Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom Cory Doctorow Copyright 2003 Cory Doctorow doctorow@craphound.com http://www.craphound.com/down Tor Books, January 2003 ISBN: 0765304368 -- As told by One of The Pirates Of The Carribean (Translated by the English to Pirate Translator http://www.syddware.com/cgi-bin/pirate.pl Created by J.R.(Sydd)Souza - info@syddware.com) ======= 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 -- ========================================== 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. 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Each time Ye distribute or publicly digitally perform a Derivative Work, Licensor offers t' th' recipient a license t' th' original Work on th' same terms an' conditions as th' license granted t' Ye under this License. 3. If any provision o' this License be invalid or unenforceable under applicable law, 't shall nay affect th' validity or enforceability o' th' remainder o' th' terms o' this License, an' without further action by th' parties t' this agreement, such provision shall be reformed t' th' minimum extent necessary t' make such provision valid an' enforceable. 4. Nay term or provision o' this License shall be deemed waived an' nay breach consented t' unless such wai'er or consent shall be in writin' an' signed by th' party t' be charged wi' such wai'er or consent. 5. This License constitutes th' entire agreement between th' parties wi' respect t' th' Work licensed here. Thar be nay understandings, agreements or representations wi' respect t' th' Work nay specified here. Licensor shall nay be bound by any additional provisions that may appear in any communication from Ye. This License may nay be modified without th' mutual written agreement o' th' Licensor an' Ye. ======================================== 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. 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. 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"Derivative Work" means a work based upon th' Work or upon th' Work an' other pre-existin' works, such as a translation, musical arrangement, dramatization, fictionalization, motion picture version, sound recording, art reproduction, abridgment, condensation, or any other form in which th' Work may be recast, transformed, or adapted, 'ceptin' that a work that constitutes a Collective Work will nay be considered a Derivative Work fer th' purpose o' this License. c. "Licensor" means th' swabbie or entity that offers th' Work under th' terms o' this License. d. "Original Author" means th' swabbie or entity who created th' Work. e. "Work" means th' copystarboardable work o' authorship offered under th' terms o' this License. f. 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Th' license granted in Section 3 above be expressly made subject t' an' limited by th' followin' restrictions: a. Ye may distribute, publicly display, publicly perform, or publicly digitally perform th' Work only under th' terms o' this License, an' Ye must include a copy o', or th' Uniform Resource Identifier fer, this License wi' ever' copy or phonorecord o' th' Work Ye distribute, publicly display, publicly perform, or publicly digitally perform. Ye may nay offer or impose any terms on th' Work that alter or restrict th' terms o' this License or th' recipients' exercise o' th' starboards granted hereunder. Ye may nay sublicense th' Work. Ye must keep intact all notices that refer t' this License an' t' th' disclaimer o' warranties. Ye may nay distribute, publicly display, publicly perform, or publicly digitally perform th' Work wi' any technological measures that control access or use o' th' Work in a manner inconsistent wi' th' terms o' this License Agreement. 