The Split Second (17 page)

“It’s actually a division of a sub-department of the Department of History, if you want to get technical.” Sully offered the boy a stool. “I’m pretty busy right now, but if you don’t mind waiting, I’d be happy to give you the grand—”

BLINK! BLINK! BLINK! BLINK! BLINK!

Becker whipped off his heavy peacoat and pulled his flashing Blinker off his belt.

196 MISSED CALLS

Uh-oh. Someone had been trying to reach him for quite some time—a lot of someones—and judging by the “911” next to each communication, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what they had to say. In fact, the whole thing was giving him a terrible Déjà Vu of the worst nightmare (beta) he’d ever had.

“Forget about
where
I am!” Becker’s eyes darted about for a Time Piece or a clock, but found none. “
When
am I?”

“When are you? I’m not sure I under—”

But the Fixer was already scrambling over to the black-and-white boob tube and spinning the dial through the staticky broadcasting band known as UHF.

“PARTY FOUL! PARTY FOUL!”
squawked Linus, furious that Becker had turned off his favorite program.

“Linus, if you don’t shut your trap, I’m going to cover up your cage again.” Sully grabbed an old bedsheet and held it up to the Lovebird. “And we all remember what happened last time . . .”

As Linus quickly settled down (while making a mental note to imitate the smoke alarm as soon as Sully fell asleep that night), Becker found his way to channel 64, better known as the Seemsian News Network. To his profound and lasting relief, the date and time stamp running across the SNN ticker revealed that although he’d spent what seemed like several days falling through the Frozen Moments, only six hours of real Time had passed since his Mission had begun.

“. . . at present all attempts to contact Fixer Drane have failed,” reported SNN’s continuing coverage of the crisis. “But our sources inside the Big Building confirm that at least for the moment, The World is still on schedule.”

“Thank the Plan.” Fixer #37 on the Roster felt his heart start beating again. “Thank the Plan.”

Becker turned down the volume and recounted the strange journey that brought him here. First, he’d opened a Door inside a Frozen Moment. Second, he’d tumbled into a tube that looked like the blue electricity that powered it had gone out decades ago. And third, he’d found himself in an artery that was so narrow that his only choice was to wriggle his way through like a rat in a pipe. In all his trips through this nether region, Becker had never been as happy to see the white pinhole of light that heralded The Seems.

“Only thing I don’t understand is why I didn’t end up in Customs?”

“It makes perfect sense,” said Sully, unrolling a map of The Seems that featured the pre–Seemsiana Purchase layout, including defunct departments such as Justice, Mystery, and Ladies’ Shoes. “The Hall of Records used to be the Department of Transportation, till they built that fancy new Terminal. Who knows how many old Doors wind their way back here?”

As the Fixer studied the scroll, the Keeper of the Records finally started to relax. When he’d confirmed the parrot’s assertion that someone was coming, Sully fretted that this was a random inspection or worse yet, the long-dreaded day when HUD
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would decide to turn this place into “industrial condominiums.” But now that someone was here, he couldn’t help but swell with pride.

“Personally, I’m glad they made the switch.” He motioned to the stacks of giant LPs. “Here in the Hall of Records, everything that has ever happened in The World or The Seems is recorded in wax and made available to the general pub—”

“No offense, dude.” Becker didn’t want to be rude, but he didn’t really have time for tea and cookies. “I’m sure this is an awesome department, but I need to make a phone call.”

Becker tucked himself into an abandoned listening booth and dialed the number for Central Command.

“Number 37 !”
The Dispatcher made no attempt to hide the relief in his voice.
“Where in the name of the Plan have you been?”

“Shan and I got separated in the Frozen Moments.” Becker kept it to himself as to why that had happened. “Any word from her yet?”

“Negative.”

Becker stifled a pang of guilt and prayed that Shan was as good as Shan thought she was.

“She’s a professional. She’ll find a way out.” Becker had to stay focused on the task at hand. “In the meantime, I need you to supervise the immediate construction of a Containment Field—ten-feet square, with a floor made of grass, not dirt. Scatter a handful of Firsts and Thirds inside, and the Split Second will be drawn to it like a magnet.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, and Becker briefly considered attributing his plan to Tom Jackal, but he couldn’t deny the thrill of hearing the Dispatcher speechless.

