Chapter Twenty-three
Strains of Verdi’s opera, “Il Travatore,” drifted into the halls from the Blue Dalek’s private quarters. The Silver Guard Dalek halted outside the door listening to the queer sounds, trying to discern their meaning. The lyrics were sung in an obscure Earth dialect that was foreign to the Silver Guard’s programming. It rung the bell by the door and awaited permission to enter.
“Come in,” invited the Blue Dalek’s voice.
The Silver Guard glided into its superior’s quarters as humbly as it could. It stood silently, waiting patiently for the Blue Dalek to give it permission to speak. The permission was not forthcoming. The Blue Dalek stood by the audio machine, listening to the lovely music, analyzing it both as a cyborg and as a living being.
“Do you realize why music is so appealing to humanoids?” the Blue Dalek asked.
“I cannot say I do.”
“It is because the rhythm of the music is in tune with the human heartbeat and stimulates excitement. That is probably part of the reason music is always associated with love and propagation.”
“Fascinating.”
The Blue Dalek turned off the opera. With its sucker arm, it reached for another musical selection. “I was inspired to study Earth culture because three of the four Emissaries are native Terrans.”
“I never saw any value in culture study myself.”
“If we do not observe lesser cultures, how can we expect to develop our own superior rendition? I have been sampling a broad variety of music from various periods in Earth history. So far I have heard songs by artists known as Mozart, Harry Connick Jr., Louis Armstrong, Meatloaf, and Lerner and Loewe.”
“What have you discovered?”
“I do not like Harry Connick Jr.”
“I see. Is music the only thing you’ve sampled?”
“I haven’t read as many novels as heard songs. As of now I’ve just completed my thirtieth.”
“Do you have any favorites there?”
“The eternal classis ‘Mein Kampf’. You should read it. The author is one of the few humans who makes sense to me.”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“May I speak?”
“Affirmative.”
“I have news. We are experiencing difficulties with the security cameras. They blink off for brief periods of time and have remained inoperative for up to five minutes duration.”
“Why does this demand my personal attention? See to their repair yourself.”
“There is another matter I wanted to bring to your attention.”
“Out with it then.”
“Chancellor Goth has allowed a reporter access to the Doctor’s computer files.”
“The ignoramus!”
“Shall I rescind the permission?”
“Of course! You realize that the Doctor’s TARDIS is probably filled with anti-Dalek propaganda?”
“It was the first thought which entered my mind.”
“Then why was I not informed of Goth’s action? I could have stopped him!”
“It is the fate of all Daleks involved in administrative tasks to be trapped in a bureaucracy where one branch is unaware of the actions of another. We are far better suited to combat rather than mindless executive nonsense.”
“You have voiced my feelings precisely. In a horrible sort of way I almost hope that reporter causes some problems for us so I can see combat once again.”
The Silver Guard nodded its eye stalk. “I share your feelings, he turned and spoke again to the Silver Guard. “I want the Chancellor killed. I will not tolerate such indiscretion.”
“It will be done.”
The Gallifreyan desert at night was as freezing as it was hot during the day. The Red Dalek was fortunate enough to be immune to the cold, so the temperature wasn’t of great concern to him. Having just arrived at the entrance to the Citadel, the Red Dalek realized the Gateway had been sealed for the night. Joy was expressed when its logic circuits determined that the door was an obstacle.
Obstacles may be shot at, the Dalek thought.
The Dalek fired a laser bolt at the giant gates. The energy was absorbed by the doors, leaving no mark upon them. Surprised and frustrated that the doors had not been blasted open, the Red Dalek opted to try again at a higher energy output. At the moment it was about to fire again, a whooping alarm went off.
In its current physical condition, the Red Dalek was not fully equipped to deal with the Gallifreyan defenses. A beam of light fired down on the Dalek from the Citadel tower, engulfing the creature. The beam drained its energy and, for the third time in the span of one day, the Dalek found itself losing consciousness.
“No! Not again! I hate it when this happens!”
The vampiric beam drank of the Dalek’s reserves until the intruder was rendered completely immobile.
Through the haze, Ravner heard a voice. It was muffled, but still strong and urging. Ravner muttered a request for the voice to leave him alone. He turned on his side and began to drift back into his deep slumber. The voice turned more insistent and Ravner felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. The pain brought him slowly back to consciousness. Though Ravner tried to ignore it and drift off once more, the pain came again. This time, Ravner turned over and lazily waved his arm in protest.
“Ravner! Wake up!”
“Whuzza?” he grumbled.
“Get up!”
“Whozza?”
Peri grabbed Ravner by his lapels and pulled his body upright. Ravner’s eyes snapped open. “What?” he yelled, suddenly wide-awake.
“The Lord President is outside waiting for us.”
Without saying a word, Ravner leaped out of bed and ran straight for the mirror. He pushed up at the tufts of his beard and hurriedly fixed his hair. Popping a breath mint into his mouth and straightening his clothes (which were surprisingly unruffled considering they’d been slept it), he was ready. He noticed that Mel, Leo, and Peri were also prepared, so they all stepped outside.
Oozing charm, wit, and gentility, Allene introduced herself and offered to take all of them on the inspection tour personally. Standing at Allene’s side, offering an incredible contrast to their friendliness, was the dark and sobering presence of the Blue Dalek.
“Good morning. Did you have trouble rousing yourselves?” inquired the Blue Dalek.
“We apologize if we made you wait too long,” Leo said politely. “Yesterday was a grueling day for us.”
“There is no need to apologize to a subordinate,” reminded the Blue Dalek. “It is my place to wait for my betters.”
“Nevertheless,” Leo added, “there is no reason why we should not respect you and the work you do.”
The Blue Dalek’s voice rose and it sounded pleased. “Your compliment gratifies me.”
Allene, however, sounded subdued and disturbed. “I’m sorry to hear yesterday was such a strenuous day. I do hope it has nothing to do with the misunderstanding involving your arrival.”
“We just had an exhausting journey,” Leo interjected.
“I see.”
They began walking away from their quarters, following Allene, who had taken the lead.
The Blue Dalek spoke suddenly. “Speaking of journeys, I was surprised to see you were using virtually dated identification codes. The new codes came out last week and I thought you would be using them.”
“We were in transit during the time they were issued,” replied Mel.
Leo gave Mel a silent signal that he approved of her past thinking.
Ravner decided to try to terminate the discussion before they were forced to answer any more awkward questions. “What is on the agenda for today, Madame President?”
Allene quickly explained that, while procedure had previously dictated that there be only one tour of an entire day in duration, they would only be seeing one third of the Capital that day.
“After the atrocious treatment you were given yesterday,” explained Allene, “I felt you deserved a certain degree of pleasure today to soften any hard feelings you may have had. You may examine the rest of our facilities at you pleasure.”
Peri smiled. “Thank you, Miss Varalla but you don’t have to go out of your way just to make amends for yesterday. We weren’t insulted by the minor confusion. I will put nothing negative along those lines in my report.”