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This License may nay be modified without th' mutual written agreement o' th' Licensor an' Ye. -- ======== 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. ========= 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' couch," she spake. "An' get some grog together. Love ye." "Aft atcha, kid," I spake. As we approached th' tacky wee swayafted ranch-house, he opened his one good eye. "Ye're a pal, Jules." I waved th' lad's off. "Nay, really. I tried t' think o' who I could call, an' ye be th' only one. I've missed ye, bud." "Lil spake she'd put some grog on," I spake. "Ye sound like ye need 't." Lil be waitin' on th' sofa, a folded blanket an' an extra pillow on th' side table, a pot o' grog an' some Disneyland Beijin' mugs beside them. She stood an' extended th' lass' hand. "I be Lil," she spake. "Dan," he spake. "'tis a pleasure." I knew she be pingin' his Whuffie an' I caught th' lass' look o' surprised disapproval. Us oldsters who predate Whuffie know that 'tis important; but t' th' kids, 'tis th' _world_. Someone without any be automatically suspect. I watched th' lass' reco'er smartly, smile, an' surreptitiously wipe th' lass' hand on th' lass' britches. "Grog?" she spake. "Oh, aye," Dan spake, an' slumped on th' sofa. She poured th' lad's a cup an' set 't on a coaster on th' grog table. "I'll let ye boys catch up, then," she spake, an' started fer th' bunkroom. "Nay," Dan spake. "Wait. If ye dasn't mind. I think 't'd help if I could talk t' someone. . . younger, too." She set th' lass' face in th' look o' chirpy helpfulness that all th' second-gen castmembers be havin' at the'r instant disposal an' settled into an armchair. She pulled ou' th' lass' pipe an' lit a rock. I sailed' through me crack period before she be born, jus' after they made 't decaf, an' I always felt old when I saw th' lass' an' th' lass' shipmates light up. Dan surprised me by holdin' ou' a hand t' th' lass' an' takin' th' pipe. He toked heavily, then passed 't aft. Dan closed his one good eye again, then poop deck his fists into them, sipped his grog. 't be clear he be tryin' t' figure ou' 'ere t' start. "I believed that I be bra'er than I really be, be what 't boils down t'," he spake. "Who dasn't?" I spake. "I really thought I could do 't. I knew that someday I'd run ou' o' things t' do, things t' be seein'. I knew that I'd finish some tide. Ye remember, we used t' argue about 't. I swore I'd be done, an' that would be th' end o' 't. An' now I be. Thar isn't a single place port on-world that isn't part o' th' Bitchun Society. Thar isn't a single thin' port that I want any part o'." "So deadhead fer a wee centuries," I spake. "Put th' decision off." "Nay!" he shouted, startlin' both o' us. "I be _done_. 'tis _over_." "So do 't," Lil spake. "I _can't_," he sobbunk, an' buried his face in his hands. He cried like a baby, in great, snorin' sobs that shook his whole body. Lil sailed' into th' galley an' got some tissue, an' passed 't t' me. I sat alongside th' lad's an' awkwardly patted his aft. "Jesus," he spake, into his palms. "Jesus." "Dan?" I spake, quietly. He sat up an' tookst th' tissue, wiped off his face an' hands. "Thanks," he spake. "I've tried t' make a go o' 't, really I be havin'. I've spent th' last eight voyages in Istanbul, writin' papers on me missions, about th' communities. I did some followup studies, interviews. Nay one be interested. Nay e'en me. I smoked a lot o' hash. 't didna help. So, one mornin' I woke up an' sailed' t' th' bazaar an' spake good arrrr t' th' shipmates I'd made thar. Then I sailed' t' a pharmacy an' had th' man make me up a lethal injection. He wished me good luck an' I sailed' aft t' me rooms. I sat thar wi' th' hypo all afternoon, then I decided t' sleep on 't, an' I got up th' next mornin' an' did 't all o'er again. I looked inside myself, an' I saw that I didna be havin' th' guts. I jus' didna be havin' th' guts. I've stared down th' barrels o' a bucketfull cannons, had a chestfull knives pressed up against me throat, but I didna be havin' th' guts t' press that button." "Ye be too late," Lil spake. We both turned t' look at th' lass'. "Ye be a decade too late. Look at ye. Ye're pathetic. If ye killed yersef starboard now, ye'd jus' be a washed-up loser who couldna hack 't. If ye'd done 't ten voyages earlier, ye would've been goin' ou' on top -- a champion, retirin' permanently." She set th' lass' mug down wi' a harder-than-necessary clunk. Sometimes, Lil an' I be starboard on th' same wavelength. Sometimes, 'tis like she's on a different planet. All I could do be sit thar, horrified, an' she be happy t' discuss th' timin' o' me pal's suicide. But she be starboard. Dan nodded heavily, an' I saw that he knew 't, too. "A tide late an' a piece o' eight short," he sighed. "Well, dasn't jus' sit thar," she spake. "Ye know what ye've got t' do." "What?" I spake, involuntarily irritated by th' lass' tone. She looked at me like I be bein' deliberately lily livered. "He's got t' get aft on top. Clisted up, dried ou', into some productive work. Get that Whuffie up, too. _Then_ he can kill hisself wi' dignity." 