“He’s this dude from Spain who wrote a book called
Don
Quixote.
I read it in my Best Books Ever class. Well, at least I read the
Cliff
’
s Notes
.”
Simly was impressed.
Becker radioed in. “Drane to Central Command, come in, over?”
His orange Receiver was back in working order, the short circuits repaired from the Portuguese rainstorm.
“We read you, Fixer Drane.”
“I have Briefer acquisition and we are ready to proceed.”
“Understood. Permission granted to enter department.”
Almost immediately a silent alarm sounded, and the industrial-sized doors to Sleep began to slide apart.
Central Shipping, Department of Sleep, The Seems
“Thank the Plan you’re here!”
From the observation deck above, a small man in a Department of Sleep hard hat came trundling down the stairs. He was the Foreman of Central Shipping, and he’d been anxiously waiting for them.
“A Glitch in Sleep! I can’t believe this is happening!”
The middle manager was beside himself, so Becker took a page from Casey Lake and stayed on an even keel.
“Just relax and tell me what went wrong.”
“The system was running like clockwork, until we noticed a Blip,” recounted the Foreman. “At first we thought it was just a blown Exhaustion Pipe, but then the Insomnia spread like wildfire, and the next thing we knew, we had a Sleepless Night on our hands!”
The Foreman looked both ways to make sure that no one else was listening, then leaned in to Becker’s ear.
“Do you think it could be The Tide?”
Becker put a finger to his lips, because he didn’t want to foster rumor and innuendo. The Tide was a shadowy organization bent on overthrowing the Powers That Be and assuming control of The World. For the last few months its attacks had increased, both in scope and in frequency, culminating with the assault on the Rain Tower during Becker’s final Mission as a Briefer. But whether it were involved in this was still too early to tell.
“Don’t worry,” Becker reassured him. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
As the Foreman led them across the factory floor, Simly pulled out his Briefing and began to take notes on Central Shipping. The components of Sleep proper were manufactured in other parts of the department, then carried here via a complex latticework of conveyor belts, tubes, hooks, and ramps before finally being stuffed into little brown boxes, each with its own destination address.
Jami Marmor
Sector 302
MALLEGBERG HOTEL, Room 204
David Bauer
Sector 12
Nir Etzion Kibbutz
Third Cabin, Top Bunk, White Sleeping Bag
Ariff Ng
Sector 904
Carroll 16B, Desk #5
University Of Malaysia
Each box was completely unique and designed for a specific individual, which explains why on some nights you get a little Sleep and on some nights you get a lot. Once they were packed, the boxes were sealed and twined, stamped
“Good Night’s
Sleep”
by Inspector #9, then they began their final journey down and out an exit hatch, through the In-Between, and ultimately to each and every recipient in The World.
Tonight, however, the exit hatch was shut tight. Boxes of Good Night’s Sleep were bunching up at the door, and Tireless Workers raced to gather them before they hit the floor. Alarms were sounding and panic was in the air.
Night Watchmen’s Station, Department of Sleep, The Seems
“It’s more serious than we thought.” Night Watchman #1 adjusted his headset and toggled through his Cases. “And it’s only getting worse.”
Becker and Simly crowded closer to the Night Watchmen’s flat-panel Window. It was his (and his staff ’s) task to watch over the sleepers of The World, and make sure everything went according to Plan. Which, unfortunately, it was not.
“Check this one out.”
Down on his LCD monitor, a married couple in Greenland were tossing and turning in their bed. Apparently, their inability to Sleep had provoked a nasty fight, complete with thrown plates and comments they would soon regret.
“Was this expected to happen?” inquired Becker.
“
Negative. Totally uncalled for.” Night Watchman #1 took another sip of his day-old coffee. “And take a look at Sector 4.”
An old man in Katmandu was juggling in bed, while two identical twins were busy playing patty-cake.
“Or Sector 12 . . .”
In Irktusk, Russia, an ice-fisherman was desperately trying to catch those last few Z’s before heading back onto the lake, but with absolutely no luck at all.