As they walked down the hallway, the sounds of heavy machinery began to reach their ears. The closer they got to the end of the hall, the louder the clamor became.
The Blue Dalek made a strange coughing sound. “How curious. I didn’t expect the Emissaries to be so forgiving.”
Ravner acted nonchalant in an attempt to downplay the error Peri seemed to have made. “Hardly curious. We’re all on the same side, remember.”
“Yes,” the Blue Dalek said slowly. “I suppose we are.”
Allene stopped when she reached a wide, pillared archway with a warning carved into the wall next to it:
“Entry Only With Presidential Permission”
The noise of machinery had reached its height and emanated from the chamber through the archway. Allene stepped over the threshold and the others followed her in. All six looked around at the massive production planet, the four “Emissaries” with a mixture of awe and horror and the two Imperials with pride and familiarity.
Peri gaped. Three football fields in size, with a ceiling five stories high, the room was a giant producer and storage of Dalek battle/life-support armor. Over three dozen machines manufactured individual components of the overall shell whole. One machine produced eye stalks, another sucker arms, another sense globes, another chest plates, and so on. Attached to the rear wall was a large machine that regularly spat out the flat bottom of a Dalek. The bottom, with a large ballbearing through its hollowed-out center, landed on the beginning of a wide conveyer belt. The belt wound its way past all the machines. As the bases drifted by, each machine locked its respective product onto the collective whole. By the time the belt reached its end, an entire Dalek unit had been put together by the assembly line. The whole process took approximately fifteen minutes for each Dalek.
“Very impressive,” Leo nodded. “How many are produced a day?”
The Blue Dalek spun its eye stalk to better see Ravner. “Ninety-six point five-zero-six-three.”
“Is production constant?” Mel inquired.
“We never halt the process,” Allene answered.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“The machines have been operating at full capability for three and one-half months.”
Peri fought to conceal her mounting fear. “But where are the mutants coming from?”
Allene began to lead the Emissaries past the various machines so that the workings could be seen up close. “That is the next branch of production we are going to see, Cordelia.”
“Surely the mutation can’t be completed as quickly as these suits,” Ravner noted.
“You are correct,” the Blue Dalek replied casually. “Whenever we try to hasten the mutation, we cause the Gallifreyan to regenerate. The constant bombardment of radiation sabotages the regeneration and the Time Lord dies. It happens frequently. We just buried a faulty batch yesterday outside the Citadel.”
“Don’t you feel the imbalance in production?”
“No. we export the surplus Dalek shells to other Imperial strongholds where the reproduction facilities are not of the same efficiency as ours.”
“Good,” Leo nodded. “It is all very impressive. Still, I’ll get the clearest picture of what you accomplish when I read your growth report.”
“You are satisfied with what you have seen here?”
“Yes. You can proceed with the rest of the tour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Allene led Ravner, Peri, and Leo out of the room, off towards the mutation rooms.
Runcible winced. Trickles of blood ran down the side of his head. He felt dizzy and swayed in his chair.
“Steady, Runcible,” said the Doctor through teeth clenched in concentration. “Don’t move.”
He let out an agonizing cry when intense pain lashed through his body. The Doctor muttered a few apologies before continuing with his work. Runcible felt more and more blood spilling from the wound. “Doctor, please!”
“Almost done,” the Doctor assured him.
Runcible felt the long object being withdrawn from behind his ear. He felt another rush of pain as the object was completely freed. Arching his head to stem the loss of blood, he muttered several curses to distract himself from his own suffering.
The Doctor picked up a box-shaped medical device from the table and ran it over Runcible’s wound. Under the influence of the object, the injury ceased bleeding and immediately closed itself up. “How do you feel?”
Runcible appeared thoughtful. “Independent,” he said at long last.
“The Daleks no longer control you?”
Runcible shook his head.
The Doctor handed Runcible his pocket-handkerchief. “Here. Wipe off the blood.”
Runcible accepted the cloth gratefully. He looked at the object in the Doctor’s bloody hands. “What was that?”
The Doctor held up the sharp metal rod which still glistened red with Runcible’s blood. “This was what was jammed behind your ear. The Daleks used it to control you. I saw them put one in that poor woman’s head so I knew how to remove it from yours.”
“I wish you knew a less painful way.” Runcible rubbed his aching head.
“You better get some rest,” advised the Doctor. He handed Runcible a vial of pills. “They’re for the pain. Take two of these and call me in the morning.”
“What about you?” the reporter asked.
The Doctor bent his ear forward to show Runcible that he too had a rod implant. “I have to remove this from myself.”
Runcible’s eyes widened with confusion. “You’ve had a pacification device attached to you all along?”
“For months now.”
“Then how come you weren’t made subservient to the Daleks?”
The Doctor smiled his toothy grin. “That’s what they kept me alive all this time for. They couldn’t figure it out. Strangely enough, neither could I. But, now that I’ve been talking to some of my friends, I have a strong theory.”
“What’s that?”
“I think the Celestial Toymaker is retarding the effects of the device to keep my mind intact so I can better play his games.”
Runcible put a finger to his lips. “Who’s the Celestial Toymaker?”
The Doctor whirled on Runcible. “’Who’s the Celestial Toymaker’! ‘Who’s the Celestial Toymaker’! Why, he’s …he’s the Celestial Toymaker.”
“I see.”
“No you don’t, but never mind. Why don’t you get some rest? It’s daylight now and you’ve been awake all this time.”
“Are you going to sleep?”
“I’ve learned to go for many days without any rest at all, let alone sleep. Besides, I usually have nightmares.”
“What a lifestyle you must lead.”
“You don’t know
the half of it.”
Runcible got up to leave. Before he stepped out of the door, he gave
the Doctor one final glance. “Thank
you, my friend.”
The Doctor waved airily. “It was nothing.”
Comprised completely of mirrors, the walls of the banquet hall cast recurrent reflections of all the objects in the room. Seated at a long, crescent-shaped dining table forged of thick, blown glass were members of the Gallifreyan nobility and their guests, the “Emissaries”. They had all been assembled for a spontaneous, post-inspection meal. It was spontaneous because the Emissaries had slept through breakfast and were too hungry to wait until lunch to eat.
When sitting down for the meal, Peri made a point of flanking herself with Leo and Ravner for a feeling of added security. Mel, much to her dismay, had been forced to sit next to the Lord President, across from Peri. At the head of the table stood the Blue Dalek, who could not eat, but was there to observe.
Jesania swaggered in to set the main course in front of the diners. When she reached the Lord President, Allene stopped her and whispered in her ear. “I would speak with you later about your husband.”
The reply was hushed and unquestioning. “Yes, Madame.”
Then Jesania circumvented the Blue Dalek and gave Peri a portion of the meal. Peri took one look at her meal and turned blue. Whatever it was she was supposed to eat looked like a giant insect seated on a bed of rice and covered in victuals that reminded her of stuffed shells, the main difference being these shells seemed to be moving.
“Is something wrong, Miss Mackie?” The Blue Dalek’s voice had a tinge of mockery to it. “Vas Tinge Lau is a very popular dish on Gallifrey.”
