.

“No idea,” said his Briefer, kneeling beside him. “But that rock he’s sitting on isn’t gonna hold for long.”

A queasy feeling was working its way into Becker’s stomach. He’d once had a Glimmer of Hope in mind for just such an occasion, but he’d been forced to blow it on his very first Mission, so now he had to suck it up.

“Recommendation?”

“Sticky Feet™.”

“Agreed.” Becker pulled the rubber soles from his Toolkit, careful not to touch the bottoms with his hand lest he would have to go to the Department of Health and have them surgically removed. “But set me up a Safety Net™ just in case.” Many feet below, a tortured artist wearing a thin mustache sat with his arms around his knees. He rocked back and forth, muttering to himself, until his attention was drawn by a handful of silt that trickled down from above. Gazing up, he was amazed to see a lanky thirteen-year-old boy with shaggy hair standing at a ninety-degree angle and looking straight down the face of the cliff.

“Stop right zere!” screamed the Maestro in his thick North-Seemsany accent. This picturesque region of The Seems was famed for cultivating persons of a certain artistic flair— painters, musicians, and especially masters of culinary delights like Twists of Fate or the Snooze—but the rolling hills also engendered a particularly fiery temperament. “You no come closer or I jump!”

“I just want to talk,” said Becker, dangling over the Edge of Sanity.

“Zere nothing to talk about! It is done. Over. Finis!”

The painter punctuated the statement by slamming his fist to the ground, knocking pebbles and baseball-sized rocks out from beneath the ledge. Becker could see that the Sarge was right . . . it wouldn’t hold for long.

“Is it okay if I join you?”

The Maestro ignored him, gazing toward the water with despair. Becker took that as a yes, and found his way to a small crevice that the centuries had carved from the wall. It wasn’t much of a sitting place, so Becker kept his Feet firmly planted on the rock.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not a big fan of high places.” The Fixer knew the key to talking him down was establishing a rapport. “It’s not that I’m afraid to fall, it’s just that there’s always this little voice in my head saying ‘jump, jump, jump’—and someday I’m afraid I’m gonna listen to it.”

“It is probably just ze Mischievous Imp,” said the Maestro without looking up.

“Nah. We caught that guy a couple years ago. He’s up in Seemsberia knitting pot holders and singing ‘Kumbaya.’ ”

Down below, the slightest of chuckles was just audible above the wind.

“Mind if I call you Figarro?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

At least he was talking now, so Becker figured this was the time to strike.

“What happened out there today?”

The Maestro shook his head angrily, but was too filled with disgust to even speak.

“Look at zem over zere.” He pointed bitterly to the other side of the canyon, where a gated community and its lavish clubhouse was perched even higher than they. “Yuppie scum in fancy houses.”

“This isn’t about Crestview.” Becker made a harsh transition to tough love because time was running out. “This is about a very important Sunset that you were supposed to paint tonight but decided to rip into a million pieces instead.”

The Maestro flinched at the implication, and Becker knew that he was starting to get through.

“I can’t help you, Figarro. Not unless you tell me what’s wrong.”

The Maestro sat and stewed for a moment before finally speaking up.

“My entire life I work to make Sunsets zat will remind people of ze beauty of Ze World, bring zem a precious little moment at the end of another hard day. But everything I do— it is for nothing!”

Far down below, the waves in the Stream crashed against the rocks, and Becker again resisted the urge to see what would happen if he . . .

“I brush Hope in ze clouds for people of ze Philippines, and next day, zey are hit by Typhoon. I hide beautiful Memory in shade of pink, but ze person it is meant for is too sick to even look up and see!”

“The Plan works in mysterious ways,” said the Fixer.

“But why must zere be so much suffering?” The Maestro seemed to be asking himself as much as Becker. “Why cannot Ze World be a better place?”

This type of rhetoric sounded awfully familiar to Becker and it forced him to ask a very uncomfortable question.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain . . . organization . . . would it?”

“How
dare
you accuse me of being in Ze Tide! I pour my heart and soul on ze canvas each and every day!” Figarro slid another inch forward. If this didn’t turn around in a hurry, not only would there be no Sunset, but there would be no Figarro. “But what is ze point? Ze Maestro makes no difference at all . . .”

And that’s when Becker knew what was really wrong in the Department of Public Works and how he was going to Fix it.

“Au contraire, Figarro.” Becker carefully unclipped his Blinker from his belt. Dotting the view screen of the rubber-buttoned communication device were a host of folders— individual Case Files of those who would be affected by the Sunset (or lack thereof). “With one look at this Sunset, lives can be changed forever . . .”

Down below, the man with the thin mustache slowly turned to listen.

“. . . and it’s not just people struggling. I can’t even count how many are on beaches or on hikes through a mountain pass or lying in a meadow with their best friend and don’t know they’re about to enjoy one of the greatest moments of their lives.”

“But one Sunset, my friend? What can one Sunset do against ze troubles of ze entire World?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” Becker flipped over to one case in which he was personally involved. “A good friend of mine’s future may depend on him getting a little dose of Confidence tonight. But even if he looks away at just the wrong moment or something awful happens tomorrow it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that we try.”