“Pull up Sector 33, Grid 514.” Becker threw in his own request, and the Watchman focused in on Highland Park. Everyone from his hometown was there: Dr. Kole, Mrs. Chudnick, Paul the Wanderer. And at 12 Grant Avenue, Becker’s mom and dad and Benjamin were all still wide awake.
“Other than
you
,” the Night Watchman flipped to Becker’s room, where his Me-2 was snoring happily away, “no one in the entire World is even getting a wink.”
Suddenly, another alarm split the air. And this one sounded like trouble.
“I’ve got a Chain of Events slippage!”
“What?” Becker and Simly gazed upward to see another row of Night Watchmen. And another row above them. “What Sector?”
“1904!”
Night Watchman #1 flipped to Sector 1904 and there was a man in a small motel desperately trying to get some rest.
“Uh-oh.”
“What is it?”
“That salesman has been on the road for two weeks and he’s trying to make it home for his daughter’s birthday. But if he doesn’t get some Sleep tonight, he might pass out at the wheel!”
“I’ve got a Slippage in 906!”
In this Sector, a lonely woman in Istanbul was supposed to get a nap so she would wake up just in time to feel a gentle breeze with the scent of jasmine on it, which might cause her to walk outside and bump into the humble postman who had always wondered if he would ever find his one true love. But if she couldn’t get to Sleep, that whole ball of yarn would come undone.
“Slippage in 1743!”
“Another one?”
Becker was starting to get concerned, for Chains of Events were a tricky and complex business. They were put together by Case Workers in the Big Building, sometimes after years of thinking and strategizing, and then locked into the Plan via rubber cement. If you ever saw one in person it would look like a double helix, complete with interlocking pieces and small white tags attached to each event, describing its focus, purpose, and level of importance. But—and this is a big but—if they began to come apart, one could affect the other, and so on and so forth (for all events are interconnected). And if enough Chains were compromised, then the unthinkable could take place.
“Ripple Effect,” said Becker, and just the mention of the words cast a pall into the room.
“Plan forbid,” said Night Watchman #1. “But if the Glitch continues unchecked and we can’t get Sleep back online, it’s a distinct poss—”
“I’ve got a slippage in 26!”
“No!”
“Slippage in 1804!”
“601!”
“302!”
As the Night Watchmen struggled to manage the crisis, Becker backed away from the Windows, and for the first time that night, he began to feel the magnitude of what was taking place. There were not merely a handful of Night Watchmen, or a dozen, but rather hundreds, perhaps thousands, stacked row upon row on top of each other, rising into the air as far as the eye could see. On every monitor was a Sleepless person. In every chair, a Night Watchman was on the verge of freaking out.
“What are we gonna do, sir?”
Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned to Becker, as if he were the one that could rescue them from this impending nightmare. His mouth felt dry again and his heart began to pound, and for a second he thought he might pass out. But luckily, there was somewhere
he
could turn . . .
Beside the Nature Trail and just off the Beaten Track, there exists a small complex where those in attendance are given Tools (both literal and figurative) with which to save The World. And just as Becker had done when recalling his Procedures, he now harkened back to those halcyon days when he was sculpted into the form and shape of what they call a Fixer.
Mission Simulator “F,” Institute for Fixing & Repair— Two and a Half Years Ago
It was a rainy day at the IFR. Droplets fell off the poplar trees and onto the marble statue of Jayson—legendary founder of the Fixers—which was hand-carved with his famous last words: “LIVE TO FIX. FIX TO LIVE.”
Every Candidate who walked through these doors lived by that credo, but not all of them could reach that lofty plateau. At this point in the process, Becker’s class had dwindled to seventeen (six had dropped out due to injury and one for “personal reasons”), but those who had remained were beaming, because they had finally left the classroom and were getting their first taste of the Mission Simulators.
“It’s about time,” touted Becker, anxious to see a real Mission in the (virtual) flesh. Thibadeau Freck, the Frenchman he’d met that first day at Orientation, walked beside him, tightening his IFR bandanna.
“What? You’re not satisfied learning how to change the air filter on a Stink Tank?”
“Only if I can scrub out the inside of a Fog Horn first.”