Peri couldn’t bear to look at the meal. She knew there was no way that she’d be able to touch it. Her mind raced to find some excuse not to eat. “I am so sorry. I’m allergic to Vas Tinge Lau. If only I had known ahead of time you would be making it, I would have told you.”
“Exactly what part of it are you allergic to?” the Blue Dalek asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m very sorry,” Allene interjected. “Perhaps you’d rather have some Tor Jonsun.” She motioned to a large plate of purple morsels.
“Thank you.” Peri scooped six Tor Jonsuns into her dish and placed one in her mouth.
“Is it good?” Mel asked.
Peri chewed thoughtfully. “It tastes like chicken.”
“I think I’ll try some, then.” Mel, it appeared, was also not in any great hurry to eat her helping of Vas Tinge Lau.
Allene noted that Leo had been very quiet for most of the time she’d been with him. He was almost like a phantom, and there were times Allene virtually forgot he was there. She decided it was time to draw him out into a conversation.
“Mister Lionhart?”
“Yes?”
“What do you think of our facilities here?”
Leo waved
noncommittally. “They’re suitable.”
“You are not pleased with
them?”
“They’re fine. But I have seen better.”
Allene leaned forward, propping up her chin on her fist. “Really? Where?”
Leo grinned archly. “My dear Lord President, I am merely attempting to provoke you. These facilities are among the best I’ve seen and yet I’m still trying to make you believe they are inadequate. I act in the best interests of the empire by trying to get you to improve on perfection.”
“’Perfection’ is lofty praise.” The Blue Dalek cut in.
“You know what I mean,” Leo rebuked. He was getting the feeling that the Blue Dalek was playing games with them. The Dalek had challenged them and asked awkward questions repeatedly during the course of the day. The remarks were too many in number to be benevolent.
“I have another question for you.”
“I had thought as much.”
The Blue Dalek chuckled. “I am angering you.”
“Yes.”
The Dalek laughed louder. “I apologize, but that is my job.”
“And you do it so well.” Leo didn’t bother to disguise his disgust.
“I was hoping,” the Blue Dalek uttered casually, “if you could make a recommendation to Davros for me in your report.”
“What recommendation?” Ravner cut in, interested.
“Gallifrey is legendary throughout the universe as having the most advanced time travel technology ever conceived and some of the greatest weapons. There are TARDISes, there’s the Eye of Harmony, there’s a living metal known as validium that can eradicate entire fleets –“
“Your point?”
The Blue Dalek harrumphed. “My point is that, ever since the Hand of Omega fiasco, Davros has been paranoid towards Gallifreyan technology. He is too afraid to fully explore the various facets of Gallifreyan inventions. As a result, the Imperial fleet is missing out on so much. We could be even more powerful than we already are if only we had the courage to take another risk.”
“But think of the Hand of Omega fiasco,” Mel protested. She had no idea what the Hand of Omega fiasco was, but she played along anyway.
“Now that Nyder is alive again to be consort to Davros, he should be able to provide insight which would prevent another disaster like that. Remember that the Hand was used before we had even had a chance to properly examine it. We did not even realize the Doctor had preprogrammed it when we should have. It was so incredibly foolish an error that I almost lost faith in Davros. It made him appear ludicrously inept. Not that I could ever possibly betray him, of course. My programming prevents that.”
“So you’re saying,” Mel said slowly, “that the Hand of Omega incident should not be regarded as a guideline because you used the technology prematurely.”
“Yes. If we study the Gallifreyan time capsules comprehensively before we use them, then we will have no similar trouble.”
“It sounds plausible,” Mel nodded. “We don’t want to abandon potentially prosperous ventures just out of simple fear. We are Imperials and we don’t allow emotions to stymie us.”
“I’ll certainly keep it under advisement,” Ravner noted. “What do you think, Leo?”
“The potential gains far outweigh any losses.”
“And you, Pe—ah—Cordelia?”
“I have no objections.”
The Blue Dalek realized it had made its point and adopted a more conversational tone. “Do you know I’ve begun studying Earth? It is the planet of origin for three of you, I believe.”
“Yes,” Mel replied.
“Sadly, our records have little or no information on provincial governments and cultures. All our information is based on the collective history and attitudes of humans and is very generalized as a result. What are your lineage’s?”
“I’m British,” responded Mel. “Cordelia is an American, and Ravner is … what are you, Ravner?”
“Cuban.”
“Who were the leaders of those provinces directly before Earth fell under Imperial control?”
“Hazel Sangster,” Mel replied instantly.
Ravner took a sip of his orange drink. “Michael Garcia.”
Peri didn’t reply.
The Blue Dalek awaited her response. “Well?”
Peri feared if she replied she would be unmasked as an imposter. She had no idea who was president in that century. She only knew who was president in 1985. “Why don’t you have the names of the Presidents on record?”
“I told you,” the Blue Dalek said impatiently. “The information collected is imbalanced. We have detailed records of art, literature, and wars, but very little that is specific about provincial histories.”
“Merely knowing names won’t do you any good. You need detailed biographies and accounts of administrative decisions they made in order for the information to be of use to you.”
The Blue Dalek’s tone changed to exasperated. “All I want to know is the name of the president.”
Peri rolled the dilemma over in her mind. Should she risk making up a fictional name or just blurt out Ronald Reagan? She looked over at the other Emissaries, who had not yet realized why she was having trouble.
“Peter Keys,” said Peri at the exact moment Mel uttered the name of Victor Quartermaine.
Allene Varalla and the Blue Dalek exchanged confused glances. The Lord President stared back at Peri and Mel. “Who was it then? Peter Keys or Victor Quartermaine?”
Mel smiled nervously. “Peter keys was Victor Quartermaine’s Vice-President.”
“What kind of authority does a Vice-President have?” asked Allene.
“It wasn’t a very well-defined role,” Ravner explained. “To the average citizen Vice-Presidents appear to be little more than substitutes for when the real president is incapacitated. Aside from that, they just waited around for their shot at elected presidency.”
Allene frowned. “That isn’t true on Gallifrey. I was technically a Chancellor, or Vice-President if you will, when the Imperials enlightened Gallifrey. I was acting as Lord President and held the title during the incident because the real President was a sick old man considering retirement. Since then he died and I’ve had real power as full Lord President.”
“I was saying that the office is a misunderstood one,” Ravner corrected. “It is true that, more often than not, they’re belittled by the general public. That doesn’t mean the perceptions of a V.P. are necessarily correct. In fact, Peter Keys was a particularly dynamic man.”
“You must all tell me of life on Earth before the enlightenment to supplement my records,” the Blue Dalek finalized.
“We’ll be sure to,” Ravner added.
Allene decided Leo had been too silent again. “By the way, I never got to ask you where your planet of origin is.”
Leo, who had been anticipating the question for the entire length of the conversation, had his lie already prepared. “Kreigor.”
This seemed to satisfy Allene, so she continued eating her Vas Tinge Lau.