“I’ll put #26 on it right away.”
The Dispatcher shouted for someone to get Tony the Plumber on the line.
“Where are you
gonna be?”

Becker swallowed hard because he knew this would be a bombshell.

“I’ll be looking for the Time Being.”

“You must be joking.”

“Somebody has to know where she is. A person of that magnitude doesn’t just vanish into Thin Air.”

“We’ve already checked Thin Air—several times—and there
wasn’t even a trace.”

Becker knew this to be true, because searching for the woman known as the Time Being in The Seems was kind of like looking for Amelia Earhart in The World. Back in the Day, she had been a leading voice on the design team that built The World from Scratch and was famed for her controversial choice to inject Time into the very Fabric of Reality. The popularity of that decision in The Seems led to her election as the original Second in Command, and she was always well liked even after she tendered her resignation. But she vanished without a trace over fifty years ago, and hadn’t been seen since.

“Excuse me—,” interrupted Sully, but the Fixer ignored him.

“Well maybe we can talk to one of the original members of the Powers That Be.” Becker cupped his hand over his ear and spoke louder into the Receiver. “All I know is I have it on good authority that we can’t complete this Mission unless she—”

“Excuse me!”
Sully was now shouting.

“What?”
Becker shouted back, seeing that the Keeper of the Records was now looming over his shoulder.

“I don’t mean to be a bother, but can I interpret from your conversation that you’re on a quest to find the Time Being?”

“Uh . . .” Becker didn’t really know what else to say, so he just said, “That’s right.”

Sully smoothed back his hair and tightened up his tie to near respectability. As far as he was concerned, the Hall of Records had a lot to offer, but it had fallen so far off the Radar that he rarely, if ever, got a chance to make a difference in The World. Now that the opportunity presented itself, he was going to relish it.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

Gandan Monastery, Sühbaatar Province, Outer Mongolia

An entire World away, two figures garbed in traditional red gis sat in the lotus position on a rice paper mat. As a bell tolled, the statues of the great warriors who came before seemed to watch their every move.

“Devasyaaaa . . . ,”
chanted the voices of their fellow monks. But the incomparable Li Po and his new Initiate did not join them.

Six months earlier, the lanky young Seemsian had come to Gandan to study under Fixer #1, and at Po’s instruction he’d forsaken his name and taken a vow of silence. The Initiate had also shaved his head, blindfolded his eyes, and covered his ears, tongue, and fingertips with beeswax—all in an effort to avoid deception by the five primary senses. For it was mastery of the fabled 7
^th
that he now pursued.

“Focus!” The Initiate admonished himself with his inner voice. “Reach for that feeling that something is wrong!”

Those born in The Seems have no 7
^th
Sense, but on a fateful night in the Department of Sleep, the Briefer turned seeker had felt the subtlest of twinges. Now he used the raised neck hairs, goose bumps, and chills down his spine to track the path of the Split Second, and even from this great distance, he could see in his mind’s eye that it had reached the launching point from which it would soon annihilate The World.

“Do you feel it, master?” asked the Initiate, though not with the help of his vocal cords. Affixed to his belt was a small pouch of tiles, each inscribed with Olde Seemsian characters that allowed one versed in their ways to say much without saying anything at all. But the way his hands shook as he arranged the ivory squares betrayed the fear that welled inside him. “The Essence of Time is loose.”

“The Powers That Be will determine if and when we are needed,” Li Po responded via his own set of squares. “I strongly suggest you return to your exercises until that moment arrives.”

“But The World is in grave danger!”

“The World is always in grave danger, young one. For its very existence depends upon the thinnest thread in the Fabric of Reality, and the simplest Twist of Fate.” Po had raised the act of silent communication to an art form, and his fingers now arranged the tiles with the speed of a World-class pianist. “Only by harnessing the power of our 7
^th
Sense—and by releasing what we cannot control—can we ensure it will remain safe.”

