The War for the Waking World

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  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

  SURPRISE WITNESSES

  AFTER BEZEAL 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 ob
jective 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.”

  The lights dimmed. The cylinder screen gleamed to life. There were the ramparts of No. 6 Rue de La Morte coming to life. But this time, the Nightmare Lord had not yet emerged. The on-screen Archer stood under the boughs of a deep and gnarled forest, the Drimmrwood, and a great crowd of villagers, armed with pitchforks, hammers, and torches went racing up the ramparts toward the Shadowkeep. But they didn’t get far. Merciless guards appeared, and they hacked their way through the villagers, dropping them to the street or sending them sprawling from the ramparts to a perilous drop into the chasm below.

  “It was foolish of me to come to No. 6 Rue de La Morte that night,” Archer said. “But when I saw the tyranny of the Nightmare Lord as he sent all those people wheeling to their deaths, I felt like I needed to act.”

  “Objection!” Bezeal shouted. “The villagers in the Dream were not really dying! They were just figments of their human counterparts’ sleeping imaginations.”

  Chief Justice Michael nodded. “Sustained.”

  “I agree,” Archer went on undeterred. “But I did not know the villagers weren’t actually people dying. I’d always heard that dying in a dream meant dying in reality.”

  “Objection!” Bezeal called out again. “Does the accused really expect us to believe that a seasoned Dreamtreader wouldn’t know something as vital to the Dream Realm as that?”

  Archer looked up to the judge and said, “Your honor, Bezeal doesn’t need to believe me. He can see it for himself.”

  “Overruled, Bezeal. We’ll see the Evidence.”

  The screen left the ramparts of No. 6 and flashed to Archer’s bedroom where Master Gabriel was pacing across the floor and gesturing wildly.

  “You have no idea how relieved I am that you survived . . . relatively unharmed,” Master Gabriel said, his voice mercifully gentle. “But it was not worth the risk. Not yet.” “But the villagers . . . they were storming the Shadowkeep. They couldn’t get through the guards. They were being slaughtered.”

  “Dispatched, you mean,” Master Gabriel muttered. “They should not be in any mortal danger, not really. When will you understand that?”

  Archer continued to stare at the ground.

  “At worst, one of your kind might awaken with a bloody nose,” Master Gabriel went on. “He might be . . . haunted by irrational fears or even develop a severe sleepdisorder. No, those people who became villagers in the Dream would not likely die. The fabric keeps them safe enough physically. But this layer of protection does not exist for you. Oh, no . . . not for the Dreamtreader. You might have been killed . . . or worse. Noble intent, Archer, but foolish . . . foolish actions.”

  “I’m sorry,” Archer muttered.

  The screen went blank, and the lights came up. “As you can see from the Eternal Evidence,” Archer explained, “I thought that attacking the ramparts of No. 6 was the only way to save lives. I was foolish to get that close to the Shadowkeep, and even more foolish to attack the Nightmare Lord when he later emerged. But I did so, not out of defiance, but rather out of the desire to save people.”

  A muted buzz flowed through the courtroom. Archer seized the momentum and went on. “For my next witness,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I’d like to call Bezeal.”

  The outraged merchant shouted, “Objection!” But the clamor of the two galleries drowned out everything else. Everything but Michael’s thunder-gavel, of course.

  After the flash-bang of that mighty hammer, order was instantly restored . . . for the most part. Bezeal was still livid, hopping up and down, and crying out: “You can’t put the prosecutor on the stand! I can’t be forced to testify against my own case!”

  “Dreamtreader Keaton, I am afraid I lean toward that argument,” Chief Justice Michael said. “But I will at least ask why I should allow you to put Bezeal on the stand.”

  “The prosecutor built part of his case on my defying Master Gabriel to go and get that relic from the Lurker. By showing what came before that scene, I believe the court will see there were other interests at work here, things beyond my control.”

  Chief Justice Michael the Archelion stared hard at Archer. Contemplation danced on the judge’s brow. Now and again, he cast a sideways glance at Bezeal, who seemed to be on the edge of his seat, waiting breathlessly for the decision.

  Archer felt it too. So much of his strategy hinged on what happened next. For Archer wanted far more than to simply prove his case, more even than victory for himself. It had occurred to him in a quiet moment in his cell, long after Master Gabriel had gone.

