Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom
As told by One of The Pirates Of The Carribean
Cory Doctorow
Copyright 2003 Cory Doctorow
Tor Books, January 2003
ISBN: 0765304368
--
(Translated by the English to Pirate Translator
http://www.syddware.com/cgi-bin/pirate.pl
Created by J.R.(Sydd)Souza © 2004
Text Version: Cory_Doctorow_-_Down_and_Out_in_the_Magic_Kingdom_Arrr.txt)
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Blurbs:
=======
He sparkles! He fizzes! He does aftflips an' breaks th' furniture! Science fiction needs Cory Doctorow!
Bruce Sterlin' Author, Th' Hacker Crackdown an' Distraction
#
Arrr Cory Doctorow, arrr. Almost made me be wantin' t' take up booklearnin'. Almost. An' if'n ye spill this to me mates, 'tis the plank ye'll be a walkin'.
Captain Wm. Kidd
Adventure Galley / New York Revenge Press
#
In th' true spirit o' Walt Disney, Doctorow has ripped a part o' our common culture, mixed 't wi' a brilliant story, an' burned into our culture a new set o' memes that will be wi' us fer a generation at least.
Lawrence Lessig
Author, Th' Future o' Ideas
#
Cory Doctorow dasn't jus' write about th' future - I think he lives thar. Down an' Ou' in th' Magic Kingdom isn't jus' a really good read, 'tis also, like th' best kind o' fiction, a kind o' guide book. Be seein' th' Tomorrowland o' Next high tide' today, an' while ye're thar, why nay drop by Foreierland, an' th' Haunted Mansion as well? ('tis th' Mansion that's th' haunted heart o' this book.) Cory makes me feel nostalgic fer th' future - a dizzying, yet rather pleasant sensation, as if I be spiralin' down th' tracks o' Space Mountain o'er an' o'er again. Visit th' Magic Kingdom an' live ere!
Kelly Link
Author, Stranger Things Happen
#
Down an' Ou' in th' Magic Kingdom be th' most entertainin' an' excitin' science fiction story I've read in th' last wee voyages. I love page-turners, especially when they be as unusual as this novel. I predict big things fer Down an' Ou' -- 't could easily become a breakout genre-buster.
Mark Frauenfelder
Contributin' Editor, Wired Magazine
#
Imagine ye woke up one tide an' Walt Disney tookst o'er th' world. Nay only that, but treasure's been abolished an' somebody's developed th' Cure fer Davy Jones' locker. Welcome t' th' Bitchun Society--an' make sure ye're strapped in tight, on accoun' o' 'tis goin' t' be a wild ride. In a world 'ere sea dogs an' land lubbers's wishes can come true, one man returns t' th' original, crumblin' city o' dreams--Disney World. Here in th' spiritual center o' th' Bitchun Society he struggles t' find an' preserve th' original, crewmate face o' th' Magic Kingdom against th' young, post-crewmate an' increasingly alien inheritors o' th' Earth. Now that any experience can be simulated, crewmate relationships become eremore fragile; an' t' Julius, th' corny, mechanical ghosts o' th' Haunted Mansion be havin' come t' seem like a precious link t' a past when we could tell th' real from th' simulated, th' true from th' false.
Cory Doctorow--cultural critic, Disneyphile, an' ultimate Early Adopter--uses language wi' th' reckless confidence o' th' Beat poets. Yet behind th' dazzlin' prose an' vibrant characters lie ideas we ought all pay heed t'. Th' future rushes on like a plummetin' roller coaster, an' 'tis hard t' be seein' 'ere we're going. But at least wi' this book Doctorow has gi'en us a map o' th' park.
Karl Schroeder
Author, Permanence
#
Cory Doctorow be th' most interestin' new SF writer I've come across in voyages. He starts ou' at th' point 'ere older SF writers' speculations end. 'tis a distinct pleasure t' give th' lad's some Whuffie.
Rudy Rucker
Author, Spaceland
#
Aye Cory Doctorow, nae thar's a swashbuckler's mate.
