Chapter Forty-Four
About the time Timothy was sailing through the air courtesy of Fat Cat Airlines (a short flight, to be sure, economy class and booked at the last second), Gadget was using her newfound body mass to do a little breaking and entering.
It was an unlikely door, but Turner claimed it was the start of a tour (“You won’t like it,” he gnashed his teeth, “no one goes inside for happy reasons.”). Set into a deep but narrow recess, it had an institutional look, down to a battered nameplate rubbed nearly smooth of letters. A “Dr.” and an “ul” had survived the passage of countless paws. This sparse info bounced around inside Gadget’s head and came back only with warning signals.
The nameplate had plenty of company in the form of graffiti scrawled across the door. This had the look of mathematical or chemical formulae, but Gadget took all of two seconds to realize they were mostly gibberish.
Devin sat back and fidgeted, as best as he could with one arm in a sling. For safety, lest he have more need for the dwindling supply of Demerol, they’d slung his arm close to his chest, so he looked as though he was always about to make a solemn oath. “Good thing this sling’s made out of your miracle fabric, Gadge. Hey, if someone tries to shoot me in the face with one of those needle guns, all I have to do is cover my face like—” Devin shifted his arm about an inch, and regretted it. “Oooh—never mind.”
“Sorta busy here,” Gadget growled over her shoulder. “Can’t believe it—here I am, almost plural—I had to be the only one small enough to get an angle on this frigging thing with a crowbar…”
“With my size, I’ve always had a bit of trouble fitting in,” grinned Turner, but a dark look of remembrance passed over him, and he bit his tongue again. It did not survive unscathed.
“You’ll sever that tongue if you don’t watch out,” observed Devin. “You really ought to get some caps put on those fangs of yours. I know a fella.”
“I may have need of these again soon.” He tested the point of one incisor with a paw. “If we get through these next few days, I’ll take you up on the offer.”
“You’re a regular ray of sunshine, Turner,” Gadget grunted. The door wrenched askew off its hinges as Gadget touched down and set the crowbar aside. The door looked astonished for a moment, made a half-hearted pirouette, and fell into the dark beyond with a hollow slap.
“A ray of sunshine could slip right in through that door,”
Turner corrected her. “For me it’s
always been a squeeze.”
So much of a squeeze, indeed, that the crowbar proved useful in mashing Turner’s bulk through the empty doorframe, Devin adding a little leverage with his good arm this time. Scraped but intact, Turner straightened up inside the room and beckoned them inside.
“Won’t the others be sort of upset when they find we’ve broken in?” Gadget wrinkled her nose uncertainly.
“I’m burning a lot of bridges,” shrugged Turner. “This is the last time I’m setting paw in the place.” He shivered a bit. “I never used to come in this way,” he grunted in the half-dark, claws skittering along the walls, questing. “They usually lowered me through the roof.”
“Sounds rather theatrical,” said Devin, edging just inside the doorway but staying as close to the light as he could.
“Ceremonial would be more like it,” Turner grimaced.
“We were just up above this room—didn’t see any heavy machinery, or fifty normal-sized rats with a rope,” chuckled Gadget.
“Both are being put to other uses,” Turner grumbled, “none of them good.” He found a lever and threw it—the light that came soon after was decidedly non-electric.
“That’s clever,” nodded Devin, as soon as his eyes had adjusted. “A little Goth, but clever.” The light flickered and leapt, but cast a fairly even glow, and a decent amount of heat. The room was ringed with gas-lights in glass globes, and half a dozen Bunsen burners flanked a staircase leading to a desk. An owlish—but human—scientist peered down from a framed photo above.
“That word you used, ‘ceremonial’--” Gadget frowned, approaching the desk cautiously. Rooms like this were often boobytrapped, or at least rigged with alarms. “This is a… a shrine, isn’t it?”
Turner nodded. “You catch on quick. Extra communion wafer for the first one who tells me what it’s a shrine to.”
Devin glanced around the room. All along the walls were Bunsen burners, stainless steel sinks, chemistry sets perched in dusty cabinets—everything a little thrown-together and chipped, but recognizable—“A shrine to… science?”
Turner snapped his pawpads wistfully. “So close. Any other takers?
“A scientist,” Gadget clarified. “One in particular.”
“Our judges say you need to be more specific,” Turner deadpanned.
