The War for the Waking World (16 page)

Bezeal gestured. The screen went blank. “Fortunately, Doctor Scoville awakened from his catatonic state,” he said. “Just in time to

save his own life. Archer Keaton did not succeed in his murderous plot, but a murderous plot it was. This was premeditated and in complete opposition to the Dreamtreaders' sacred Creeds.

“Archer Keaton's actions and thoughts reveal him to be inexperienced, defiant, deceitful, and dangerous . . . for these and many other reasons, you must convict Archer Keaton. The prosecution rests its case.”

TWENTY-THREE

S
EEING
D
OUBLE

R
IGBY HAD NEVER SEEN
S
COVILLE
M
ANOR LOOKING S
O beautiful. “It's January,” he muttered. “And the spring flowers are already up.” But that wasn't all.

The hedges were trimmed. There was a metric ton of new, dark mulch in all the flower beds and around the trees. The stonework on the mansion's facade and turrets looked to have been recently power-washed. The windows were all sparkly clean—even the half-wagon-wheel windows projecting from the slanting roof way up high.

“Fat chance anyone would wash those in real life,” Rigby muttered. Still, he had to marvel at the magnificence of it all. Somehow, Kara Windchil had not only figured out how to make the Harlequin Veil work, but she'd perfected it. Now, the big question was: how did she do it?

The Victorian mansion that had been Rigby's home for so many years seemed so foreign in its pristine condition he was nearly tempted to ring the doorbell. He didn't. But as he entered his home, he did so very quietly. There was no telling what he might find. Three steps into the foyer, Rigby heard voices coming from the kitchen. Familiar voices.

“. . . must insist.” The first voice sounded like Uncle Scoville. “The devil's in the details, my boy.”

“I don't understand,” came a reply. “We've never been enemies. Why would you do this?”

Rigby squinted. The second voice had an English accent. “No,” Rigby whispered. “It can't be.”

“Consider it an experiment,” Doc Scoville said. “And as you well know, one must repeat an experiment again and again to make certain the results are reliable.”

“No,” the other voice protested, growing higher and frantic. “Please, please don't!”

Then Rigby heard a gunshot.

In retrospect, Rigby thought himself rather daft for running
toward
the sound of the gunshot, but that's what he did. He found Doc Scoville sitting at the kitchen table with an iced tea in one hand and a rather formidable looking pistol in the other. There was someone slumped over in the chair across from his uncle.

“Uncle Scovy!” Rigby exclaimed. “You . . . you've shot someone!” If his uncle were surprised to see Rigby or even surprised to be caught in the act, he showed no sign of it. He simply replied, “Yes, but it's all for science.”

Rigby blinked, trying to wrap his brain around what he'd just experienced. If this were the Harlequin Veil, how had such a tragic thing occurred? “What 'ave you done? Who 'ave you killed?”

Doc Scoville looked back as if a third arm had grown right out of the middle of Rigby's forehead. “Well,” he said, “I've shot you . . . that's who.”

Rigby stared at the body, took in the physical characteristics. Indeed, it was him: a perfect copy. “That is me!”

“Told you,” Doc Scoville replied rather casually. “And I'm rather afraid I'll have to shoot you as well as . . . uh . . . the other you. Unless, of course, you can show you're not a drone.”

Rigby stared at the gun in his uncle's hand. “A what?”

“A drone,” he said. “Well, that's what he is.” He gestured to the dead Rigby. Then, he pointed the gun back at the living Rigby.

“I am most certainly not a drone, Uncle,” Rigby said, at last piecing things together. “I am not a manifestation of the Veil. That is what you're talking about, aren't you? The 'arlequin Veil?”

“Ah, good,” Doc Scoville said, putting down the gun. “So you got free from that Kara girl at last, did you?”

Before Rigby could answer, the dead Rigby sat up.

Rigby backpedaled and slammed into the pantry door. “What?” he blurted. “'e's still alive?” He stared at the fake Rigby who, only a moment before, had lain dead from a gunshot wound.

“What?” the fake Rigby said, mockingly. “Of course, I'm alive. Don't know what your problem is, mate—aye, you look a wee bit familiar.”

The real Rigby glowered. “A wee bit,” he repeated drolly. “Quite.”