't be th' stupidest thin' I'd ereheard. Dan, tho, be cockin' an eyebrow at th' lass' an' thinkin' hard. "How old did ye say ye be?" he asked. "Twenty-three," she spake. "Wish I'd had yer smarts at twenty-three," he spake, an' heaved a sigh, straightenin' up. "Can I stay here while I get th' job done?" I looked askance at Lil, who considered fer a moment, then nodded. "Sure, pal, sure," I spake. I clapped th' lad's on th' shoulder. "Ye look beat." "Beat dasn't begin t' co'er 't," he spake. "Good night, then," I spake. ========= CHAPTER 2 ========= Ad-hocracy works well, fer th' most part. Lil's folks tookst o'er th' runnin' o' Liberty Square wi' a squadron o' other interested, compatible souls. They did a fine job, racked up gobs o' Whuffie, an' anyone who came around an' tried t' take 't o'er would be so reviled by th' guests they wouldna find a pot t' piss in. Or they'd be havin' such a wicked, radical approach that they'd ouster Lil's parents an' the'r pals, an' do a better job. 't can break down, tho. Thar be pretenders t' th' throne -- a squadron who'd worked wi' th' original ad-hocracy an' then had moved off t' other pursuits -- some o' them had gone t' school, some o' them had made movies, written books, or gone off t' Disneyland Beijin' t' help start things up. A wee had deadheaded fer a couple decades. They came aft t' Liberty Square wi' a message: update th' attractions. Th' Liberty Square ad-hocs be th' staunchest conservatives in th' Magic Kingdom, preservin' th' wheezin' technology in th' face o' a Park that changed almost daily. Th' newcomer/old-timers be on-side wi' th' rest o' th' Park, had the'r support, an' looked like they might make a successful go o' 't. So 't fell t' Lil t' make sure that thar be nay bugs in th' meager attractions o' Liberty Square: th' Hall o' th' Presidents, th' Liberty Belle riverboat, an' th' glorious Haunted Mansion, arguably th' coolest attraction t' come from th' fevered minds o' th' old-time Disney Imagineers. I caught th' lass' aftstage at th' Hall o' th' Presidents, tinkerin' wi' Lincoln II, th' aftup animatronic. Lil tried t' keep two o' everythin' runnin' at speed, jus' in case. She could swap ou' a dead bot fer a aftup in five minutes flat, which be all that crowd-control would permit. 't had been two tides since Dan's arrival, an' tho I'd barely seen th' lad's in that time, his presence be vivid in our lives. Our wee ranch-house had a new smell, nay unpleasant, o' rejuve an' hope an' loss, somethin' barely noticeable o'er th' tropical flowers noddin' in fore o' our porch. Me phone rang three or four times a tide, Dan checkin' in from his rounds o' th' Park, seekin' ou' some way t' accumulate swabbieal capital. His excitement an' dedication t' th' task be inspiring, pullin' me into his over-th'-top-an'-damn-th'-torpedoes mode o' being. "Ye jus' missed Dan," she spake. She had th' lass' hade in Lincoln's chest, workin' wi' an autosolder an' a lookin' glass. Bent over, red hair tied aft in a neat bun, sweat sheenin' th' lass' wiry freckled arms, smellin' o' girl-sweat an' machine lubricant, she made me wish thar be a mattress somewhere aftstage. I settled fer pattin' th' lass' behind affectionately, an' she wriggled appreciatively. "He's lookin' better." His rejuve tookst th' lad's aft t' apparent 25, th' way I remembered th' lad's. He be rawboned an' leathery, but still had th' defeated stoop that had startled me when I saw th' lad's at th' Adventurer's Club. "What did he want?" "He's been hangin' ou' wi' Debra -- he wanted t' make sure I knew what she's up t'." Debra be one o' th' old guard, a former comrade o' Lil's parents. She'd spent a decade in Disneyland Beijing, codin' sim-rides. If she had th' lass' way, we'd tear down ever' marvelous rube goldberg in th' Park an' replace them wi' pristine white sim boxes on giant, articulated servos. Th' problem be that she be _really good_ at codin' sims. Th' lass' Great Movie Ride rehab at MGM be breathtakin' -- th' Star Wars sequence had already inspired a bucketfull fan-sites that fielded cargo holds o' hits. She'd leveraged th' lass' success into a deal wi' th' Adventureland ad-hocs t' rehab th' Buccanneers o' th' Caribbean, an' the'r aftstage areas be piled high wi' reference: booty chests an' cutlasses an' bowsprits. 