“Like on the door,” she groaned in recognition. “That’s who ‘Dr. Ul’ was. The nameplate used to read ‘Dr. Schultz.’” She turned her attention back to the desk again. It was perfectly rat-sized, though she couldn’t imagine a rat sitting there and playing with the suspended silver balls of the desk toy, or filing a report in the in-box.
“Dr. Schultz?” Devin repeated in disbelief. “Considering your history—I mean, the history of the NIMH rats—I can’t believe any of them would set Dr. Schultz up as some kind of…”
“God?” Turner shook his head. “Well, it happened. Dr. Schultz is a vengeful god, and The Commander finds him very useful. Schultz is always looking to hunt down and destroy his imperfect creations. A god that demands sacrifice.”
“But some of his creations ended up working, as perfectly as he could have ever hoped--” Gadget pointed out. “It’s only Group B that are genetically unstable and falling apart.”
“Right you are. Unfortunately, that includes yours truly. I’ve held together so far, but look at Arthur with his bad heart—and the rest of Group B has an assortment of afflictions from cleft palate to clubfoot to diabetes. Is it all that surprising that The Commander settled on a scientist when he needed a god?”
Turner stalked over to one wall of the space and turned up a gas-light. A map was now visible, perforated in many spots with pushpins and cut by red marker lines. “This is the sacrifice The Commander wants to give Dr. Schultz.”
I have often walked
down this street before, a snatch of music flitted through Devin’s head, as
he raised his good paw and traced the all-too-familiar paths—from the Falls to
the Institute, from the Justins’ official residence
to the Great Hall—though the red lines did not follow any of them closely. Where
do they lead?
“
“What does he expect in return?” asked Gadget. “’Thanks for betraying a complete working community of intelligent rats, I guess I’ll stop hunting the rest of you’?”
“The Commander’s not that crazy. Dr. Schultz wouldn’t rest easy knowing any of
us were still out there. But anything is
better than nothing, and taking out
Devin groaned. “Spit it out, Turner. What does the Commander get? What’s the trade?”
“Life,” shrugged Turner. “A second chance at one, at least. The Commander wants the refined, successful serum that Schultz gave to Group A.”
Gadget thought about that one for a little while. “Jeepers,” she decided.
“Jeepers indeed,” Turner nodded.
Devin slapped his forehead. “Of course. It could stop the genetic damage. Maybe even reverse it, but that might be asking too much.”
“If it did even half as well for Group B, it would make this Commander look like a miracle worker,” frowned Gadget.
“I can tell you this much about my father,” said Turner. “Right now, he only rules by fear. Give him a weapon like that—yes, a weapon—a blessing he can bestow on the faithful and withhold from those he finds ‘unworthy’-- and he’ll set himself up in place of Schultz in their twisted little minds. He could make himself a god in their eyes.”
“But there are easier ways to get the serum, I’ll bet—” protested Devin. “You don’t just walk right up to the Devil himself and ask for fire! Why not try breaking back in and stealing the serum, try to replicate it—”
“I’ll do you one better,” chuckled Turner. “How about dropping a spy in? Justin and Elizabeth already gave that a shot. I bet they didn’t mention it; it was a near disaster Almost killed Martin Brisby, though he did volunteer. Surprising, what with the bad blood between him and the Justins.”
Gadget’s ears perked up. “Did he get a sample of the serum?”
“I should say so. Almost constantly. His ‘deep cover’ turned a little too deep-- 24-7 on an I.V. drip for most of his stay. A normal, single injection of the serum causes searing pain for days--I hear he tore out the side of his cage to escape.”
“Eeesh. So—
“Quality and quantity,” sighed Turner. “Right now, the Thorn Valley Institute has a small amount of a secondhand concoction that appears to work in test tubes. And they don’t dare test it on a live subject.”
“The Commander needs the stuff in bulk,” nodded Devin. “And pure.”
“You could have told us this before, Turner,” Gadget narrowed her eyes. “Elizabeth and Justin need to know what Group B is up to. Why drag us all this way, and keep us in the dark this long?”
Turner gulped. “Try to understand,” he started slowly. “I was afraid you might rush off and do something—rash—when I told you the rest.”
“There’s more?” groaned Devin.
“Yes, and a lot tougher on Gadget,” Turner bit his lip again.
“I don’t like the sound of that at all,” Gadget muttered, clenching her paws.