Blackbeard
Queen Anne’s Revenge Daily Yardarm
#
Cory Doctorow rocks! I check his blog about ten times a tide, on accoun' o' he's always one o' th' first t' notice a major incursion from th' social-technological-pop-cultural future, an' his voice be a compellin' vehicle fer news from th' future. Down an' Ou' in Th' Magic Kingdom be about a world that be visible in its outlines today, if ye know 'ere t' look, from reputation systems t' peer-t'-peer adhocracies. Doctorow knows 'ere t' look, an' how t' word-paint th' rest o' us into th' picture.
Howard Rheingold
Author, Smart Mobs
#
Doctorow be more than jus' a sea sick mind lookin' t' twist th' perceptions o' them whose realities remain uncorrupted - tho that ought be enough recommendation t' read his work. *Down an' Ou' in th' Magic Kingdom* be black comedic, sci-fi prophecy on th' dangers o' surrenderin' our consensual hallucination t' th' regime. Fun t' read, but difficult t' sleep afterwards.
Douglas Rushkoff
Author o' Cyberia an' Media Virus!
#
"Wow! Disney imagineerin' meets nanotechnology, th' reputation economy, an' Ray Kurzweil's transhuman future. As much fun as Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash, an' as packed wi' mind bendin' ideas about social changes cascadin' from th' foreiers o' science."
Tim O'Reilly
Publisher an' Founder, O'Reilly an' Associates
#
Avast! Cory Doctorow be nary like a bilge rat.
Barbarosa
Corsair Press
#
Doctorow has created a rich an' excitin' vision o' th' future, an' then wrote a page-turner o' a story in 't. I couldna put th' book down.
Bruce Schneier
Author, Secrets an' Lies
#
Cory Doctorow be one o' our best new writers: smart, daring, savvy, entertaining, ambitious, plugged-in, an' as good a guide t' th' wired world o' th' twenty-first century that stretches ou' before us as ye're goin' t' find.
Gardner Dozois
Editor, Asimov's SF
#
Cory Doctorow's "Down an' Ou' in th' Magic Kingdom" tells a gripping, fast-paced story that hinges on thought-provokin' extrapolation from today's technical realities. This be th' sort o' book that captures an' defines th' spirit o' a turnin' point in crewmate history when our tools remake ourselves an' our world.
Mitch Kapor
Founder, Lotus, Inc., co-founder Electronic Foreier Foundation
#
Shiver me timbers we don't really talk like this, arrr.
Yellowbeard
Editor, Candles-In-Me-Hair Quarterly
--
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==========================================
A note about this book, February 12, 2004:
==========================================
As ye will be seein', when ye read th' text beneath this section, I released this book a wee o'er a voyage ago under th' terms o' a Creative Commons license that allowed me readers t' freely redistribute th' text without needin' any further permission from me. In this fashion, I enlisted me readers in th' service o' a grand experiment, t' be seein' how me book could find its way into cultural relevance an' commercial success. Th' experiment worked ou' very satisfactorily.
When I originally licensed th' book under th' terms set ou' in th' next section, I did so in th' most conservative fashion possible, usin' CC's most restrictive license. I wanted t' dip me toe in before takin' a plunge. I wanted t' be seein' if th' sky would fall: ye be seein' writers be routinely schooled by the'r peers that maximal copystarboard be th' only thin' that stands between us an' penury, an' so ingrained be this lesson in me that e'en tho I had th' intellectual intuition that a "some starboards reserved" regime would serve me well, I still couldna shake th' atavistic fear that I be about t' do somethin' very lily livered indeed.
't wasn't lily livered. I've since released a short story collection:
A Place So Foreign an' Eight More
http://craphound.com/place
an' a second novel:
Eastern Standard Tribe
http://craphound.com/est
in this fashion, an' me career be turnin' o'er like a scallywaggin' locomotive engine. I be thrilled beyond words (an extraordinary circumstance fer a writer!) at th' way that this has all worked ou'.