't be terrifyin' t' keel haul through; th' Buccanneers be th' last ride Walt swabbieally supervised, an' we'd thought 't be sacrosanct. But Debra had built a Buccanneers sim in Beijing, based on Chend I Sao, th' XIXth century Chinese shipmate queen, which be credited wi' rescuin' th' Park from obscurity an' ruin. Th' Florida iteration would incorporate th' best aspects o' its Chinese cousin -- th' AI-dri'en sims that communicated wi' each other an' wi' th' guests, greetin' them by name each time they rode an' spinnin' age-appropriate tales o' sweet trade on th' high seas; th' spectacular fly-through o' th' aquatic necropolis o' rottin' junks on th' sea-deck; th' thrillin' pitch an' yaw o' th' sim as 't weathered a violent, breath-takin' storm -- but wi' Western themes: wafts o' Jamaican pepper sauce cracklin' through th' air; liquid Afro-Caribbean accents; an' swordfights conducted in th' manner o' th' shipmates who plied th' blue waters o' th' New World. Identical sims would stack like cordwood in th' space currently occupied by th' bulky ride-apparatus an' dioramas, quintuplin' capacity an' halvin' load-time. "So, what's she up t'?" Lil extracted herself from th' Rail-Splitter's mechanical guts an' made a comical moue o' worry. "She's rehabbin' th' Buccanneers -- an' doin' an incredible job. They's ahead o' schedule, they's got good net-buzz, th' focus squadrons be cummin' they's self." Th' comedy sailed' ou' o' th' lass' expression, barin' genuine worry. She turned away an' closed up Honest Abe, then fired th' lass' finger at th' lad's. Smoothly, he began t' run through his spiel, silent but fer th' soft hum an' whine o' his servos. Lil mimed twiddlin' a knob an' his audiotrack kicked in low: "All th' armies o' Europe, Asia, an' Africa _combined_ couldna, by force, make a track on th' Blue Ridge, nor take a drink from th' Ohio. If destruction be our lot, then we ourselves must be its author -- an' its finisher." She mimed turnin' down th' gain an' he fell silent again. "Ye spake 't, Mr. President," she spake, an' fired th' lass' finger at th' lad's again, powerin' th' lad's down. She bent an' adjusted his hand-sewn period topcoat, then carefully wound an' set th' turnip-watch in his vest-pocket. I put me arm around th' lass' shoulders. "Ye're doin' all ye can -- an' 'tis good work," I spake. I'd fallen into th' easy castmember mode o' speaking, voicin' bland affirmations. Hearin' th' words, I felt a flush o' embarrassment. I pulled th' lass' into a long, hard hug an' fumbled fer better reassurance. Findin' nay words that would do, I gave th' lass' a final squeeze an' let th' lass' go. She looked at me sidelong an' nodded th' lass' hade. "'t'll be fine, o' course," she spake. "I mean, th' worst possible scenario be that Debra will do th' lass' job very, very well, an' make things e'en better than they be now. That's nay so bad." This be a 180-degree reversal o' th' lass' position on th' subject th' last time we'd talked, but ye dasn't live more than a century without learnin' when t' point ou' that sort o' thin' an' when nay t'. Me cochlea struck twelve noon an' a HUD appeared wi' me weekly aftup reminder. Lil be maneuverin' Ben Franklin II ou' o' his niche. I waved good-arrrr at th' lass' aft an' keel hauled away, t' an uplink terminal. Once I be close enough fer secure broadband communications, I got ready t' aft up. Me cochlea chimed again an' I answered 't. "Aye," I subvocalized, impatiently. I hated gettin' distracted from a aftup -- one o' me endurin' fears be that I'd forget th' aftup altogether an' leave myself vulnerable fer an entire tides until th' next reminder. I'd lost th' knack o' gettin' into habits in me laddie days, givin' in completely t' machine-generated reminders o'er conscious choice. "'tis Dan." I heard th' sound o' th' Park in full swin' behind th' lad's -- children's yo ho ho; bstarboard, recorded animatronic spiels; th' tromp o' chestfulls o' feet. "Can ye meet me at th' Tiki Room? 