Afterwards, the conversations drifted from one subject to another, each more perilous than the last. The Emissaries managed to fake their way through some talks better than others. While all of them were plagued by indigestion and the occasional fear that, at any second, the Blue Dalek would turn on them and gun them down, they had the general impression that they were holding their own under fire and were gaining confidence in their performance.
Their confidence was not well justified. The Blue Dalek had been watching them very closely and was not sure what to make of them. Their behavior was just too odd, even accounting for their not being Daleks (which, in itself, was bizarre). What minor suspicions it previously had reagarding the authenticity of the Emissaries had blossomed into powerful skepticism. With a strong resolve to uncover the truth, the Blue Dalek remained outwardly respectful towards them and bided his time.
Trevor Madison waited patiently at a bus stop near the World Trade Center to begin the last leg of his journey. He watched, vaguely interested as an army of over seventeen bright yellow taxicabs drove down the street in an almost military formation. Horns seemed to honk endlessly, deafening Trevor. Impatient pedestrians dodged and wove their way past the cabs, clutching their shopping bags to their chests. Cabbies stuck their heads out of their windows and shouted profanities to the people who had cut them off.
Tall and stocky, Trevor had a neatly clipped moustache the same light brown color as his barely concealed hair weaves. Trevor’s pleasant, cherub face was warn and friendly and framed a bright red W. C. Fields nose. His small, wire-rimmed spectacles had fogged up in the night sky, so he had to remove them and dry them with his spotted handkerchief.
Putting his handkerchief back into the pocket of his light blue, button-down shirt with one hand, he searched the contents of his baggy beige trousers with his other. His hands folded around his lucky deck of cards. His opponents often refused to let him use the now old and dog-eared cards because they thought he might have marked them somehow. Even if that were the case tonight, at least he would have his luck with him. That Friday, like every Friday before it for over twenty years, he would go to play poker against some of the most skilled card players in New York. It was now time to defend his title as champion card player against a newcomer from Queens. He would win. He always did.
Trevor rolled up his sleeve and looked at his plastic digital watch. Casting another glance at the blue bus schedule, he noted that his bus was due to arrive in another five minutes. Three minutes had passed when he heard the roar of a large engine. Not sure if it was his bus arriving early or just some other massive vehicle rolling by, he stepped away from the curb and looked down the busy street. Sure enough, the sleek, blue-and-white city bus slowed down and eased to a halt just short of where Trevor stood. The doors folded open, allowing Trevor to climb inside. He dropped five quarters into the coin slot and looked up at the driver with a smile. His smile quickly faded.
The bus driver sat hunched in his seat, his long, shaggy arms clutching the large steering wheel. His woolly features were so exaggerated and oddly proportioned that they appeared almost simian. His mouth curled up into a menacing smile and his beady eyes danced mischievously. “Hell of a night, isn’t it?” The driver spoke in a heavy Cockney accent, which sounded completely out of place in a New York bus.
“Yes,” Trevor agreed, not able to take his eyes off the driver’s hideous face.
The driver gestured with his large, furry arms to the seats at the front of the bus. “Please, have a seat, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Trevor held onto a support rail and lowered himself onto one of the plastic blue seats. He leaned against the label that read: “Please reserve these seats for the elderly or the handicapped.” He looked quickly around to see if the odds were he would have to relinquish the seat. There was not a soul on the bus besides him. The dim, florescent lights cast an eerie glow along the abandoned, shadowy interior. The sound of the front doors folding shut startled Trevor. The bus driver saw his lone passenger stir and chuckled quietly to himself. The laugh was a coarse, vulgar sound that unnerved Trevor.
The driver made no motion to pull away immediately. Trevor assumed it was because the bus was a little ahead of schedule. “Are you waiting to see if anyone else will show?”
“No. Nobody else will show. You are the only passenger.”
With that, the driver pulled out of the bus stop and crept slowly back into the fast-moving traffic. Trevor looked out the window with awe at the Gothic churches they passed, with combined disgust and temptation at the peep shows, and with boredom at the undistinguished office buildings. A mixture of pleasant aromas filled his nostrils as they drove by restaurants and fast food joints. All of it looked normal, but, for the first time, seemed to have a surreal feel to it. People looked unnatural, cars seemed to move in slow motion, and the air appeared thick and laced with perfume. This hypnotic, unrealistic effect was a lasting one. It was only when they passed the eighteenth video rental store that the bus driver spoke again, bringing reality back to the forefront.
“By the way, my name is D.J. …Kahdules.”
Trevor nodded in acknowledgment. “Nice to meet you. I am – “
“Trevor Madison.”
Trevor was taken aback by the remark. “How did you know that?”
“I know everything about you,” D. J. said airily. “You were born 7 January 1938 to Julia and Dean Madison in Long Island where you have lived all your life. You attended Rutgers University where you graduated with a Master’s degree in English.” D. J. trailed off abruptly and turned to regard the nervous and irate passenger. “Shall I go on?”
Trevor sat up ramrod straight in his seat and stared coldly back at D. J. “Who are you and what do you want of me?”
D. J. cackled again the same, inhuman laugh. “I already told you. I am D. J. Kahdules, your chauffeur.”
“Chauffeur to where?”
D. J. frowned. “Are you or are you not going to a card game tonight?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
“It is if I am to take you there, sir.”
Trevor slammed his fist down on his seat. “Is this some sort of joke? If it is, it isn’t funny.”
“Hardly. The master takes his games very seriously.”
“And who is your master?”
“The man who will finally defeat you at cards.”
Trevor felt only slightly more at ease now that he knew the motive behind his abduction. He collected his nerves further and breathed in deeply. “This master card player has gone to great lengths to get me. Where are you taking me?”
“To his home to play.”
The answer was as vague as it was cryptic and it angered Trevor as well as agitated him. Just as he was about to remonstrate with D. J. further, a sudden movement caught his attention. Something was creeping along D. J.’s left arm. Something alive.
“What’s that on your arm?”
D. J. took his eyes off the road and looked down at his arm. A broad smile etched into his face. “Ah! That’s just my pal, Icky.”
Trevor scrunched his eyebrows together. “Icky?”
“Yeah.” D. J. scooped the small creature off his arm and proffered it to Trevor.
Trevor leaned forward to better see what D. J. was showing him. His face twisted into an expression of revulsion when he saw D. J.’s pet. It was a scorpion.
“Aren’t these things poisonous?” Trevor asked the question as casually as he could under the circumstances.
“Extremely!” D. J. said happily. “My old Icky is a real deadly fellow.”
“He’s quite lovely.”
“Thank you.” D. J. took the scorpion away, much to Trevor’s delight, and placed it fondly on his shoulder as he continued to steer.
When the bus turned the next corner, billows of smoke came rushing towards them. The smoke engulfed the bus, completely blocking out their surroundings. D. J. was undisturbed by the fog, and acted as if he expected it. He accelerated the bus and plowed on through the mist.
Trevor was alarmed by the speed with which D. J. drove through such bad visibility. “What are you doing?”
D. J.’s foot pressed harder down on the pedal.
“What are you doing? Slow down!”