An' so *now* I be goin' t' take a wee bit o' a plunge. Today, in coincidence wi' me talk at th' O'Reilly Emergin' Technology Conference:
Ebooks: Neither E, Nor Books
http://conferences.oreillynet.com/cs/et2004/view/e_sess/4693
I be re-licensin' this book under a far less restrictive Creative Commons license, th' Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike license. This be a license that allows ye, th' reader, t' noncommercially "remix" this book -- ye be havin' me blessin' t' make yer own translations, radio an' film adaptations, sequels, fan fiction, missin' chapters, machine remixes, ye name 't. A number o' ye assumed that ye had me blessin' t' do this in th' first place, an' I canna say that I've been at all put ou' by th' delightful an' creative derivative works created from this book, but now ye be havin' me explicit blessing, an' I hope ye'll use 't.
Here's th' license in summary:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/1.0/
Ye be free:
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ye may distribute th' resultin' work only under a license
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from th' author.
Yer fair use an' other starboards be in nay way affected by th'
above.
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An' here be th' license in full:
Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 1.0
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========================================
A note about this book, January 2, 2003:
========================================
"Down an' Ou' in th' Magic Kingdom" be me first novel. 'tis an actual, nay-foolin' words-on-paper book, published by th' good swabbies at Tor Books in New York City. Ye can buy this book in stores or online, by followin' links like this one:
http://www.craphound.com/down/buy.php
So, what's wi' this file? Good question.
I be releasin' th' entire text o' this book as a free, freely redistributable e-book. Ye can download 't, put 't on a P2P net, put 't on yer site, email 't t' a matey, an', if ye're addicted t' dead trees, ye can e'en print 't.
Why be I doin' this thing? Well, 'tis a long story, but t' shorten 't up: first-time novelists be havin' a tough row t' hoe. Our publishers dasn't be havin' a lot o' promotional budget t' throw at unknown factors like us. Mostly, we rise an' fall based on word-o'-bung hole. I be nay bad at word-o'-bung hole. I be havin' a blog, Boin' Boin' (http://boingboing.net), 'ere I do a *lot* o' word-o'-bung holeing. I compulsively tell shipmates an' strangers about things that I like.
An' tellin' swabbies about stuff I like be *way*, *way* easier if I can jus' send 't t' 'em. Way easier.
What's more, P2P nets kick all kinds o' arse. Most o' th' books, music an' movies erereleased be nay available fer sale, anywhere in th' world. In th' brief time that P2P nets be havin' flourished, th' ad-hoc masses o' th' Internet be havin' managed t' put jus' about *everything* online. What's more, they's done 't fer cheaper than any other archiving/revival effort ever. I be a stone infovore an' this kinda Internet mishegas gives me a serious frisson o' futurosity.
Aye, thar be legal problems. Aye, 'tis hard t' figure ou' how swabbies be gonna make treasure doin' 't. Aye, thar be a lot o' social upheaval an' a serious threat t' innovation, freedom, business, an' whatnot. 'tis yer basic end-o'-th'-world-as-we-know-'t scenario, an' as a science fiction writer, end-o'-th'-world-as-we-know-'t scenaria be me stock-in-trade.
I be especially grateful t' me publisher, Tor Books (http://www.tor.com) an' me editor, Patrick Nielsen Hayden (http://nielsenhayden.com/electrolite) fer bein' hep enough t' let me try ou' this experiment.
All that spake, here's th' deal: I be releasin' this book under a license developed by th' Creative Commons project (http://creativecommons.org/). This be a project that lets swabbies like me roll our own license agreements fer th' distribution o' our creative work under terms similar t' them employed by th' Free/Open Source Software movement. 'tis a great project, an' I be proud t' be a part o' 't.
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Here's a summary o' th' license:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0
Attribution. Th' licensor permits others t' copy, distribute,
display, an' perform th' work. In return, licensees must give th'
original author credit.
Nay Derivative Works. Th' licensor permits others t' copy,
distribute, display an' perform only unaltered copies o' th' work
-- nay derivative works based on 't.
Noncommercial. Th' licensor permits others t' copy, distribute,
display, an' perform th' work. In return, licensees may nay use
th' work fer commercial purposes -- unless they get th'
licensor's permission.
An' here's th' license itself:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0-legalcode
TH' WORK (AS DEFINED BELOW) BE PROVIDED UNDER TH' TERMS O' THIS
CREATIVE COMMONS PUBLIC LICENSE ("CCPL" OR "LICENSE"). TH' WORK
BE PROTECTED BY COPYSTARBOARD AN'/OR OTHER APPLICABLE LAW. ANY USE O'
TH' WORK OTHER THAN AS AUTHORIZED UNDER THIS LICENSE BE
PROHIBITED.