Doc Scoville cackled hysterically. “Oh, isn't this a hoot?” He slapped the table with his free hand. And then he nonchalantly lifted the pistol and shot the fake Rigby again.

The fake Rigby fell over, but this time, the real Rigby noted, there was no blood. No visible wound. The fake Rigby just slumped over. “Wait a second,” Rigby said, “do you mean to tell me . . .”

“That's right, lad,” Doc Scoville said. “Don't react; don't feel. Think.”

Rigby let the wheels of his mind spin until the proper combination formed. “So this is how the 'arlequin Veil treats violence,” Rigby said. “Yeah?”

“Not a spot of blood,” Doc Scoville replied. “She's got the Veil so amped up . . . it won't let anyone abide pain or violence for very long.”

“What if someone dies?” Rigby asked. “You know, beyond the Veil?”

“Died, kidnapped, imprisoned—makes no difference,” Doc Scoville explained. “The Veil replaces you with a drone. I've shot this version of you nine times.”

“Yeah, and I'm getting right tired of it,” the fake Rigby said, sitting up. His eyes blinked a few times . . . slow motion blinks that gave the real Rigby the creeps. “Now, Uncle,” the fake Rigby said, “shall we take that walk, then?”

“Persistent,” Doc Scoville said. “I'll give him that. Now, listen, Rigby Number 2, you go on and take that walk. I'll catch up later if I can.”

“All right, Uncle,” the fake Rigby said. He stood up, brushed past the real Rigby, and exited via the front door.

“Okay,” Rigby said, “that's just creepy.”

“Isn't it, though?” Doc Scoville asked. “Creepy and impressive. This Kara friend of yours has taken the Harlequin Veil to new levels. It's almost too effective for its own good.”

“What do you mean?” Rigby asked.

“Well, it's too good to be true, isn't it?” Doc Scoville asked. He took a sip of iced tea. “That's what woke me up. I turned on the news: no death, no crime, no violence. Everything's unicorns and rainbows, for heaven's sake.”

“You've seen what's really going on, then?” Rigby asked.

And at that question, Doc Scoville removed his wire-frame glasses and placed them on the table. When he looked up, tears were already streaming down his cheeks.

Alarmed, Rigby sat down beside his uncle and went to embrace him, but Doc Scoville held up a hand.

“No, no,” he said, “I've got to face up to this—we've—got to face up to this.” He swiped his coat sleeve across his eyes and continued. “When we put this thing in motion, Rigby, I swear to you, I thought we were doing the right thing. The Dream seemed like the final unexplored frontier, and it seemed such a dire shame that everyone couldn't experience it.”

“That's the way the Dream is, Uncle, you were right.”

“That's Harlequin Veil talk, boy,” Doc Scoville said. “And I'll have no more of it. Heaven knows I dished out plenty to you and even fooled myself. I thought it would free everyone, allow humanity to use its brains to the full potential. I thought it was the next step in evolution.”

“Uncle Scovy, please . . . please don't talk like this. Without the Rift, you'd never 'ave come back. You'd never 'ave awakened from the coma.”

“Would'a been better that way,” Doc Scoville said quietly. “Don't you see what we've done? By ripping open the Rift, we've given people extraordinary power . . . power they weren't meant to have. Worse still is Kara's version of the Harlequin Veil. It's not keeping people safe like we designed it. It just makes people think they're safe. Behind the Veil, people are killing each other and themselves—and they don't even know it. The nice old lady down the street thinks she's taking a walk but goes right off a cliff. Meanwhile, her poor old husband welcomes his wife home a few minutes later and has supper with a drone.”

Rigby sat very still. There wasn't much to say when the person he most looked up to in the world had just taken a hammer to his priceless crystal dream.
Power . . . they weren't meant to have?
Rigby pondered furiously.
What does he mean by that?

“We have to stop her,” Doc Scoville said quietly, replacing his glasses. “We have to shut it all down.”

Rigby stood up so abruptly that he almost sent his chair to the floor. He grabbed it and gently slid it up to the kitchen table. “Don't worry, Uncle,” Rigby said. “We'll stop Kara. I've been inside, remember? I've seen the new Dream Inc. Tower, and I know where to look.”

