“This must be the place,” said Lucky. “Cripes, do you think he still looks like that?”
“He always was slow to change,” said Quick.
“Yeah, it’s no wonder he had to go underground.” Lucky chuckled. “That might’ve impressed the yokels at the dawn of time, but you have to update every so often.”
They found the director of this mortal dreamscape sitting in a darkened corner, watching a small TV set playing out his waking life. He stared intently at the small black-and-white screen and strained to hear the low sound.
“Excuse me,” said Lucky.
The director looked up, put a finger to his lips.
“Sorry to bother you, but-”
The director repeated the gesture, this time following it with a loud shushing sound.
Lucky stepped between the director and his television. “This will only take a few minutes of your time.”
“Are you supposed to be in here? Where’s your authorization?”
Morpheus waved a badge. The director checked it twice, then shrugged. “Okay. Whatever. I can never follow that show anyway. I don’t know what the hell that guy is doing half the time.”
“We have some questions about Gorgoz,” said Lucky.
The director shuddered. “Him? Did he send you? Are you here to punish me for my failure?”
“We’re not with him,” said Quick absently as he picked through the catering cart. He sniffed a pig in a blanket. “We’re looking for him.”
“Why?”
“Because he needs to be stopped,” said Lucky.
The director laughed. “Gorgoz is more dangerous than you can imagine.”
“He’s old news,” said Lucky, “a relic.”
“Precisely,” said the director. “He doesn’t care about the new rules. He’s still playing the game the old-fashioned way. It might limit his power, but he’s a lot more willing to use the power he does have. He’s a cornered beast. And he doesn’t give two shits about civilization or you or me or even himself. He sees himself on the top and everyone, mortal and immortal, is beneath him. And he’ll burn the world to a cinder rather than compromise that ruthless ideal.”
The lighting on the soundstage dimmed as the director spoke. The crew put tints over the spotlights to tinge the air red. The carpenters quickly tore down the set as a new set of walls was wheeled in to make a shadowy and darkened room.
Gorgoz’s phantasm grew taller and more menacing. He flipped his hood into place, hiding his face except for his two huge bloodshot eyes.
“If you thought he was so damn dangerous,” asked Lucky, “why would you choose to follow him?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” replied the director. “I needed an edge, and why would I settle with a small boon from a castrated deity when I could have access to all the raw power of a true primordial force? No offense about the castration comment.”
“None taken,” said Quick.
“And now it’s gone bad.” The director said, “Well, I guess I can’t complain. I made my decision. Nothing to do but watch it play out.”
“You’re awfully calm about this.”
“Hey, it’s his problem.” The director pointed toward the television. “Not mine.”
Lucky pondered how the subconscious could be so blithely oblivious to the perils of its physical aspect. But then again, why should anyone expect a mortal’s subconscious to be any more logical than any other part of his mind?
“Would you mind telling us where to find Gorgoz?” asked Lucky.
“I wouldn’t mind,” said the director, “but I don’t really know. I did meet him once, but it was a secret ritual in an undisclosed location.”
“Can you remember anything? Anything at all?”
“It was a few years ago. The details are kind of fuzzy. It was a dark room. Dusty. Smelled like rotten fish.”
Several stagehands rushed in, throwing sawdust into the air. Several others carried in buckets of carp, placing the buckets in out-of-the-way corners. The director walked over to the set.
“There was a bunch of neophytes there. We all had on robes to hide our faces.” Phantasm players crowded the set behind him. A wardrobe assistant threw a robe on the director. “There was the traditional Dirge of Gorgoz.” He knelt before the phantasm in Gorgoz’s role. They started chanting.
“Excuse me,” said Lucky, pointing to a robed figure standing beside Gorgoz. “Hate to interrupt, but who is that?”
The actors in the memory kept chanting, but the director raised his head.
“That’s Gorgoz’s First Disciple,” he said.
“You didn’t see his face, did you?” asked Lucky.
“Sorry.”
They resumed their chant.
Lucky picked his way across the stage, avoiding disturbing the ritual. He circled the First Disciple.
“Morph,” said Lucky, “I suppose that since this guy didn’t see the face and this is just his memory we can’t see his face either.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Morpheus said, “No. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Why did you pause?”
Morpheus half-paused. “No reason.”
“Don’t tell me you’re holding out on me, buddy. You have to know a few extra tricks, right? Some kind of dream god cheat code.”
“Maybe there is something I can do, but there are certain risks. Things can go wrong.”
“What can go wrong? You’re Morpheus, god of dreams, master of the realm nocturnal, the big kahuna. Quick and I will stand aside and leave it in your able hands.”
“Okay. Fine.”
Morpheus waved his hand at the hooded assembly and spoke in hushed, reverent tones. “Right now, this is only a memory, a dim recollection of past events seen through one set of mortal eyes. But all memories, no matter how distant, no matter how distorted, have the shadow of truth underneath. Even the most imperfect memory is a window-”
“That’s terrific,” interrupted Lucky. “Love the metaphysics. But we’re a little pressed for time.”
“Basically, I just reach back and use my powers to re-create elements of the memory that the director couldn’t know.” Morpheus cracked his knuckles and clapped his hands. The lights snapped on bright and clear as everything was illuminated with the absolute light of truth. The scene froze.
Lucky hopped back into the set and walked over to the First Disciple of Gorgoz. He pulled back the hood.
“I have no idea who this guy is,” said Lucky.
“What did you expect?” asked Quick. “A major movie star?”
“Would’ve made things easier.” Lucky searched the disciple’s pockets, but he came up empty. “That was a waste of time.”
Morpheus snapped his fingers. “Check his pockets again.”
The second search turned up a wallet.
“How did you do that?”
“It’s a dream. Who is to say that the guy didn’t have his wallet on him?”
“Morph, I like your style.” Lucky found a driver’s license. “Can I keep this?”
“Sure. What do I care?”
The phantasmal player of Gorgoz chuckled coldly. “You are as ridiculous as ever, Luka.”
“Easy, big guy,” said Lucky. “Don’t get lost in the part.”
Gorgoz stood. He pulled back his hood. The actor’s face was gone, replaced with the twisted true visage. It’d been a few centuries since Lucky had seen Gorgoz face-to-face. He hadn’t gotten any prettier.
“Easy, Gorg, ol’ buddy.”
“Always with the endless obnoxious chatter,” said Gorgoz. “You blather on like a sideshow barker rather than a true god. It’s no wonder the mortals have lost their fear of us.” He roared, spewing slime and spit into the air. “You dare violate my domain, in the soul of one of my followers!”
“I don’t remember him being so eloquent,” said Lucky.
“He’s a manifestation of the director’s unconscious,” explained Morpheus. “Not an exact copy.”