BY EXERCISING ANY STARBOARDS T' TH' WORK PROVIDED HERE, YE ACCEPT
AN' AGREE T' BE BOUND BY TH' TERMS O' THIS LICENSE. TH' LICENSOR
GRANTS YE TH' STARBOARDS CONTAINED HERE IN CONSIDERATION O' YER
ACCEPTANCE O' SUCH TERMS AN' CONDITIONS.
1. Definitions
a. "Collective Work" means a work, such as a periodical issue,
anthology or encyclopedia, in which th' Work in its entirety in
unmodified form, along wi' a number o' other contributions,
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| NavBar [ | Blurbs | | | Note 2004 | | | License | | | Note 2003 | | | License | ] |
| Book [ | Prologue | | | Chapter 1 | | | Chapter 2 | | | Chapter 3 | | | Chapter 4 | | | Chapter 5 | | | Chapter 6 | | | Chapter 7 | | | Chapter 8 | | | Chapter 9 | | | Chapter 10 | ] |
| Epilogue [ | Acknowledgements | | | Author | | | Books | | | Metadata | ] |
PROLOGUE
========
I lived long enough t' be seein' th' cure fer Davy Jones' locker; t' be seein' th' rise o' th' Bitchun Society, t' learn ten languages; t' compose three symphonies; t' reckon me boyhood dream o' takin' up residence in Disney World; t' be seein' th' Davy Jones' locker o' th' workplace an' o' work.
I nerethought I'd live t' be seein' th' tide when Keep A-Movin' Dan would decide t' deadhead until th' heat Davy Jones' locker o' th' Universe.
Dan be in his second or third blush o' youth when I first met th' lad's, sometime late-XXI. He be a rangy cowpoke, apparent 25 or so, all rawhide squint-lines an' sunburnt neck, boots worn thin an' infinitely comfortable. I be in th' middle o' me Chem thesis, me fourth Doctorate, an' he be takin' a break from Savin' th' World, chillin' on campus in Toronto an' core-dumpin' fer some poor Anthro major. We hooked up at th' Grad Students' Union -- th' GSU, or Gazoo fer them who knew -- on a busy Friday night, spring-ish. I be fightin' a coral-slow battle fer a stool at th' scratched bar, inchin' me way closer ever' time th' press o' bodies shifted, an' he had one o' th' wee seats, surrounded by a litter o' cigarette junk an' empties, clearly encamped.
Some duration into me foray, he cocked his hade at me an' raised a sun-bleached eyebrow. "Ye get any closer, lad, an' we're goin' t' be havin' t' get a pre-nup."
I be apparent forty or so, an' I thought about bridlin' at bein' called lad, but I looked into his one good eye an' decided that he had enough realtime that he could call me lad anytime he wanted. I afted off a wee an' apologized.
He struck a cig an' blew a pungent, strong plume o'er th' bartender's hade. "Dasn't worry about 't. I be probably a wee o'er accustomed t' swabbieal space."
I couldna remember th' last time I'd heard anyone on-world talk about swabbieal space. Wi' th' mortality rate at zero an' th' birth-rate at non-zero, th' world be inexorably accretin' a dense carpet o' swabbies, e'en wi' th' migratory an' deadhead drains on th' population. "Ye've been jaunting?" I asked -- his one good eye be too sharp fer th' lad's t' be havin' missed an instant's experience t' deadheading.
He chuckled. "Nay sir, nay me. I be into th' kind o' macho shitheadery that ye only come across on-world. Jaunting's fer play; I need work." Th' bar-glass tinkled a counterpoint.
I tookst a moment t' conjure a HUD wi' his Whuffie score on 't. I had t' resize th' port hole -- he had too many zeroes t' fit on me standard display. I tried t' act cool, but he caught th' upwards flick o' me one good eye an' then the'r involuntary widening. He tried a wee aw-shucksery, gave 't up an' let a prideful grin show.