“Promised you a tour,” Turner grimaced, and threw another set of switches. Lights sprang to life on a ring of poles at
the center of the room, but these were shuttered on their sides, to throw light
upon a curious contraption. Ropes lay
coiled at the bases of the poles, some unattached but others run through
pulleys and winches. The centerpiece of
the arrangement looked rather like an exercise wheel with an extra gear in back,
the floor beneath it tapering down toward a drain.
Devin reached out and turned the wheel a bit. It creaked like a rusty gate. “They keep the wheels at my gym better oiled than this one,” he chuckled nervously.
“What do you think this does, Gadget?” Turner asked softly.
Gadget picked up one of the ropes and shook it out. “Hm,” she squinted, drew a line in the air, and tossed it through the center of the wheel. “That much is obvious. The ropes stretch from post to post, though everything’s unstrung right now.”
“Yes, but why the ropes in the first place?”
Gadget wrinkled her nose in disgust. “To hold someone. Keep them on the wheel. The ropes cross through, and they meet at a center point.” Turner and Devin looked at her, waiting. “Someone stands between the ropes. Someone stands and walks--”
Gadget took a large step backward, wiping her paws on her jumpsuit. “Dear God. It tightens as they walk. Until--”
“It kills,” stated Turner, one of his fangs bared by a sneer. “You have to screw up pretty badly to earn a trip on the wheel, but I’ve seen it done.”
“That’s monstrous,” Devin pronounced. “You’d pass out before drawing the ropes tight enough for crushing—”
“If you’re lucky, they wrap them around your—” Turner started.
“STOP!” begged Gadget, pounding a paw against Turner’s massive arm, tears welling. “I don’t want to hear any more about it!”
“All right, all right,” Turner relented. “That’s all I wanted you to see.”
“Why would you want me to see that?!”
“Because I knew you would understand it,” sighed Turner, moving her paw away gently. “Understand it and hate it. Think of it as a mechanical thing. Cold and cruel. Of terrible intent. But also, might you find it just a little bit clever?”
Gadget thought about it, for the entire half-second it took. “What a horrible thing to say! There’s nothing clever about a death machine. Nothing admirable. Why, even those damnable needle guns—there are times a good person could use them! Hate them, but use them! This wheel, this thing for dismembering live bodies—no good person would ever use it!”
Turner winced. “What about the person who made a killing machine? What kind of person do you think he’d have to be?”
“Devin had it right when he said monstrous,” Gadget glowered. “It would take a monster—”
“—or,” Turner cut her off, “a mechanical genius forced to work for one. Caged. Tortured. Maybe even driven mad, I’m not sure.”
“But you’ve met the one who made it,” Devin broke in.
“Yes,” shuddered Turner. “Right after he ripped one of his captors to shreds. Not someone you’d want to turn your back on. He’s not allowed sharp tools anymore, unless he’s chained to his desk.” Turner gulped, tried to look Gadget in the eye, but couldn’t. “I only ever told you one lie, Gadget.”
“When?”
“I told you I didn’t know who G.G.H. was. Those initials, scratched into your prototype needle gun, the big black heavy one. It’s the same inventor who built this killing wheel.”
“Then tell me, dammit!”
“Quit stringing her along, Turner!” Devin glowered at him. “Who was it?”
Turner, not for the last time that day, bit his tongue but plowed on. “Your father, Gadget. Geegaw Hackwrench.”
The name hit her like a slap. One part of her wanted to take a step toward
Turner and kick him; another wanted to run away. Neither worked, and her legs buckled where
she stood. Devin caught her halfway down
and she did not land very hard.
“I’m sorry, Gadget. I’m sorry I lied, but I have to know—” Turner winced. “He’s been in a very dark place for a very long time—do you think he can come back all the way?”
Come back? she repeated to herself soundlessly, momentarily blind to
all things of this present world. “Come back, Daddy, come back—” how long did
I sit there on the edge of that cliff, in the dark, praying he would?
Her eyes swam back into focus. “Come back?” she wrinkled her nose at Turner. “If he couldn’t fight his way out, he’d build his way out! If he’s still half the mouse he was—”
Turner stuck out a scarred but massive paw to her. He pulled her to her feet with the widest
grin she and Devin had seen him flash—they both would have both shielded their
necks instinctively, but neither wanted to seem impolite. “That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say,”
Turner nodded. “Let’s go get him.”
Button images by Keith Elder