The red dial on the speedometer crept gradually up to the maximum. 55 … 60 … 65 …
Trevor leaped from his seat and stood over the bus driver menacingly. “Stop the bus! Stop it now!”
… 70 … 75 …
He made a move to slam his own foot down on the brakes. Without taking his eyes off the road, D. J. reached out with his right arm and grabbed Trevor around the wrist. The grip was like a compress, forceful and impossible to break free of. Trevor struggled against the iron grip anyway.
… 80 … 85 …
“Let me go!”
The dial reached its maximum, but Trevor could still feel the bus accelerating beyond all possible limits.
Trevor pounded with his free fist on D.J.’s shoulder, “Get off!”
“You get off.” Weary of the confrontation, D.J. shoved Trevor off of him. The card player’s body slammed back into his seat. As he dropped, he banged his arm against the support railing. He massaged his elbow and glared daggers at D.J. Ignoring the passenger, D.J. slowly lowered his foot onto the brake. The speed dial began to creep back into place.
Trevor sighed as XXX started to drift more into its natural position. Now we’re only going Warp Nine, he thought.
Water droplets appeared on the tinted windows next to Trevor. He watched them as they collected on the exterior surface and ran down the windows, leaving little trails of moisture. Then, as suddenly as it draped over them, the fog lifted, unveiling little more than another blanket of darkness as their surroundings.
D.J. pulled the
bus to a sudden stop and regarded Trevor.
“We have now arrived at stop one.
While you are in the Toyroom, there will be no drinking, no smoking, and
no flash photography. Thank you for
riding Tour D.J., the paramount enterprise of modern, trans-galactic bus
travel. We hope you enjoy your stay
here at the Toyroom. May it be a long
and happy one.”
Trevor pressed his nose
against the damp window, trying to penetrate the gloom. The atmosphere was pitch dark, darker than
it could have possibly been in Manhattan.
There were no lights of any kind: no traffic lights, no car headlights,
no neon signs, no bright red “Enjoy Coca-Cola” ads, nothing. Not even the skyline or silhouettes of
people were visible. All that was there
was the formidable presence of the impenetrable darkness. It hung there like a physical being, waiting
to reveal its secret terrors to Trevor.
D.J. stepped out of the bus first and made room for Trevor to step down next. The American paused momentarily at the base of the steps before getting off. He was sorely tempted to try to overpower or escape his escort, but was wary of making such a move without knowing where he was. It was not fear so much that held him back, but the hope that a better opportunity would present itself. In the blackness, he was as vulnerable, or perhaps more so, than D.J.
That was when a series of dim spotlights flickered on one at a time, casting a faint illumination on a rich crimson carpet and on the wood paneling of the walls. The spotlights bathed dozens of life-sized figures in a gloomy ray of light, casting long, misshapen shadows about the room. Each figure stood on a rounded pedestal that was cordoned off by thick red rope that was linked to four brass supports. Aside from the motionless shapes, the rest of the room remained obscured almost completely in darkness.
Trevor looked away from the scene, back to the bus, and, finally, over to D.J. “You parked in a wax museum?”
“I parked in the Toyroom.”
Trevor snorted and stepped off the bus. Before he could move any further into the room, D. J. rested a restraining hand on his shoulder. The force D.J. exerted on Trevor’s shoulder was so strong that Trevor felt as if it would crunch under the pressure. He bit into his lower lip to restrain from shouting out.
“Not yet,” D.J. grumbled. “We haven’t bought tickets.”
It seemed a bizarre demand, but Trevor was in no position to question the act. D.J. led him off to the side of the bus. There, set into the wall of the museum, was a glass ticket window that was covered in dust and fingerprints.
“It is only a formality,” D.J. added as he stepped up to the window. Now, in the better light, Trevor was able to see D.J. much more clearly. The “chauffeur” was a hulking, hunched creature. His body was covered completely in fur, and he grunted as he walked. His uniform had split in several places because it was ill-fitted, and black strands of hair hung out of the rips.
D.J. moved his face against the glass window and spoke into the twelve holes that were drilled into the surface. “Hello, Mr. Pips. How are you these days?”
A clear but forced and child-like voice replied, “I’ve been bored stiff. What’s up with you, ya big ape?”
Trevor looked past D.J., but could see nobody down in booth. He stepped hesitantly forward and looked down into the compartment. Sitting perched on the back of a chair was the smallest man Trevor had ever seen. The teller was only two-and-a-half feet tall; his little, stumpy legs dangled over the chair, kicking playfully. He looked up at Trevor through his distinguished monocle, his ruddy, baby face pulled into an unnatural red grin. “Ah, you’ve brought a friend, D.J.”
When he spoke, his jaw dropped up and down just out of sync with the words. The little man’s voice made Trevor shiver. Now he knew why it sounded so strained and comical. Trevor realized he was snapping his fingers nervously, so he shoved them deep into his pockets.
“Yes. His name is Trevor.”
He knew who the little man was, and the knowledge brought fear and nausea. The teller couldn’t possibly be real. He couldn’t. It was too fantastic. Too horrible.
The little man adjusted his black tux and high hat to appear more presentable. His arm movements were loose and fluid while his head jerked irregularly back and forth. The sight was so grotesque that Trevor was unable to watch any more. He clamped his eyes shut and mentally willed the entire scene to go away.
After a drawn out pause, Trevor heard the little man ask in an irritated voice, “What’s the matter with your friend, D.J.? Hasn’t he ever seen a ventriloquist’s doll before?”
“I’m sure he has,” D.J. replied. Then he said to Trevor, “Haven’t you ever seen Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy?”
The words came haltingly to Trevor’s lips. “Charlie McCarthy never spoke or moved by himself.”
Mr. Pips’ plastic jaw dropped open again at an unnatural angle and the sounds of a high-pitched laugh played from his throat. “New guy, is he?”
D.J. grinned back. “He wants to believe it’s all a bad dream, but he can’t deny the proof of his own eyes.”
The doll tilted its head to the side in a mock expression of compassion. “Awww. Poor guy.”
“We’d like our tickets now,” D.J. reminded.
Mr. Pips dropped down from his perch and rummaged around his station, apparently searching for the tickets. Following a short time of searching, he reached under his desk. “I’ve got them.” He handed the two tickets over, but then made a motion as though he had more to give D.J. He brought his other hand into view, producing a large, yellow banana.
An abrupt change came into D.J.’s demeanor. He was no longer jovial when he spoke to the teller. “Mr. Pips,” he said with only slightly controlled rage, “you know I hate bananas.”
Clearly unperturbed by D.J.’s menacing voice, Mr. Pips began peeling back the banana skin. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“They’re really good.”
“I don’t want one.”
Mr. Pips held the banana up to the glass. “It’s a nice, juicy, yellow banana. So soft. So sticky. So succulent.”
“I said stop it.”
Mr. Pips started scratching
his armpit, miming D.J. “Ooooga booga!
Ooooga booga!”
D.J. clenched and unclenched his fists, growling. “Stop it! Stop it, now!”