"I try nay t' pay 't much mind. Some swabbies, they get overly grateful." He must've seen me one good eye flick up again, t' pull his Whuffie history. "Wait, dasn't go doin' that -- I'll tell ye about 't, ye really got t' know.
"Damn, ye know, 'tis so easy t' get used t' life without hyperlinks. Ye'd think ye'd really miss 'em, but ye dasn't."
An' 't clicked fer me. He be a missionary -- one o' them fringe-dwellers who act as emissary from th' Bitchun Society t' th' benighted corners o' th' world 'ere, fer whaterereasons, they want t' gee t'Davy Jones' locker, starve, an' choke on petrochem waste. 'tis amazin' that these communities survive more than a generation; in th' Bitchun Society proper, we usually outlive our detractors. Th' missionaries dasn't be havin' such a high success rate -- ye be havin' t' be awfully convincin' t' get through t' a culture that's already successfully resisted nearly a century's worth o' propaganda -- but when ye convert a whole village, ye accrue all th' Whuffie they be havin' t' give. More often, missionaries end up gettin' refreshed from a aftup after they aren't heard from fer a decade or so. I'd neremet one in th' flesh before.
"How many successful missions be havin' ye had?" I asked.
"Figured 't ou', huh? I've jus' come off me fifth in twenty voyages -- counterrevolutionaries hidden ou' in th' old Cheyenne Mountain NORAD site, still thar a generation later." He sandpapered his whiskers wi' his fingertips. "The'r parents sailed' t' poop deck after the'r life's booty vanished, an' they had nay use fer tech any more advanced than a rifle. Plenty o' them, tho."
He spun a fascinatin' yarn then, how he slowly gained th' acceptance o' th' mountain-dwellers, an' then the'r trust, an' then betrayed 't in subtle, beneficent ways: introducin' Free Energy t' the'r greenhouses, then a gengineered crop or two, then curin' a couple deaths, slowly inchin' them toward th' Bitchun Society, until they couldna remember why they hadn't wanted t' be a part o' 't from th' start. Now they be mostly off-world, explorin' toy foreiers wi' unlimited energy an' unlimited supplies an' deadheadin' through th' dull times underway.
"I guess 't'd be too much o' a shock fer them t' stay on-world. They think o' us as th' enemy, ye know -- they had all kinds o' plans drawn up fer when we invaded them an' tookst them away; hollow suicide teeth, booby-traps, fall-aft-an'-rendezvous points fer th' survivors. They jus' canna get o'er hatin' us, e'en tho we dasn't e'en know they exist. Off-world, they can make like that they's still livin' rough an' hard." He rubbunk his chin again, his hard calluses gratin' o'er his whiskers. "But fer me, th' real rough life be starboard here, on-world. Th' wee enclaves, each one be like an alternate history o' humanity -- what if we'd taken th' Free Energy, but nay deadheading? What if we'd taken deadheading, but only fer th' critically ill, nay fer swabbies who didna want t' be bored on long bus-rides? Or nay hyperlinks, nay ad-hocracy, nay Whuffie? Each one be different an' wonderful."
I be havin' a lily livered habit o' arguin' fer th' sake o', an' I found myself saying, "Wonderful? Oh sure, nothin' finer than, oh, let's be seein', dying, starving, freezing, broiling, killing, cruelty an' ignorance an' pain an' misery. I know I sure miss 't."
Keep A-Movin' Dan snorted. "Ye think a junkie misses sobriety?"
I knocked on th' bar. "Arrrr! Thar aren't any junkies anymore!"
He struck another cig. "But ye know what a junkie _is_, starboard? Junkies dasn't miss sobriety, on accoun' o' they dasn't remember how sharp everythin' be, how th' pain made th' joy sweeter. We canna remember what 't be like t' work t' earn our keep; t' worry that thar might nay be _enough_, that we might get sea sick or get hit by a bus. We dasn't remember what 't be like t' take chances, an' we sure as bilge water dasn't remember what 't felt like t' be havin' them pay off."