“Nephew, we aren't just going to stop Kara,” Doc Scoville said. “You know that, right? We've got to put it all back together the way it was . . . the way it was always meant to be.”

Rigby winced. There was that odd phrasing again.
Meant to be? Meant by whom? Surely not the Dreamtreaders.

“This can't wait,” Doc Scoville said. “We've got to do this now.”

Rigby's attention came flying back. “I believe you're right, Uncle,” he said. “When Kara had me locked up, she said something . . . something that made me think there's a time component to all this.”

“What? What did she say?”

“It was quite puzzling, really,” Rigby explained. “I told 'er that you'd come to rescue me, and 'er reply was something like ‘Well, 'e'd better do it soon because if 'e waits too long, neither of you will care anymore.' Do you know what she meant by that?”

Doc Scoville's eyes narrowed. “I know that it troubles me,” he said, looking away. “And I know Kara and her version of the Harlequin Veil must be stopped.”

Rigby was quiet a moment. “I've given this a great deal of thought,” he said. “We can beat Kara. I'm certain of it. And if we can find the broadcast source of the 'arlequin Veil, I believe we can simply turn it off. But what I do not know . . . is whether the fabric between the Dream and the Waking World can ever be repaired.”

Doc Scoville nodded sadly. “We were so foolish,” he whispered. “We destroyed the balance; we tore the fabric and caused this Rift. We must find a way to mend it.”

“First, we need to get inside of Dream Inc. Tower,” Rigby said. “With all the equipment there, I'm certain we'll think of something.”

“I hope so,” Doc Scoville said, “for all our sakes.”

TWENTY-FOUR

S
URPRISE
W
ITNESSES

A
FTER
B
EZEAL
COMPLETED THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
, Archer watched Chief Justice Michael the Archelion. He watched closely, wondering how the judge would react. But at first the judge said nothing. The eagle-glare in his large eyes still smoldered with ferocity, and the set of his granite jaw was still firm.

The courtroom had gone silent too; no murmur or whisper was heard. All was still and solemn. What this lack of reaction meant, Archer could not fathom. But whatever it was, it wasn't good.

“Dreamtreader Keaton,” the judge declared. “The defense may now state its case.”

An icy trickle worked its way down the center of Archer's back. The evidence against him had been so terrible even Razz had felt the need to vanish. He whispered, “Razz, are you coming back? I could really use the support. Razz?”

There was no answer, so Archer pushed away from the table and stood, feeling very much alone. He took a deep breath and thought,
Anchor first; anchor deep.

“Your honor,” he said, “as my first witness, I would like to call . . . myself.”

The galleries rumbled with disapproval. The judge readied his gavel and waited, but the noise died down without the need for thunder.

“Dreamtreader Keaton,” the judge said, “this is highly irregular. Not illegal, but very unorthodox.”

“I'm sure that it is, your honor,” Archer said. “But the truth is, I have
very few witnesses to these events, and Razz—er, Ms. Moonsonnet—seems to have reconsidered her presence here. The Eternal Evidence cannot be deceived, can it?”

“No,” the judge replied, “the Eternal Evidence is a flawless rendering of what transpired.”

“So even if I wanted to deceive you, even if I wanted to alter certain details or even whole scenes of my life, I couldn't do it?”

“No, Dreamtreader, no power of yours can impact the truth of what has happened.”

“That being the case,” Archer reasoned, “I'd like to call myself as a witness and let the Eternal Evidence bear witness to my testimony. Could I do that?”

“Objection!” Bezeal cried out. “The accused cannot possibly be objective toward his own situation.”

“Nor can anyone,” the judge replied curtly. “We all have biases, do we not, Bezeal? But the Eternal Evidence cannot lie. Objection overruled.”

Bezeal plopped down in his chair and crossed his arms. Archer walked a slow, circular trail so he could, at turns, make eye contact with both galleries. When he began his defense, he wasn't certain what he would say, but the first sentence came out: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, your honor, I am guilty of many things. When I began Dreamtreading, I was inexperienced, foolish, ambitious, and, at times, disobedient. But as my Dreamtreading Master would say, I was young and stupid, but not evil. I want to take you back to the incident with the Nightmare Lord.”