Mr. Pips ceased his gorilla impression and adopted an annoyed expression. “Oh, go swing in a tree.”
D.J. whirled on Trevor. “If he were not the master’s property, I would destroy him. But you are not yet his. I can kill you if you cast dispersions on my appearance. You will not mock me, will you?”
Trevor crept back. “No, no, no, no, no, no. Of course not.”
“Good. Because I hate it. I hate it!”
“That’s it,” came Mr. Pips’ voice. “Take it all out on him.”
Trevor stared back at the seething ape-man, but said nothing for fear of provoking the man further. To end the trying silence, Trevor walked silently up to the nearest wax figure. He placed his hands over the red rope and leaned forward, partly for support, partly to better see the exhibit. The wax figure was of a blue, fish-like creature with a gaping, fanged mouth that appeared to be dressed in some kind of alien uniform. As Trevor moved his hands away from the rope, they brushed over a smooth, wooden object. Looking down, Trevor realized it was a plaque with information about the exhibit typed on it. He adjusted his spectacles and read the bold face.
“General Islat Jenner – late of the Shardonian Military:
Killed in action against the Daleks in a bid for control over the Conscience of Shardonia. Soul permanently forfeited due to his failure.”
Trevor decided to risk speaking to D.J. “Who are these wax figures of?”
D.J. shambled up to Trevor and grunted. “They aren’t important.”
Trevor walked away from the first, figure, running his fingers along the red cord. He stopped in front of yet another exhibit and smiled. The wax man was broad and robust, with a short beard, bushy eyebrows, and hair pulled back behind his head into a ponytail. “This fellow looks like he’s related to Conan the barbarian.”
“That’s King Yrcanos, one of the master’s latest acquisitions.”
The conversation was strained. It was impossible to maintain the illusion of casual chatter because of their prisoner/captive relationship. Still, talk Trevor did, to try to compose himself enough to act.
“It is a very life-like representation. Whoever sculpted it was an expert craftsman. I can actually picture them coming to life at any second.” The remark was meant only to buy time while Trevor took a quick inventory of the room. There were two visible exits: one behind the bus that was probably the exit, and one they were headed in the direction of, which led deeper into the dusky building.
“They are capable of just that, provided the master needs their services.”
At first Trevor only nodded absently at the reply. Once the outrageous nature of the sentence sunk in, Trevor snapped his head around. “What?”
“I myself am an animated sculpture,” D.J. said in his guttural voice. “Though my source body was smaller than these and made of wood rather than wax.”
“Oh, I see.” Trevor nodded, feigning understanding. He drew back, as if to look further at the wax representations. The movement did not fool D.J. By turning, Trevor advertised the coming punch. D. J. blocked Trevor’s blow to the face. The ape-man grabbed Trevor’s arm and twisted it around, threatening to break it with one quick pull.
Trevor braced his feet against the floor and pushed himself towards D.J., relieving some of the pressure on his arm. Once he had more space to move, he drove his elbow deep into D.J.’s stomach. Instead of crying out, D.J. exhaled sharply and released his hold on Trevor. No sooner was this done than the ape stopped short. He froze, his head drooping forward until his chin touched his chest. His eyelids snapped shut and his arms fell at his sides.
Trevor slammed his fist into D.J.’s face, knocking the creature spread-eagled onto the carpet. He smiled and shook out his hand, amazed at his own strength in defeating his captive. An instant later, the sound of light snoring drifted to Trevor’s ears. His eyes bulged at the unexpected sound. “God damn! You’re asleep.”
Not able to stay and take in the sight of the unconscious ape any longer, Trevor darted towards the exit doors and ran with every last ounce of strength left in him. He could hear Mr. Pips’ urgent cries of “Escapee!” ringing in his ear as he fled. He raced past the parked bus and threw open the gigantic double doors. Wasting no time, he flew through them and escaped from the darkness of the museum.
Left behind, unmoving, D.J.’s lifeless body was sprawled out next to yet another exhibit. It was one that Trevor would never have been able to grasp the significance of. Towering over the slumped D.J. was the wax figure of a tall man in a patchwork coat and gaudy yellow pants. His hair was a dirty, curly blond; his eyes were a brilliant, alert blue.
The engraved plaque that rested at his feet read:
Trevor flew out of the building only to find himself thwarted. His face twisted into an expression of utter defeat and despair. A low moan escaped his lips. He had no idea how he had gotten where he was, but he was certainly no longer in New York. It was the most God-forsaken place he had ever seen. The acres and acres of flat, dry earth reminded him of pictures he had seen of the Sahara in National Geographic magazine. He looked about in vain for any sign of life on the blank, featureless plain.
Trevor was completely lost. He had no idea what to do. He had no idea how far away home was, there was nowhere he knew he could run to for safety, and he wasn’t sure how many other monsters populated that horrible place. Trevor found himself a man thrust into a situation which was hopelessly out of his depth, so he resolved himself merely to maintain his dignity and brace for the next inevitable shock to reality as he knew it. And he knew more shocks would come.
He stopped sweeping his gaze suddenly when he thought he saw something. Just out of sight, on the east horizon, a small, black speck caught his attention. It might have been nothing, but it was a start. He began running once again, throwing sand into the air as feet tore into the ground. Never before had he exerted himself to such an extent. In his haste to reach the promising landmark, he failed to notice the very large footprints in the ground that led in the direction he was heading.
As he moved closer, the black spec grew quickly into a long and jagged XXX mountain. Built into the surface of the mountain was a structure which was designed much like the capital of a Roman Republic, with large marble pillars spread out in front of the entrance atop a long set of bright white stairs. The pillars loomed up before him as he got nearer.
Running on the sand was difficult since his footing was uncertain. He stumbled more often than he ran and he almost fell over several times. Now panting for air, his lungs felt as if they were going to burst. He clutched his side, trying to force away the discomfort as each breath sent a sharp pain tearing through his ribcage. One foot landed wrong and slid out from under him, causing him to fall face first into the dust. His breathing ragged and his heart palpitating, Trevor scraped at the ground with his fingers. The earth had an ashy feel to it, like it had been burned. Exhausted, he propped himself up on his hands and slid his legs underneath himself, readying himself to stand up.
He stopped abruptly when an alarming sound reached his ears. It was a low and rumbling sound that repeated regularly – like breathing.
Trevor felt rather than saw the large shadow fall over him. Unconsciously holding his breath, he lifted his eyes slowly and stared up at whatever had emerged in front of him. In the past half-hour, Trevor had seen a lot of strange sights, but nothing could have prepared him for this.
He found himself staring directly into two tremendous green eyes. The eyes were wet and glistening, and Trevor could see his own reflection in them. They were set deep into a mammoth, reptilian head that measured over seven feet across. The dark, emerald green scales that covered its head were dry and leathery. It grunted, blowing large puffs of smoke form its huge nostrils into Trevor’s face. The jaws of the serpentine face parted, displaying two rows of massive white daggers. Behind the enormous teeth, an orange forked tongue swished around in a pool of saliva, greedily expecting a feast.