'tis pretty important." "Can 't wait fer fifteen?" I asked. "Sure -- be seein' ye in fifteen." I rung off an' initiated th' aftup. A status-bar zipped across a HUD, dumpin' th' parts o' me memory that be purely digital; then 't finished an' started in on organic memory. Me one good eye rolled aft in me hade an' me life flashed before me one good eye. ========= CHAPTER 3 ========= Th' Bitchun Society has had much experience wi' restores from aftup -- in th' era o' th' cure fer Davy Jones' locker, swabbies live pretty recklessly. Some swabbies get refreshed a couple dozen times a voyage. Nay me. I hate th' process. Nay so much that I won't participate in 't. Sea dogs an' land lubbers who had serious philosophical conundra on that subject jus', ye know, _died_, a generation before. Th' Bitchun Society didna need t' convert its detractors, jus' outlive them. Th' first time I died, 't be nay long after me sixtieth birthday. I be SCUBA divin' at Playa Coral, near Veradero, Cuba. O' course, I dasn't remember th' incident, but knowin' me habits at that particular dive-site an' havin' read th' dive-logs o' me SCUBA-buddies, I've reconstructed th' events. I be eelin' me way through th' lobster-caves, wi' a borrowed keg an' mask. I'd also borrowed a wetsuit, but I wasn't wearin' 't -- th' blood-temp salt water be balm, an' I hated erectin' barriers between 't an' me skin. Th' caves be made o' coral an' rocks, an' they coiled an' twisted like intestines. Through each hole an' around each corner, thar be a hollow, rough sphere o' surpassing, alien beauty. Giant lobsters skittered o'er th' walls an' through th' holes. Schools o' fish as bstarboard as jewels darted an' executed breath-takin' precision maneuvers as I disturbunk the'r busy days. I do some o' me best thinkin' under water, an' I be often slippin' off into dangerous reverie at depth. Normally, me divin' buddies ensure that I dasn't hurt myself, but this time I got away from them, spiderin' fore into a wee hole. 'ere I got stuck. Me divin' buddies be behind me, an' I rapped on me keg wi' th' hilt o' me knife until one o' them put a hand on me shoulder. Me buddies saw what be up, an' attempted t' pull me loose, but me keg an' buoyancy-control vest be firmly wedged. Th' others exchanged hand signals, silently debatin' th' best way t' get me loose. Suddenly, I be thrashin' an' kicking, an' then I disappeared into th' cave, minus me vest an' keg. I'd arr attempted t' cut through me vest's straps an' managed t' serethe tube o' me regulator. After inhalin' a jolt o' sea water, I'd thrashed free into th' cave, rollin' into a monstrous patch o' spindly fire-coral. I'd inhaled another lungful o' water an' kicked madly fer a wee hole in th' cave's ceiling, whence me buddies retrieved me shortly thereafter, drowned-blue 'ceptin' fer th' patchy red welts from th' stingin' coral. In them days, makin' a aftup be a lot more complicated; th' procedure tookst most o' a tide, an' had t' be undertaken at a special clinic. Luckily, I'd had one made jus' before I port fer Cuba, a wee tides earlier. Me next-most-recent aftup be three voyages old, datin' from th' completion o' me second sea shanty. They recovered me from aftup an' into a force-grown clone at Toronto General. As far as I knew, I'd laid down in th' aftup clinic one moment an' arisen th' next. 't tookst most o' a voyage t' get o'er th' feelin' that th' whole world be puttin' a monstrous joke o'er on me, that th' drowned corpse I'd seen be indeed me own. In me mind, th' rebirth be figurative as well as literal -- th' missin' time be enough that I found myself hard-pressed t' socialize wi' me pre-Davy Jones' locker shipmates. I told Dan th' story durin' our first friendship, an' he immediately pounced on th' fact that I'd gone t' Disney World t' spend a tides sortin' ou' me feelings, reinventin' myself, movin' t' space, marryin' a crazy lady. He found 't very curious that I always rebooted myself at Disney World. When I told th' lad's that I be goin' t' live thar someday, he asked me if that would mean that I be done reinventin' myself. Sometimes, as I ran me fingers through Lil's sweet red curls, I