The Glitch in Sleep (19 page)

“Sleep.”

Though the Tireless Workers who manned this post were on duty 25/7
²⁷
, they were nowhere to be found. In fact, there was barely a peep, save the motorized hum of distant freezer units and the air conditioner above.

“I don’t understand,” whispered Dominic. “There’s supposed to be a security detail here at all times.”

By the front door were a series of hooks, each with a name label underneath it, but most of the Pajamas that usually hung there were already checked out. Simly stepped over to the employee time clock and pulled the most recent card.

“Roy Ponsen clocked in at 04:17.”

That meant whatever had happened had happened just minutes ago.

“Are you feeling that?” asked Becker.

“Right where it hurts,” answered Casey. Both of them were getting major pangs in their 7
^th
Sense, but for the senior Fixer it was far more than that. Not only did the magnitude of the shiverings trouble her in a deep and serious way but also their familiarity.

“I hate to say this, but there’s a lot of ground to cover and not a lot of time to cover it, so maybe we should split up?”

“Agreed,” said Becker, studying the hallways that branched off from the foyer. The Master Bedroom was essentially a suite—a bunch of small satellite chambers (where the bathrooms and walk-in closet might be) surrounding central sleeping quarters—but instead of the requisite heart-shaped bed, in the center stood the Seems-renowned Drowsenheim 4000. “I’ll head for R & D.”

“I’ll check the output logs,” announced Casey. “Simly, why don’t you take Inventory?”

“Inventory? You mean, by myself?”

“No, I mean with the other Simly.”

“What about me?” chimed in Dominic, in no hurry to go anywhere at all.

“You stay here by the door,” ordered Becker, and this time the Administrator didn’t talk back. “We’ll let you know when we have something.”

The trio gave each other the Shake for good measure, then headed down separate corridors and disappeared into the fog.

“Hello?” asked Becker, cautiously entering the area set aside for
Research & Development
. “Anybody here?”

R & D was where some of the brightest minds in the department tirelessly sought to perfect the formula for Sleep, and it was laid out like a think tank. There were couches to blow off steam, a ping-pong table, and a water cooler filled with Inspiration—all to foster brazen new ideas. And on a chalkboard was written a series of mathematical formulas:

S = (r + t)/s

I = ((Stress + Caffeine + Overthinking + π) * NSA)

Cure for I = S + (Pieces of Mind + Element J + ????)

From the look of the disheveled room, a session had recently taken place, but there was no one around, only a thin layer of yellow on the floor. On his belt, the Receiver began to vibrate on silent.

“Lake to Drane, come in.”

“What do you got?”

“Nada.”

“Me neither,” but Becker saw several sets of footprints leading to the heart of the Master Bedroom, “at least not yet . . .”

BLIP . . . BLIP . . . BLIP . . . BLIP . . .

Over at Inventory Simly held his repaired Glitchometer and pointed it at the giant vats that stored the ingredients to Sleep. Refreshment, Twinkle, and Snooze were the three basic building blocks, and due to the ever-increasing demand for Sleep in The World, inventory had to be kept at the highest possible levels. But if the Glitch had infiltrated one of the drums, Simly’s device was registering nothing.

BLIP . . . BLIP . . . BLIP . . . BLIP . . .

“Glitchometer my fat Seemsian tuchus!”

Simly angrily tossed the machine aside, resolving to never activate it again. Here he was, on a Mission with Cassiopeia Lake herself—whose poster adorned the wall of his dorm room at the IFR—and he had yet to do anything other than ask a bunch of stupid questions and spray a can of Raid.

“This is it, French Frye. If you can’t come through now, you don’t deserve to be a Fixer!”

Simly closed his eyes and once again tried to follow Becker’s advice on how to activate the 7
^th
Sense. He imagined he was the same schoolboy as before, except this time he was more specific, picturing growing up on a small farm in Dubuque, Iowa (for no apparent reason), where he rode with his father through the cornfields on a tractor, as in tune with the rhythms of Nature as humanly possible. He even went as far as visualizing himself crawling into bed, sunburned and worn out at the end of another long day, and ready for a much-needed Good Night’s Sleep.

“Something’s wrong in The Seems,” he imagined desperately, like Becker or Casey or any other true Fixer might. “Now, isolate the feeling of where the Glitch could be.”