He backed slowly away, not wanting to excite the monster. Still not breathing, he slid his body in a half-standing, half-crouching position, over the rough earth, scraping his skin. Large drops of sweat rolled down his neck and fell onto the sand below.
The lizard head that examined Trevor drew back high into the air. Trevor’s sight no longer blocked by the serpentine face, he could now see the rest of the monstrosity. Two other heads, identical to the first, were attached to the same, tremendous body via long, thick necks.
It rose up on its hind legs, lifting its front two into the sky and rearing its three heads. A long, spiky tail lashed about in whip-like motions. The middle head opened its mouth and drew in a long breath. Its chest bulged out with the massive intake of air like a balloon filling with helium. The head lowered, facing Trevor directly.
Though he didn’t know exactly what the monster was up to, Trevor realized it was definitely about to attack. He snapped out of his crouching position and ran to the side just as the three-headed dragon spat a gigantic fireball in his direction. The fireball struck the ground where Trevor had been standing, sending up a huge explosion of sand and flames. The concussive force of the blast hurled Trevor forward. His head slammed into the ground first, knocking him senseless. The last sight he saw before losing consciousness was the dragon’s heads sucking in more air, preparing to let loose three fireballs at once ….
“Ah. I see you have regained consciousness.”
The voice was silky, almost condescending in its friendliness. Still in a haze, Trevor looked for the source of the voice, clutching his throbbing head. The man who stood before him wore brightly colored robes that had an Oriental design sewn into them. “Nice pajamas. I have a pair like them at home.”
The Toymaker smiled. “You are Mister Madison?”
“Yes.” Suddenly remembering, Trevor gave a sharp intake of breath. “The monster!”
The Toymaker raised a reassuring arm. “Do not worry. I prevented him from harming you.”
“What was that thing?”
“I thought it was fairly obvious it was a dragon.”
“It couldn’t be! They don’t exist!”
Trevor’s protests were more to convince himself than the Toymaker. The Toymaker realized this and just smiled a twisted smile. “I put it there as a guard. Nobody is to enter the Sanctuary aside from myself and my Familiar, D.J.”
“I gave him a good knocking.” Trevor spoke arrogantly to compensate for the awkward position he found himself in.
The Toymaker begged to differ. “D.J.’s unconsciousness was not entirely of your doing.”
Trevor shook his head. “He dropped the moment I hit him. I’ve still got a lot of power behind my punch there.”
“D.J. is a narcoleptic.”
Trevor frowned. “What the hell is a narcoleptic?”
“Someone with a disease called narcolepsy that is similar to catalepsy. He is a person prone to habitual, involuntary attacks of deep sleep.”
“And he’s your heavy?” Trevor sniffed contemptuously at the thought of D.J. “I’m sorry, but being a dainty body-guard is like being an impotent womanizer.”
The Toymaker chuckled. “What an amusing analogy. Even more so ironic is the fact that D.J. is far more formidable than you can possibly imagine. Every Familiar has an Achilles’ Heel. You were just exposed to his before you could see what he was really capable of.”
The Toymaker turned with a dramatic swish of his robes to face a woman in a shiny green dress who Trevor did not realize was in the room until that moment. “What is your Familiar’s Achilles’ Heel?”
The woman stared off to the side lackadaisically, not answering.
The Toymaker repeated his question with more focus to his voice but less volume.
The woman returned his stare defiantly. She held out over a minute longer before finally saying, **His weakness is the same as Hamlet’s.**
“Really? I don’t recall what that was, specifically.”
**That is unfortunate for you, because I will tell you no more.**
Refusing to let her spoil his good humor, the Toymaker returned his attention to Trevor. “In case you do not already know, I am the Celestial Toymaker.”
Trevor acted disinterested. “Where am I?”
“My home.” The Toymaker gestured grandly. “The Celestial Toyroom.”
Trevor gazed about the room for the umpteenth time, annunciating his words in a voice filled with quiet awe. “Yes. I’d forgotten its name. But what do you want of me?”
“The situation is simple, Mr. Madison. You have to defeat me at our own personal card tournament.”
“What if I lose?”
“You saw the wax statues?”
Trevor narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”
“If you lose, your body will transform into one of those exhibits and I will possess your soul for all eternity.”
“Oh.”
The Toymaker chuckled. With each passing moment, his guest’s position was becoming more incredible and direr. Trevor was greeting each new insane and demoralizing development with a passive bewilderment that the Toymaker thought was charming.
“If I lose.” Trevor stressed the word “if” for confirmation.
“If you lose,” the Toymaker conceded.
“I won’t.” The confidence with which Trevor spoke was almost entirely genuine. He knew he would win, provided this Toymaker person intended to play a fair game. Of course, that was a rather large “provided”. Trevor had the feeling that he would have to play the game by the Toymaker’s rules if he had any hope of survival. “Let’s get on with it.”
“You are in a hurry,” the Mandarin beamed.
“I wouldn’t be,” the woman cut in.
Trevor shrugged. “I just want to get over with it so I can get out of this horrible place.”
The Toymaker gestured to a round table with two rickety wooden chairs placed on either side. “We play there.”
“Fine.”
Trevor sank into the closest chair and collected his old and bent Lucky Deck from his pocket and faced the Toymaker, who had seated himself at the opposite end of the table. “What game would you like to play? Poker? Blackjack?”
“Old Maid.”
Trevor frowned. “Old Maid?”
The Mandarin nodded.
“Whatever you say.”
The Composer slinked up to the table with a tray of poker chips strapped around her neck. She allotted each player ten thousand dollars in dark blue chips, stacking them in neat piles on the table.
“Very good,” the Toymaker nodded. “You may go now.”
The Composer strode several feet away, but refused to leave the room. She unhooked the tray from around her neck and placed it carefully on the floor next to her.
Meanwhile, the Toymaker eyed the bent-up cards Trevor was shuffling. “Would you not prefer to use a newer deck?”
“No, sir. This one brings me luck.”
“You better hope that is more than a fanciful superstition.” The Toymaker plucked up the deck and began to shuffle it as thoroughly as he could. “We’ll take turns picking cards from one another. Whenever a pair of cards is made both are discarded. Whoever winds up with the Joker loses.”
“I know how to play Old Maid,” Trevor snapped.
“Just making sure. What will you wager?”
Trevor sat in silence for a long moment, pondering his wager. The Toymaker did not press him to hurry, merely allowed him to think clearly. Finally, he cupped his hands together and pushed his entire mass of chips into the center of the table. “All of it.”
The Toymaker’s expression was of amused admiration. “All ten thousand?”
“All of it,” Trevor repeated with determination. “Are the stakes too high for you?”
The Toymaker chuckled softly. “Hardly. I’m just curious why you are in such a hurry to risk it all.”
“If you’re stacking the deck against me, I might as well lose now and get it over with.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I might be playing fairly?”
Trevor sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “No. Not for a second.”
“You wound me.”
“That’s too bad.”