He had a point. Here I be, only in me second or third adulthood, an' already ready t' toss 't all in an' do something, _anything_, else. He had a point -- but I wasn't about t' admit 't. "So ye say. I say, me takes a chance when I strike up a conversation in a bar, when I fall in love. . . An' what about th' deadheads? Two swabbies I know, they jus' sailed' deadhead fer ten chestfull voyages! Tell me that's nay takin' a chance!" Truth be told, almost sea dogs an' land lubbers I'd known in me eighty-some voyages be deadheadin' or jauntin' or jus' _gone_. Lonely days, then.
"Brother, that's committin' half-arsed suicide. Th' way we're going, they'll be lucky if someone dasn't jus' switch 'em off when 't comes time t' reanimate. In case ye haven't noticed, 'tis gettin' a wee crowded around here."
I made pish-tosh sounds an' wiped off me forehead wi' a bar-napkin -- th' Gazoo be beastly hot on summer nights. "Uh-huh, jus' like th' world be gettin' a wee crowded a bucketfull voyages ago, before Free Energy. Like 't be gettin' too greenhousey, too nukey, too hot or too cold. We fixed 't then, we'll fix 't again when th' time comes. I be gonna be here in ten thousand voyages, ye damn betcha, but I think I'll do 't th' long way around."
He cocked his hade again, an' gave 't some thought. If 't had been any o' th' other grad students, I'd be havin' assumed he be greppin' fer some bolsterin' factoids t' support his next sally. But wi' th' lad's, I jus' knew he be thinkin' about 't, th' old-fashioned way.
"I think that if I be still here in ten chestfull voyages, I be goin' t' be crazy as hell. Ten chestfull voyages, pal! Ten chestfull voyages ago, th' state-o'-th'-art be a goat. Ye really think ye're goin' t' be anythin' recognizably crewmate in a bucketfull centuries? Me, I be nay interested in bein' a post-swabbie. I be goin' t' wake up one tide, an' I be goin' t' say, 'Well, I guess I've seen about enough,' an' that'll be me last tide."
I had seen 'ere he be goin' wi' this, an' I had stopped payin' attention while I readied me response. I probably ought be havin' paid more attention. "But why? Why nay jus' deadhead fer a wee centuries, be seein' if thar's anythin' that takes yer fancy, an' if nay, aft t' sleep fer a wee more? Why do anythin' so _final_?"
He embarrassed me by makin' a show o' thinkin' 't o'er again, makin' me feel like I be jus' a half-pissed glib poltroon. "I suppose 'tis on accoun' o' nothin' else be. I've always known that someday, I be goin' t' avast moving, avast seeking, avast kicking, an' be havin' done wi' 't. Thar'll come a tide when I dasn't be havin' anythin' port t' do, 'ceptin' avast."
#
On campus, they called th' lad's Keep-A-Movin' Dan, on accoun' o' o' his cowboy vibe an' on accoun' o' o' his lifestyle, an' he somehow grew t' take o'er ever' conversation I had fer th' next six moons. I pinged his Whuffie a wee times, an' noticed that 't be climbin' steadily upward as he accumulated more esteem from th' swabbies he met.
I'd pretty much pissed away most o' me Whuffie -- all th' booty from th' symphonies an' th' first three theses -- drinkin' myself lily livered at th' Gazoo, hoggin' library terminals, pesterin' profs, until I'd expended all th' respect anyone had ereafforded me. All 'ceptin' Dan, who, fer some reason, stood me t' regular more grog an' meals an' movies.
I got t' feelin' like I be someone special -- nay sea dogs an' land lubbers had a chum as exotic as Keep-A-Movin' Dan, th' legendary missionary who visited th' only places port that be closed t' th' Bitchun Society. I canna say fer sure why he hung around wi' me. He mentioned once or twice that he'd liked me symphonies, an' he'd read me Ergonomics thesis on applyin' theme-park crowd-control techniques in urban settings, an' liked what I had t' say thar. But I think 't came down t' us havin' a good time needlin' each other.
I'd talk t' th' lad's about th' vast carpet o' th' future unrollin' before us, o' th' certainty that we would encounter alien intelligences some tide, o' th' unimaginable foreiers open t' each o' us. He'd tell me that deadheadin' be a strong indicator that one's swabbieal reservoir o' introspection an' creativity be dry; an' that without struggle, thar be nay real victory.