But no matter how hard or how sincerely he tried, nothing would come his way. No feeling, no sense, no tingle, nothing.

“Frye to Fixer Drane,” his hand despondently reached for his Receiver, “I got nothing either.”

“Lake? Is that you, Lake?”

Back at the Decompression Chamber, Dominic’s mind had begun to play tricks on him. As soon as the Fixers had disappeared, he’d become convinced that there was a small tear in his suit and had covered himself with masking tape and glue.

“Identify yourself!” He shouted at no one in particular.

The lack of response only served to further chip away at Dominic’s fraying nerves. While his tenure as Administrator had been an uneventful one, there had also not been any major advances in the art. His greatest hope and the holy grail of Sleep had been to find the long-awaited cure for Insomnia, and he had driven his men hard, but the increasing sense of anxiety in The World (plus budget cuts) had conspired against any such innovation.

“I knew I should have stayed in Public Works! I could have had a nice fat desk job at the Flower Plant, but
noooo
. . . I had to be a big shot and transfer into Sleep!”

The worst part was, with annual reviews coming up and the Powers That Be looking to downsize at every turn, this entire fiasco could cause Dominic to be phased out entirely. He checked his beloved pocketwatch but that only exacerbated the problem, for Dawn was now only forty minutes away.

“Is that you, Lake? Is that you?”

Despite his bummedoutedness, Simly Frye kept his chin up and made his way over to Packaging. It was a low-lit room filled with long tables, measuring scales, and plastic bags exactly like the one revealed by the Glimmer of Hope. Each bag was filled with the same Sleep that coated the air, and hung on miniature hooks designed to carry them down to Central Shipping—but the assembly line had stopped dead. And so had the people who worked there.

There were rows and rows of them, all wearing protective Pajamas just like Simly’s, but they were slumped over their posts and unmoving. The fog of Sleep was even thicker in here, and piles of the stuff had blanketed the ground and people like snow.

“Hello?” Simly could feel cold fear spreading through his belly. “Are you guys all right?”

They didn’t look all right.

“What’s wrong with you people?” The moment Simly touched one, the Tireless Worker collapsed to the floor and rolled onto his back. He looked dead to the world, his face hideously encrusted and air filter hopelessly clogged with thick yellow grime.

The Briefer backed away, beginning to hyperventilate, but he pulled himself together.

“Concentrate, Simly!” The Glitch had obviously been here on its path of devastation, but the question of where it was right now still remained. “You can do this.”

For one final time, he closed his eyes and visualized his Iowan alter ego back in bed at the farmhouse of his youth. Listening carefully, he extended his awareness and picked up the sounds of the creaks in the floorboards, the swaying of the corn in the fields, and the groaning of the horses in the barn outside.

“Reach, Simly . . . reach . . .”

The moment was feeling real to him, realer than ever before. But it wasn’t until he conjured up Rufus, the old family dog (who slept twenty-three hours of the day), walking into his bedroom with an unexpected spring in his step, that Simly felt something he had never felt before in his life.

A tiny chill on his arms that quickly traveled down to his toes. It was a feeling that almost spoke to him, whispering in his ear, pointing to the main Exhaustion Pipe that led to each of the individual packaging spouts. If that feeling was right, then the Glitch
was
still here. So he carefully removed a Safety Net™ from his Briefcase, and was about to pry open the pipe, when—
WHOOSH!

A jet of yellow powder exploded from the pipe, shattering his glass visor and filling his lungs with Sleep.

“Help! Help me!”

But it was too late. His eyes were rolling back in his head and he was going into REM.

“Simly!” Casey appeared over his shoulder, catching him just before he fell. “Stay with me, Brief. Stay with me.”

She reached into her Toolkit, pulling out a small balloon, which Simly rapidly inhaled. Almost instantaneously he popped back up.

“What happened? Where was I?”

“You’re okay, Simly. You just needed a Breath of Fresh Air™.” Casey removed a helmet from one of the lifeless Tireless Workers and replaced it on Simly’s head. “What happened?”

“The Glitch, Casey—it’s in that Exhaustion Pipe!”

The Fixer hopped to her feet, but when she removed the epoxy seal, the only thing inside were cables and fiberglass tubes.