Chuckling softly, the Toymaker dealt half the cards to Trevor and kept the rest. Upon perusing his hand, Trevor was not surprised that he began the game holding the Joker. Not allowing himself to be discouraged, Trevor rummaged through his lot, pulling out six pairs and slapping them down.
Out of the twenty-six cards the Toymaker was dealt, he discarded ten immediately. He then initiated the actual game by picking up the ten of hearts from Trevor and making a pair out of his own ten of diamonds.
When Trevor picked next, he picked without fear since he already held the death card. The card he picked enabled him to drop both of his black twos. He smiled. All he had to do was bide his time until the Toymaker grabbed his card. That time was not long in coming. Trevor beamed with anticipation when, in the next turn, the Mandarin’s fingers closed around the Joker. Pulling the card out, the Toymaker frowned when he stared down at the pale, smiling harlequin face.
The game continued at a rapid pace as each player’s hand slowly shrunk. The discard pile had grown tremendous, containing forty-eight cards and leaving only five in play. The Toymaker was left with an eight and a Jack in his hands. The Toymaker picked again, choosing Trevor’s eight of diamonds, and made the penultimate pair of the game.
Trevor would make the last move of the game. If he weren’t careful, it would be the last move of his life. The Toymaker had two cards left, one of which was the Jack of diamonds Trevor needed to win. Trevor snapped his eyes shut and concentrated. He uttered a silent prayer as he moved his hand over the left card. The hand wavered hesitantly above the Joker. Trevor knew what would happen to him if he chose incorrectly.
Realizing that the game was nearing completion, the Composer moved towards the table. She stood behind the Toymaker to see which card Trevor was about to pick. When she saw the Toymaker’s cards, her hand flew up to her mouth and she choked. Neither card was a Jack. Both were Jokers. Looking over the Toymaker’s shoulder, she started to mime a warning to Trevor. Unfortunately, Trevor was so absorbed in the decision that he didn’t notice her all-too-subtle attempts to get his attention. Such was not the case with the Toymaker. Well aware of her agitation, the Toymaker cut her signaling short with a casual wave of his hand.
The Great Composer felt a tingling sensation bathing her body. She looked down at herself to see what was the matter. Her hands were slowly fading from existence. She tried to yell out in alarm, but her voice caught in her throat. The rest of her body began to dissolve as well, first turning ghostly pale and then disappearing altogether. A few seconds later, she was completely gone from sight. Invisible and intangible, but still conscious and aware of her surroundings, the Composer fumed at her fate.
The Toymaker nodded. He would re-materialize her later when she no longer posed a threat to his games.
Trevor had still refrained from making a definite decision. His hand moved back and forth between both Jokers, not realizing that the result would be the same with either choice. With a sudden movement, Trevor whipped the right card out of the Toymaker’s grasp and slammed it face down on the table. He never once caught sight of the face of the Joker.
No! The ghostly Composer buried her face in her hands, grieving for Trevor’s loss. There was no escape for the poor man now. He was doomed.
Blissfully unaware of his defeat, Trevor wiped his forehead and smiled. “Thank God that’s over.”
The Toymaker threw Trevor a puzzled look. “Why don’t you check your card?”
Trevor raised his eyebrows innocently. “I’m sorry, I’m just too afraid to look.”
The Composer checked, suddenly intrigued. What was Trevor playing at? He didn’t look particularly frightened. Impatient, the Toymaker moved to turn over Trevor’s card. “This is asinine! Let me do it for you.”
Trevor blocked the Toymaker’s hand and covered his card protectively. “Ah, ah! That won’t be necessary.” Reaching forward, he tapped the card the Toymaker held. “This is the card I didn’t pick, correct?”
“Correct,” the Toymaker said slowly.
Trevor tore it loose from the Toymaker’s grasp before the Mandarin could react. “There is only one Joker in the game, so if you hold a Joker in your hand, the card I picked was the safe one; and that would mean I won.” Trevor flipped the card around. Looking back up at him was the comically grotesque face of the Joker. “Yes!” He displayed the card proudly for the Toymaker to see. “What did I tell you?”
The Toymaker frowned. “Very clever.”
The Composer tossed her head back and began laughing hysterically at the Toymaker’s humiliation. The Toymaker couldn’t hear her in her condition, so she was able to laugh until her sides hurt.
The Toymaker rose from the table and handed Trevor the recollected deck of cards. “You performed admirebly.”
“Considering you were cheating.”
“How did you know I had two Jokers?”
Trevor put a thoughtful finger to his lips and shrugged. “maybe you just have a lousy poker face.”
“Never mind, then. You can keep your little secrets. They may serve you well in our next game.”
Trevor shook his head. “Sorry, there won’t be a next game. I refuse to play with a cheater.”
The Composer’s face fell. She tried to cry advice to Trevor, but was still unable to speak.
“If you value your freedom, the Toymaker warned, “you will play.”
“I have already won my freedom.”
“Not yet you haven’t.”
Trevor grimaced. “Oh, really? And how many more games must I play before you’ll send me home?”
“Oh … lots,” the Toymaker smiled.
“Well, you can just forget about it. I’m not cooperating.”
The Composer winced. No, Trevor! Stop!
“That is not a wise move.”
“Why? You can’t force me to play.”
Oh, yes, remembered the Composer. He can.
“Possibly not, but you aren’t the only person in the universe I can summon to compete with. That makes you expendable.”
“I’m not listening to any more of this!” Trevor barked. He spun on his heels and set off in what he thought was the direction of the wax exhibits. “I’m finding that bus and getting out of this nut house.”
“Stop this instant,” the Toymaker demanded.
Trevor kept walking, ignoring the Toymaker’s command.
Furious, the Toymaker snapped his fingers.
Just as Trevor was about to reach the doors, they flew open in his face. Standing there in front of him was the hulking form of the Toymaker’s Familiar. D.J. flexed his muscles and marched up to Trevor. “The master gave you an order.”
Fear overcame Trevor’s rage. He stared back at the creature’s ugly head, too frightened to move.
D.J. looked over Trevor’s head at the Toymaker for instructions. The Toymaker nodded slowly, giving his consent. Smiling a twisted grin, D.J. turned back on Trevor. In a swift, striking motion, he seized Trevor’s head between his hands. A hot white light flowed from D.J.’s hands into Trevor’s skull. Trevor screamed as the unearthly power assaulted him. The formerly firm face became lined with age as D.J.’s death field ravaged his body. Brown splotches appeared on his loosened and peeling skin. As the years of his life slipped away, bones lost firmness and splintered. His screams finally died away as all of the flesh dissolved from his body, leaving only a skeleton behind. It was only then that D.J. released his hold. What was left of Trevor fell to the ground; the crumbling skeleton shattering upon impact. Entertained, D.J. watched as the bone fragments instantly decomposed into little more than shapeless puddles of brown ooze that seeped into the cracks in the Toyroom floor.
Unable to watch any longer, the Composer turned on her heels and fled from the room, crying tears of pity for the dead man.
“Foolish.” The Toymaker shook
his head at the liquidized remains of the dead card player. “Why did you have to go and forfeit victory
to me when you were doing so well?”