  In thinking deeply about his own case, about his own evidence, so many events—so many disasters—circled back to Bezeal. If Archer’s strategy worked, it might just take care of Bezeal for good.

  The courtroom galleries began to stir. Judge Michael the Archelion’s posture became very rigid, his expression—if possible—more stern than before. He was about to speak, about to deliver his decision.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  A SLIM HOPE

  “NO ARCHER,” NICK MUTTERED. HE PACED THE HALFTORN reality of his kitchen back in his Queensland home. “Well, what about Kaylie?”

  Master Gabriel sighed and said, “I am not actually certain about Kaylie. Archer told me that she, too, was under the illusion that all is right with the world.”

  “Why come after me first, then?” Nick asked. “Kaylie’s stronger.”

  “That is precisely why I came to you first, Nick Bushman. It seemed to me that you might take longer to come to your senses.”

  “Well, now,” Nick said, “don’t I feel a bit like a toady?”

  “Spare yourself such nonsense,” Master Gabriel grumbled. “We will need Kaylie and you at the top of your games if we are to have any hope of winning.”

  “Just the two of us,” Nick whispered. “Dooley.”

  “I am afraid so,” Master Gabriel replied, moving the filet-of-rat sandwich to what was left of the sink. “Until Archer’s trial is resolved, you and Kaylie are on your own. The Rift, Kara, the ravaged Waking World, and all its needs . . . are your concerns now.”

  “But Archer will get freed, right? He hasn’t really done anything bad, has he?”

  “The court will decide,” Master Gabriel said. “But I cannot help but wonder at the timing of the charges against Archer as well as the agent through whom these charges have come.”

  “What do you mean?” Nick asked.

  “If Kara’s ultimate goal was to cause the Rift and thereby assume power over the newly fused world, she has certainly done that. Why send Bezeal to press charges now? After all, Kara has what she wanted.”

  “You think Bezeal is acting on his own?”

  “There is no telling what Bezeal is doing. He is as devious as they come, and we know he has, at times, advised both Rigby and Kara. But it is of little import to us whether Bezeal has attacked Archer with such sudden zeal alone or by Kara’s command, for we already know why.”

  “We do?” Nick asked. “Well, I’m gobsmacked, so you’d better fill me in.”

  “Back to the timing, Nick,” Master Gabriel explained. “If the Rift and this maddening fantasy world are permanent, there would be no need to incarcerate Archer. Whether it’s Kara or Bezeal or both, someone wants Archer out of the way and right now. And that means . . .”


  Nick got a chill as the idea dawned on him at last. “You ripper!” he exclaimed, gesturing wildly as he paced out into the living room. “It means there might be time yet to fix this thing. I see the plan now: take Archer off the board straight away to cripple us.”

  “But Bezeal was wrong,” Master Gabriel said. “His efforts will slow us down, but we will keep fighting. What we cannot know is how much time we have. That is what I want you and Kaylie to discover. And we ought to be leaving as soon as possible.”

  “Wait,” Nick said, “one thing before we go.”

  “Yes?” Master Gabriel asked.

  “What about Oliver?” Nick said, staring from the living room picture window. Oliver was leading his neighbor Dunny across the field in haste. “My brother . . . I’ve been talking to him all the time. Do you mean to say he . . . him there . . . he’s not really my brother?”

  Master Gabriel nodded, looked through the glass at the boy bounding over tufts of grass, and explained, “That Oliver is a mental projection of your brother. He’s all of what you remember him to be, but, no, he’s not the real Oliver. Did you not notice how young Oliver appears?”

  Nick shook his head. He hadn’t noticed before, but he noticed now. He looked through the window and smiled. There Oliver was, just a hundred yards away, but it wasn’t really him. In fact, the beautiful day, the gorgeous view of the Glass House Mountains—none of it was real. Nick had seen the fake world peel away like a curtain, revealing a harsh and dangerous place. And I’m a Dreamtreader,he thought. And I fell for it. I feel for the poor blokes who don’t know any bet—“Wait!” he said aloud. “What about the real Oliver? Where is he? I’ve got to look after him!”

  “Calm down, Nick,” Master Gabriel advised. “Your Oliver is safely occupied by a certain crab apple tree in your grandmother’s front yard.”

  “My anchor?”

  “Yes,” Master Gabriel replied. “Oddly enough, the tree itself seems unaffected by the Rift, though in your Oliver’s mind, your grandmother yet lives.”