The Maestro looked Becker directly in the eye.

“Do you really believe zis?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

There was a long silence, and from the way Figarro peered down at the rocks below, Becker wasn’t sure whether he had won him over or lost him.

“All right, Fixer-man. Maybe ze Plan is out of our control. But if only one person in zose Files of yours stops to look . . .” He rose and proudly faced Becker. “Then I shall give zat person the greatest Sunset Ze World has ever—”

But before he could finish his sentence, the entire ledge the Maestro was standing on broke off and went plummeting down toward the Stream.

“Figarro!”

This time, Becker
did
listen to the voice in his head screaming “Jump!” Detaching from his Sticky Feet, he plummeted straight toward the Maestro, who was screaming in abject horror. It was a second or two before he caught up to the flailing painter, which only brought a small modicum of satisfaction, because it would only be a second or two more before they both smashed headlong into the rapidly approaching rocks below. But Becker knew something that Figarro didn’t. At least he hoped he did . . .

“Sarge, please tell me you set up the—”

Thwap.

The Fixer and the Maestro found themselves encircled in a ball of nylon twine, which stretched uncomfortably close to the water before recoiling back up toward the top of the cliff. Thankfully, it was connected to the twin firing mechanisms that the Sarge had undoubtedly anchored to the Edge of Sanity, and whose retractable crank was now reeling the two survivors of a near-death experience back to the top.

“How you doin’ down there, boss?” barked the Sarge over his Receiver.

“Hangin’ in there.”

The best part about a Safety Net was the safety. The whole net thing Becker could have done without, because at the moment it was imprinting a familiar waffle-shaped tattoo on their faces.

But better to be a waffle than a pancake.

Sunset Strip, Department of Public Works, The Seems

They say the most frightening thing for any artist is a blank canvas, but for a Master Scenic with his heart in the right place, it is but a playground for the imagination. The Maestro stood before a tower of white, surrounded by the materials of his ancient craft. To his left were cans containing indigo, lapis lazuli, violet, and cadmium yellow. To his right, jars of Emotion—Joy, Gratitude, even Bittersweet—which, when painted across the surface of the sky, could literally be experienced by anyone who took the time to view it.

“The way I see it,” said Fixer Drane as he looked over the Maestro’s shoulder, “it takes three minutes for the paint to dry, seven to roll the canvas for shipment, and six to get across the In-Between to Realization.
²
That leaves you only thirteen minutes to paint the whole thing.”

Becker looked back over his shoulder where Set Dressers and Junior Scenics eagerly awaited their master’s commands.

“Can it be done?”

“I am Figarro Mastrioni.” The Maestro licked his fingers and began to twirl his mustache into a handlebar. “Zere is nothing I cannot do!”

With a single snap of his fingers, his minions were in action. They grabbed their brushes and cans while Figarro himself picked up a roller and began to lay a base of disappearing blue.

“Fixer Drane,” the Maestro stepped onto a scaffold that was slowly raised into the sky, “this friend of yours—ze one who needs ze Confidence . . .”

“Yeah, he’s a Briefer. Back when we were at the IFR, I was going through a very hard time because I was only ten and I was a lot smaller than everybody else. But there was this one guy, Harold—they called him ‘C-Note’—who was always telling me ‘BD, you got the skills to pay the bills!’ Things are tough for him right now, and his Case Worker wants to tell him the same thing.”

“Well, considering the issue of Time, not to mention what you have done for me this day . . .” Figarro flipped him a fat paintbrush, then pointed to a squeeze bottle of Confidence itself.

“Perhaps you would like to get your hands dirty as well?”

Los Angeles, California

Inexplicably, the bus had still not arrived at the corner of Marengo and Clement, where now over a dozen seething passengers waited for their ride. The only bonus was that the smog had lifted, clearing both the air and the sky above.

“Finally!” shouted Albie Kellar, as the local “E” slowly rounded the bend at last. A mock cheer went up, and people started to gather their things, but Anna stayed seated. She was hoping
el tirano
would get on the bus first, so she could make sure to be sitting as far away from him as possible. But as Albie started to get in line, his eyes accidentally drifted upward . . .

“Wow, look at that.” Painted across the horizon were the beginnings of a spectacularly setting sun. Streaks of blue, yellow, and purple wove in and out of a drifting web of clouds, seeming to bathe both the heavens and the earth below in a shade of magic pink. “Do you see what I’m seeing?”

Albie turned to the lady on his left, but she had beaten him to the punch. Anna’s eyes were already filled with tears, for if she tilted her head just right, the sky no longer looked like a sunset, but like waves crashing upon a shore. The sand stretched across the horizon and the foaming water looked so real you could almost smell the salt and hear the gulls squawking overhead.

“Es hermoso . . .”

On a shore just like this one, she had spent many a day with her grandfather, when she was only a child. Her
abuelo
and she would play hooky from work and school, collecting shells and talking about her dreams for the future.

“It is a big world out there,” the old man would say, pulling Anna close. “And it can be frightening too. But you must explore as much of it as you can, if you are to find out what is inside you.”