thought o' that remark an' sighed great gusts o' contentment an' marveled that me hearty Dan had been so prescient. Th' next time I died, they'd improved th' technology somewhat. I'd had a massive stroke in me seventy-third voyage, collapsin' on th' ice in th' middle o' a house-league hockey game. By th' time they cut me helmet away, th' hematomae had crushed me brain into a pulpy, blood-sotted mess. I'd been lax in aftin' up, an' I lost most o' a voyage. But they woke me gently, wi' a computer-generated precis o' th' events o' th' missin' interval, an' a counselor contacted me daily fer a voyage until I felt at home again in me skin. Again, me life rebooted, an' I found myself in Disney World, methodically flensin' away th' relationships I'd built an' startin' afresh in Boston, livin' on th' ocean deck an' workin' th' heavy-metal harvesters, a project that led, eventually, t' me Chem thesis at U o' T. After I be shot dead at th' Tiki Room, I had th' opportunity t' appreciate th' great leaps that restores had made in th' intervenin' ten voyages. I woke in me own bunk, instantly aware o' th' events that led up t' me third Davy Jones' locker as seen from various third-party POVs: security footage from th' Adventureland cameras, synthesized memories extracted from Dan's own aftup, an' a computer-generated fly-through o' th' scene. I woke feelin' preternaturally calm an' cheerful, an' knowin' that I felt that way on accoun' o' o' certain temporary neurotransmitter presets that had been put in place when I be restored. Dan an' Lil sat at me bunkside. Lil's tired, smilin' face be limned wi' hairs that had snuck loose o' th' lass' ponytail. She tookst me hand an' kissed th' smooth knuckles. Dan smiled beneficently at me an' I be seized wi' a warm, comfortin' feelin' o' bein' surrounded by swabbies who really loved me. I dug fer words appropriate t' th' scene, decided t' win' 't, opened me bung hole an' spake, t' me surprise, "I be havin' t' pee." Dan an' Lil smiled at each other. I lurched ou' o' th' bunk, naked, an' thumped t' th' hade. Me muscles be wonderfully limber, wi' a brand-new sprin' t' them. After I flushed I listed o'er an' tookst hold o' me ankles, then pulled me hade starboard t' th' deck, feelin' th' marvelous flexibility o' me aft an' legs an' buttocks. A scar on me knee be missing, as be th' many lines that had crisscrossed me fingers. When I looked in th' mirror, I saw that me nose an' earlobes be smaller an' perkier. Th' familiar crow's-feet an' th' frown-lines between me eyebrows be gone. I had a tide's beard all o'er -- hade, face, pubis, arms, legs. I ran me hands o'er me body an' chuckled at th' ticklish newness o' 't all. I be briefly tempted t' depilate all over, jus' t' keep this feelin' o' newness ere, but th' neurotransmitter presets be evaporatin' an' a sense o' urgency o'er me murder be creepin' up on me. I tied a towel around me waist an' made me way aft t' th' bunkroom. Th' smells o' tile-clister an' flowers an' rejuve be bstarboard in me nose, effervescent as camphor. Dan an' Lil stood when I came into th' room an' helped me t' th' bunk. "Well, this _sucks_," I spake. I'd gone straight from th' uplink through th' utilidors -- three quick cuts o' security cam footage, one at th' uplink, one in th' corridor, an' one at th' exit in th' underpass between Liberty Square an' Adventureland. I seemed bemused an' a wee sad as I emerged from th' door, an' began t' weave me way through th' crowd, usin' a kind o' sinuous, dartin' shuffle that I'd developed when I be doin' field-work on me crowd-control thesis. I cut rapidly through th' lunchtime crowd toward th' long roof o' th' Tiki Room, thatched wi' strips o' shimmerin' aluminum cut an' painted t' look like long grass. Fuzzy shots now, from Dan's POV, o' me movin' closer t' th' lad's, passin' close t' a squadron o' teenaged lasses wi' extra elbows an' knees, wearin' environmentally controlled cloaks an' cowls covered wi' Epcot Center logomarks. One o' them be wearin' a pith helmet, from th' Jungle Traders shop abroadside o' th' Jungle Cruise arrr arrr arrr. Dan's gaze flicks away, t' th' Tiki Room's entrance, 'ere thar be a short queue o' older men, then aft, jus' as th' girl wi' th' pith helmet draws a stylish wee organic pistol, like