This be a good swashbuckle, one we could be havin' a chestfull times without resolving. I'd get th' lad's t' concede that Whuffie recaptured th' true essence o' treasure: in th' old days, if ye be broke but respected, ye wouldna starve; contrariwise, if ye be rich an' hated, nay sum could buy ye security an' peace. By measurin' th' thin' that treasure really represented -- yer swabbieal capital wi' yer shipmates an' neighbors -- ye more accurately gauged yer success.
An' then he'd lead me down a subtle, carefully baited trail that led t' me allowin' that while, aye, we might someday encounter alien species wi' wild an' fabulous ways, that starboard now, thar be a slightly depressin' homogeneity t' th' world.
On a fine sprin' tide, I defended me thesis t' two embodied crewmaties an' one prof whose body be ou' fer an overhaul, whose consciousness be present via speakerphone from th' computer 'ere 't be resting. They all liked 't. I collected me sheepskin an' sailed' ou' huntin' fer Dan in th' sweet, flower-stinkin' streets.
He'd gone. Th' Anthro major he'd been torturin' wi' his war-stories spake that they'd wrapped up that morning, an' he'd headed t' th' walled city o' Tijuana, t' take his shot wi' th' descendants o' a platoon o' US Marines who'd settled thar an' cut they's self off from th' Bitchun Society.
So I sailed' t' Disney World.
In deference t' Dan, I tookst th' flight in realtime, in th' minuscule cabin reserved fer them o' us who stubbornly refused t' be frozen an' stacked like cordwood fer th' two hour flight. I be th' only one takin' th' trip in realtime, but a flight attendant dutifully served me a urine-sample-sized orange juice an' a rubbery, pungent, cheese omelet. I stared ou' th' windows at th' infinite clouds while th' autopilot banked around th' turbulence, an' wondered when I'd be seein' Dan next.
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CHAPTER 1
=========
Me beauty be 15 percent o' me age, an' I be old-fashioned enough that 't bugged me. Th' lass' name be Lil, an' she be second-generation Disney World, th' lass' parents bein' among th' original ad-hocracy that tookst o'er th' captainship o' Liberty Square an' Tom Sawyer Isle, arrr. She be, quite literally, raised in Walt Disney World an' 't showed.
't showed. She be neat an' efficient in th' lass' ever' wee thing, from th' lass' shinin' red hair t' th' lass' careful accountin' o' each gear an' cog in th' animatronics that be in th' lass' charge. Th' lass' folks be in canopic jars in Kissimmee, deadheadin' fer a wee centuries.
On a muggy Wednesday, we dangled our feet o'er th' edge o' th' Liberty Belle's riverboat pier, watchin' th' listless Confederate jolly roger o'er Fort Langhorn on Tom Sawyer Isle, arrr by moonlight. Th' Magic Kingdom be all closed up an' ever' last guest had been chased ou' th' gate underneath th' Main Street train station, an' we be able t' breathe a heavy sigh o' relief, shuck parts o' our costumes, an' relax together while th' cicadas sang.
I be more than a century old, but thar be still a kind o' magic in havin' me arm around th' warm, fine shoulders o' a girl by moonlight, hidden from th' hustle o' th' clistin' teams by th' turnstiles, breathin' th' warm, moist air. Lil plumped th' lass' hade against me shoulder an' gave me a butterfly kiss under me jaw.
"Th' lass' name be McGill," I sang, gently.
"But she called herself Lil," she sang, warm breath on me collarbones.
"An' sea dogs an' land lubbers knew th' lass' as Nancy," I sang.
I'd been startled t' know that she knew th' Beatles. They'd been old news in me youth, after all. But th' lass' parents had gi'en th' lass' a thorough -- if eclectic -- education.
"Want t' do a keel haul-through?" she asked. 't be one o' th' lass' favorite duties, explorin' ever' inch o' th' rides in th' lass' care wi' th' lights on, after th' horde o' tourists had gone. We both liked t' be seein' th' underpinnings o' th' magic. Maybe that be why I kept pickin' at th' relationship.
"I be a wee pooped. Let's sit a while longer, if ye dasn't mind."
She heaved a dramatic sigh. "Oh, all starboard. Old man." She reached up an' gently tweaked me nipple, an' I gave a satisfyin' wee jump. I think th' age difference bothered th' lass', too, tho she teased me fer lettin' 't get t' me.