The words rang of truth, but the Initiate’s ears were not ready to hear. In his heart was not the stillness of deep water, but rather the impatience of youth.

“I must go.”

“You are not ready.”

“Then I will fail, Master, but still I must go.”

The Initiate bowed to honor the lessons he had already learned, then made his way to the antechamber where travelers left their shoes and possessions. Hanging from a hook on the wall was a Briefcase, filled to the brim with Tools both new and old. Most of these devices had been a gift from his beloved grandfather, and part of him longed to pick up his Receiver and dial “Crestview 1-2-2.” But his 7
^th
Sense told him that if The World was going to be saved this night, the only help he would get would come from within.

The Initiate removed the Tools and, one by one, began to strap them across his body.

Hall of Records, Department of History, The Seems

Though the SNN report had painted a rosy picture of the situation in Time, Becker knew the truth was a far different matter. The World had been hit by two more bursts of Essence and the Agents of L.U.C.K. would be able to steer them toward uninhabited Sectors for only so long. But what really got under the young Fixer’s skin was the fact that Shan Mei-Lin had still not returned from the Frozen Moment pool and was feared to be PIA. This was entirely his fault—for he had abandoned his Briefer to be with Amy Lannin one last time—and he whispered a prayer that Shan could find her own Door, or some other escape route back home.

The only positive development was that his arrival in History might have been the lucky break he needed. According to the Keeper, the Records that filled this Hall contained not music but the symphony of life itself. Every decision that was made in The Seems and its consequent effect in The World was recorded in ten-year increments upon their shellac surfaces, and Daniel J. Sullivan claimed to know them all like the back of his hand.

He began his search for the Time Being by cueing up the bonus track of a dusty old album called
The Beginning of
Time,
when the inventor had thrown the switch to activate her particular department. Once Sully picked up her audio trail, it was an apparently simple process to isolate her “life’s path” on whatever LP she popped up on next.

“You can run, my dear . . .” The crazy-maned historian closed his eyes, leaned back on his favorite bean-bag chair, and turned up the volume. “. . . but you cannot hide.”

As a Record called
The Fifties
continued to spin, Becker sifted through the giant .33s and .45s that were splayed out all over the floor. He couldn’t for the life of him fathom how everything that ever happened could be contained on these discs, or how anyone could pick through a seemingly infinite Chain of Events to find the pathway of one person’s life.

“Are you sure this is gonna work?” asked the skeptical Fixer.

“Trust me. I’ve done nothing but listen to the course of History for the last eight years. Everyone in The World or The Seems has their own unique frequency, and the Time Being is quite audible at 1,233,456,789.1703 Seemsahertz.”

Becker felt a hole growing in his stomach. He had watched a lot of classic movies with his mom on AMC, and the gentleman in the headphones was bearing an alarming resemblance to some of the patients from
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
But without any other promising leads, the Fixer had to put his Mission in Sully’s hands.

“There she is in ’59!” The historian pumped a fist and pulled off his trusty AKGs. “Get me
The Seventies
!”

Fixer Drane climbed to the top of a tall wooden ladder that rolled around the room on brass casters and gave access to the custom-made shelves that had been built into the walls.

“You mean the big Records?”

“No,” shouted the Keeper. “The 1970s!”

This batch of albums was located in the relatively new section of the library, where the jackets were less dusty and the Art Department had been given a little more free rein in terms of cover design. Becker pulled the Record out from its place between the 1960s and the 1980s, and was pretty much blown away by the combination of gritty realism and mellowed vibe that graced the cover.

“Am I crazy or has the Time Being been alive for like a million years?”

“Anyone who was around before the Beginning of Time never gets old, unless they go to a Time Zone or spend too much time in The World.” Sully was trying to talk and listen at the same time. “Now can you come down here and cue it up for me? I think that’s gonna be our ticket to ride!”

Becker slid down the ladder without touching any of the rungs, and walked over to where Sully was manning the turntables. Unlike most of the equipment in the room, these had no dust or cobwebs at all, and were obviously kept in tiptop condition. In fact, they kind of reminded Becker of some of the same ones that his friend Seth Rockman’s brother Matt had in his bedroom.
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