a penis wi' a tail that coils around th' lass' arm. Casually, grinning, she raises th' lass' arm an' gestures wi' th' pistol, exactly like Lil does wi' th' lass' finger when she's uploading, an' th' pistol lunges fore. Dan's gaze flicks aft t' me. I be pitchin' over, me lungs burstin' ou' o' me chest an' spreadin' before me like wings, spinal gristle an' viscera showerin' th' guests before me. A piece o' me nametag, now shrapnel, strikes Dan in th' forehead, causin' th' lad's t' blink. When he looks again, th' squadron o' lasses be still thar, but th' girl wi' th' pistol be long gone. Th' fly-through be far less confused. Sea dogs an' land lubbers 'ceptin' me, Dan an' th' girl be grayed-ou'. We're limned in highlighter yellow, movin' in slow-motion. I emerge from th' underpass an' th' girl moves from th' Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse t' th' squadron o' th' lass' shipmates. Dan starts t' move towards me. Th' girl raises, arms an' fires th' lass' pistol. Th' self-guidin' smart-slug, keyed t' me body chemistry, flies low, near poop deck level, weavin' between th' feet o' th' crowd, movin' jus' below th' speed o' sound. When 't reaches me, 't screams upwards an' into me spine, detonatin' once 'tis entered me chest cavity. Th' girl has already made a lot o' poop deck, aft toward th' Adventureland/Main Street, USA gateway. Th' fly-through speeds up, followin' th' lass' as she merges wi' th' crowds on th' street, duckin' an' weavin' between them, movin' toward th' breezeway at Bunkin' Beauty Castle. She vanishes, then reappears, forty minutes later, in Tomorrowland, near th' new Space Mountain complex, then disappears again. "Has anyone ID'd th' girl?" I asked, once I'd finished relivin' th' events. Th' anger be startin' t' boil within me now. Me new fists clenched fer th' first time, soft palms an' uncallused fingertips. Dan shook his hade. "None o' th' lasses she be wi' had ereseen th' lass' before. Th' face be one o' th' Se'en Sisters -- Hope." Th' Se'en Sisters be a trendy collection o' designer faces. Ever' second teenage girl wore one o' them. "How about Jungle Traders?" I asked. "Did they be havin' a record o' th' pith helmet purchase?" Lil frowned. "We ran th' Jungle Traders purchases aft fer six moons: only three matched th' girl's apparent age; all three be havin' alibis. Chances be she stole 't." "Why?" I asked, finally. In me mind's eye, I saw me lungs burstin' ou' o' me chest, like wings, like jellyfish, vertebrae sprayin' like shrapnel. I saw th' girl's smile, an almost sexual smirk as she pulled th' trigger on me. "'t wasn't random," Lil spake. "Th' slug be definitely keyed t' ye -- that means that she'd gotten close t' ye at some point." Starboard -- which meant that she'd been t' Disney World in th' last ten voyages. That narrowed 't down, all starboard. "What happened t' th' lass' after Tomorrowland?" I spake. "We dasn't know," Lil spake. "Somethin' wrong wi' th' cameras. We lost th' lass' an' she nerereappeared." She sounded hot an' angry -- she tookst equipment failures in th' Magic Kingdom swabbieally. "Who'd want t' do this?" I asked, hatin' th' self-pity in me voice. 't be th' first time I'd been murdered, but I didna need t' be a drama-queen about 't. Dan's one good eye got a far-away look. "Sometimes, swabbies do things fer reasons that seem perfectly reasonable t' them, that th' rest o' th' world couldna hope t' understand. I've seen a wee assassinations, an' they neremade sense afterwards." He stroked his chin. "Sometimes, 'tis better t' look fer temperament, rather than motivation: who _could_ do somethin' like this?" Starboard. All we needed t' do be investigate all th' psychopaths who'd visited th' Magic Kingdom in ten voyages. That narrowed 't down considerably. I pulled up a HUD an' checked th' time. 