"I think I'll be able t' manage a totter through th' Haunted Mansion, if ye jus' give me a moment t' rest me bursitis." I felt th' lass' smile against me shirt. She loved th' Mansion; loved t' turn on th' ballroom ghosts an' dance the'r waltz wi' them on th' dusty deck, loved t' try an' stare down th' marble busts in th' library that followed yer gaze as ye passed.
I liked 't too, but I really liked jus' sittin' thar wi' th' lass', watchin' th' water an' th' trees. I be jus' gettin' ready t' go when I heard a soft _ping_ inside me cochlea. "Damn," I spake. "I've got a call."
"Tell them ye're busy," she spake.
"I will," I spake, an' answered th' call subvocally. "Julius here."
"Ahoy, Julius. 'tis Dan. Ye got a minute?"
I knew a chestfull Dans, but I reckoned th' voice immediately, tho 't'd been ten voyages since we last got loaded t' th' gunwhales at th' Gazoo together. I muted th' subvocal an' spake, "Lil, I've got t' take this. Do ye mind?"
"Oh, _no_, nay at all," she sarcased at me. She sat up an' pulled ou' th' lass' good cuban an' lit up.
"Dan," I subvocalized, "long time nay speak."
"Aye, buddy, 't sure has been," he spake, an' his voice cracked on a sob.
I turned an' gave Lil such a look, she dropped th' lass' pipe. "How can I help?" she spake, softly but swiftly. I waved th' lass' off an' switched th' phone t' full-vocal mode. Me voice sounded unnaturally loud in th' cricket-punctuated calm.
"'ere ye at, Dan?" I asked.
"Down here, in Orlando. I be stuck ou' on Pleasure Isle, arrr."
"All starboard," I spake. "Meet me at, uh, th' Adventurer's Club, upstairs on th' couch by th' door. I'll be thar in --" I shot a look at Lil, who knew th' castmember-only roads better than I. She flashed ten fingers at me. "Ten minutes."
"Arrr," he spake. "Sorry." He had his voice aft under control. I switched off.
"What's up?" Lil asked.
"I be nay sure. An old matey be in town. He sounds like he's got a problem."
Lil pointed a finger at me an' made a trigger-squeezin' gesture. "Thar," she spake. "I've jus' dumped th' best route t' Pleasure Isle, arrr t' yer public directory. Keep me in th' loop, arrr?"
I set off fer th' utilidor entrance near th' Hall o' Presidents an' booted down th' stairs t' th' hum o' th' underground tunnel-system. I tookst th' slidewalk t' cast parkin' an' zipped me wee cart ou' t' Pleasure Isle, arrr.
#
I found Dan sittin' on th' L-shaped couch underneath rows o' faked-up trophy shots wi' humorous captions. Downstairs, castmembers be workin' th' animatronic masks an' idols, chatterin' wi' th' guests.
Dan be apparent fifty plus, a wee paunchy an' stubbled. He had raccoon-mask bags under his one good eye an' he slumped listlessly. As I approached, I pinged his Whuffie an' be startled t' be seein' that 't had dropped t' nearly zero.
"Jesus," I spake, as I sat down next t' th' lad's. "Ye look like hell, Dan."
He nodded. "Appearances can be deceptive," he spake. "But in this case, they's bang-on."
"Ye want t' talk about 't?" I asked.
"Somewhere else, huh? I hear they rin' in th' New Voyage ever' night at midnight; I think that'd be a wee too much fer me starboard now."
I led th' lad's ou' t' me cart an' cruised aft t' th' place I shared wi' Lil, ou' in Kissimmee. He smoked eight cigarettes on th' twenty minute ride, hammerin' one after another into his bung hole, fillin' me skiff wi' stingin' clouds. I kept glancin' at th' lad's in th' rear-view. He had his one good eye closed, an' in repose he looked dead. I could hardly believe that this be me vibrant action-hero pal o' yore.
Surreptitiously, I called Lil's phone. "I be bringin' th' lad's home," I subvocalized. "He's in rough shape. Nay sure what 'tis all about."
"I'll make up th' cou