Becker laughed as they entered the door marked “F.” He and the Parisian teenager had become fast friends and would often partner up in Shop or shoot pool in the Game Room during breaks. Thib was anxious to continue their contest of one-upsmanship, when—
“Quiet, Candidates!” Fixer Blaque hushed everyone to attention. “I know everyone’s excited, but this is one of the most important lessons you will learn about Fixing, so focus.”
Unlike some gurus or teachers whom Becker had run into in his time, Blaque’s “lessons” weren’t really lessons at all— they were more like really cool vids or tricks of the trade—and Becker often wondered why he wasn’t still practicing in the field. Rumor had it that Blaque had been #2 on the Duty Roster and in line to receive the Torch, but something happened to him on a Mission, and he was forced into early retirement.
“Please begin the simulation!”
One of the Mechanics
15
inserted a cartridge labeled “The Day That Time Stood Still” into a clunky-looking player, and the nondescript room was instantly transformed.
“Take it in, people.” The Candidates now stood in a holographic reproduction of a vault in the Department of Time. On that fateful day, uniformed workers bearing the insignia of a brass gear were running about in a state of extreme duress. “See what can be seen.”
A Time Keeper, rendered in perfect detail, ran directly through Becker’s stomach, causing him to reach down and confirm his intestines were still intact.
“Save the Frozen Moments!” The Keeper was carrying a tray of ice cubes, each with a preserved image of something happening inside. “It’s a Meltdown! A Meltdown!”
“Now notice Fixer Jackal.” Blaque turned the attention of the class to the corner of the room, where an older Fixer in a sheepskin bomber jacket and aviator helmet was struggling to stem the tide of cubes that churned out of an archaic ice machine. “What mistake did Tom make on this day?”
A few hands shot into the air.
“Mr. Larsson?”
“He didn’t have a big enough ice bucket.”
“Incorrect.”
“Mr. Carmichael?”
“Check out those threads—the man ain’t got no style.”
“Incorrect.” The class cracked up, and even Blaque couldn’t help but chuckle. Harold “C-Note” Carmichael, the medical student, had proved to be a formidable Candidate but hadn’t lost his knack for keeping it light.
“Mr. Freck?”
“He tried to save the entire World.”
“Correct.” This was no surprise. It often seemed to the rest of the Candidates that Thibadeau and Fixer Blaque were having an ongoing private conversation that no one else was party to. “Please elaborate for the benefit of the class.”
Thibadeau winced, a little uncomfortable at being set apart from his fellows.
“When you’re in the middle of a job, you can’t start to think about the consequences of your actions, or what might happen to The World if you fail. That can be a very slippery slope, which can only lead to one place . . . ”
He turned back to Fixer Jackal, who in his effort to save every single ice cube, was, in fact, saving none.
“
Attaque de panique.
”
“Exactly,” agreed Fixer Blaque. “If you try to absorb the entire scope of a problem—if you try to save The World in toto—you will end up saving nothing at all.”
Becker offered Thib a covert low-five but yanked it away at the last moment.
“Teacher’s pet.”
Thibadeau faked a punch, before both of them returned to the lesson.
“Pause sequence!”
The action stopped, leaving the Time Keepers frozen in midstride and Fixer Jackal drowning in a pool of melting Moments.
As with every lesson, Fixer Blaque saved the most valuable part for last.
“In every Mission, there is something small, something you can wrap your heart around, that will grant you the power to transcend the fear.” Fixer Blaque called out to the Simulator staff, “Enhance 224 to 176!”
An ice cube on the floor lifted up and expanded to ten times its regular size. Inside were two people kissing in a snow-covered forest on a lost winter day, and the Candidates leaned in for a closer look.
“Find the Mission
inside
the Mission . . . ”
Night Watchmen’s Station, Department of Sleep, The Seems
“. . . and you will have found the greatest Tool of all.”
Once again, Becker’s Training had paid off and his own “
attaque de panique
” was soon to be under control.
“Keep going. . . . . ”
At the Fixer’s request, Night Watchman #1 flipped through the Cases featured on his console: people in varying degrees of distress, all as a result of the Glitch in Sleep.
“I don’t understand the point of—”
“Keep going!”
College kids at school. Bedouins inside their tents. And then . . .
“There!”