“If it was there, it’s gone now.” Her eyes followed the pipe, which snaked along the floor, up into the ceiling, and back to the center of the Master Bedroom. “But there’s only one place left it can go.”

The Drowsenheim 4000 was the latest in Sleep reactor technology and produced triple the quantity of its underwhelming predecessor, the Outkold 42. Still, the machine did the same dangerous job of synthesizing Refreshment, Twinkle, and Snooze into the precious salve known as Sleep. Its core was located behind eight-inch-thick glass, which protected those on the outside from any possible meltdown, but to Becker Drane it looked like a meltdown may have already occurred.

In fact, the Control Center before him looked like a scene out of a movie that he and Benjamin had watched one day on AMC called
The China Syndrome
(which had freaked his little brother out almost as bad as
Piñata
). Workers lay passed out everywhere—not just the reactor crew, but the Security Detail, Packagers, and even some R & D types who must have come running when the alarms began to sound. Monitors and gauges were all in the red, and Sleep was burping out of the release nozzles in fits and starts, creating the ever-thickening yellow cloud in the air.

Worse yet, behind the glass the reactor itself was flickering and sparking as if ready to blow at any moment.

“Lake to Drane, come in, over!”

Becker picked up the Receiver. “Read you loud and clear.”

“Get over to the Drowsenheim
—
I think the Glitch may be
inside!”

“No maybe about it. I’m here right now and it doesn’t look good.”

“On our way.”

Becker hung up his Receiver and turned to chapter 6 of his Manual. According to the sectional blueprints, the Drowsenheim was arrayed like a Russian Tea Doll, with one protective shell or “casing” inside another, inside another—all designed to protect the inner core from exposure.

“Let me have a gander.” Casey arrived with Briefer Frye in tow and pointed to the center of the diagram. “There’s still time to Fix it, but we have to stop the Glitch before it gets there—to the core.”

“But the shells are rigged with magnetic trip wires!” cried Simly. “If anything touches the sides . . .”

“If it were easy, it wouldn’t be fun.” Casey winked at Sim, and he blushed like a schoolboy (from Dubuque).

“How do you want to handle this?” asked Becker, ready to follow Casey to the ends of The Seems.

“You tell me, #37. It’s your Mission.”

Becker grinned and picked up the gauntlet.

“Set up a Tool Table™, Simly.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Fixing has often been likened to operating on a human being, not just because of the self-evident stakes, but because of the slew of gadgets and Tools involved. Becker replaced his Pajama gloves with white latex as Simly spread out an array of silver instruments on the sterilized Tool Table top.

“Ready, sir?” The Briefer was fired up.

“Ready.”

Simly cracked his knuckles, preparing to hold up his end of the bargain.

“Takerhöffer™!” demanded Becker.

“Takerhöffer!”

Simly handed Becker a pair of titanium forceps, which he used to undo the seals on the reactor’s outer casing. Like she was handling fine china, Casey lifted off the first shell and placed it on the floor.

“Cutterhöffer™!”

“Cutterhöffer!”

With a small diamond-tipped scalpel, Becker cut four small holes in the second shell at equidistant intervals. Beside him, Simly suffered with every move.

“Lifterhöffer™!”

“Lifterhöffer!”

Becker inserted the four elastic prongs inside the holes and began to lift off the second shell. Immediately, a humming sound emanated from within—the sound of the casing’s defense mechanisms. If he dropped it or the sides touched any other part of the reactor at all, that was all she wrote.

“You okay?” asked Simly.

The Fixer lifted higher, and the humming sound got louder, becoming a piercing whistle.

“Walk in the park.”

Just as the noise threatened to split their eardrums, Becker finally pulled off the second shell, and everything went deathly silent. Underneath was a tangled forest of multicolored wires, snaking like vines over the final protective shell.

“I.C.U.™”

“I.C.U.”

Simly handed Becker a monocle-like lens, and he placed it up against the reactor shell. A satisfied grin came across the Fixer’s face, as the tool allowed him to see through the metal to what lay on the other side.

“There you are, you little son of a Glitch.”

As if in response, a stream of Twinkle shot straight out at them, threatening to get in their eyes, until the liquid was quickly sucked up by the empty space in Casey’s hand—her Portable Vacuum™.