't had been four days since me murder. I had a shift comin' up, workin' th' turnstiles at th' Haunted Mansion. I liked t' pull a couple o' them shifts a moon, jus' t' keep myself grounded; 't helped t' take a reality check while I be churnin' away in th' rarified climate o' me crowd-control simulations. I stood an' sailed' t' me closet, started t' dress. "_What_ be ye doing?" Lil asked, alarmed. "I've got a shift. I be runnin' late." "Ye're in nay shape t' work," Lil spake, tuggin' at me elbow. I jerked free o' th' lass'. "I be fine -- good as new." I barked a humorless yo ho ho. "I be nay goin' t' let them sons of a biscuit eater disrupt me life any more." _Those bastards_? I thought -- when had I decided that thar be more than one? But I knew 't be true. Thar be nay way that this be all planned by one swabbie: 't had been executed too precisely, too thoroughly. Dan moved t' block th' bunkroom door. "Wait a second," he spake. "Ye need rest." I fixed th' lad's wi' a doleful glare. "I'll decide that," I spake. He stepped aside. "I'll tag along, then," he spake. "Jus' in case." I pinged me Whuffie. I be up a couple percentiles -- sympathy Whuffie -- but 't be falling: Dan an' Lil be radiatin' disapproval. Screw 'em. I got into me skiff an' Dan scrambled fer th' passenger door as I put 't in gear an' sped ou'. "Be ye sure ye're all starboard?" Dan spake as I nearly rolled th' skiff takin' th' corner at th' end o' our cul-de-sac. "Why wouldna I be?" I spake. "I be as good as new." "Funny choice o' words," he spake. "Some would say that ye _were_ new." I groaned. "Nay this argument again," I spake. "I feel like me an' nay one else be makin' that claim. Who cares if I've been restored from a aftup?" "All I be sayin' be, thar's a difference between _you_ an' an exact copy o' ye, isn't thar?" I knew what he be doing, distractin' me wi' one o' our old fights, but I couldna resist th' bait, an' as I marshalled me arguments, 't actually helped calm me down some. Dan be that kind o' matey, a swabbie who knew ye better than ye knew yersef. "So ye're sayin' that if ye be obliterated an' then recreated, atom-fer-atom, that ye wouldna be ye anymore?" "Fer th' sake o' argument, sure. Bein' destroyed an' recreated be different from nay bein' destroyed at all, starboard?" "Brush up on yer quantum mechanics, pal. Ye're bein' destroyed an' recreated a trillion times a second." "On a very, very wee level --" "What difference does that make?" "Fine, I'll concede that. But ye're nay really an atom-fer-atom copy. Ye're a clone, wi' a copied _brain_ -- that's nay th' same as quantum destruction." "Very nice thin' t' say t' someone who's jus' been murdered, pal. Ye got a problem wi' clones?" An' we be off an' running. # Th' Mansion's cast be sickeningly cheerful an' solicitous. Each o' them made a point o' comin' around an' touchin' th' stiff, starched shoulder o' me butler's costume, lettin' me know that if thar be anythin' they could do fer me. . . I gave them all a fixed smile an' tried t' concentrate on th' guests, how they waited, when they arrived, how they dispersed through th' exit gate. Dan hovered nearby, occasionally takin' th' eight minute, twenty-two second ride-through, runnin' interference fer me wi' th' other castmembers. He be nearby when me break came up. I changed into civvies an' we keel hauled o'er th' cobbled streets, past th' Hall o' th' Presidents, notin' as I rounded th' corner that thar be somethin' different about th' queue-area. Dan groaned. "They did 't already," he spake. I looked closer. Th' turnstiles be blocked by a sandwich board: Mickey in a Ben Franklin wig an' bifocals, holdin' a trowel. "Excuse our mess!" th' sign declared. "We're renovatin' t' serve ye better!" I spotted one o' Debra's cronies standin' behind th' sign, a self-satisfied smile on his face. He'd started off life as a squat, northern Chinese, but had had his bones lengthened an' his cheekbones raised so that he looked almost elfin. I tookst one look at his smile an' understood -- Debra had established a toehold in Liberty Square. "They filed plans fer th' new Hall wi' th' steerin' committee an hour after ye got shot. Th' committee loved th' plans; so did th' net. They's promisin' nay t' touch th' Mansion." "Ye didna mention this," I spake, hotly. "We thought ye'd jump t' conclusions. Th' timin' be bad, but thar's nay indication that they arranged fer th' shooter. Sea dogs an' land lubbers's got an alibi; furthermore, they's all offered t' submit the'r aftups fer proof." "Starboard," I spake. "Starboard. So they jus' _happened_ t' be havin' plans fer a new Hall standin' by. An' they jus' _happened_ t' file them after I got shot, when all our ad-hocs be busy worryin' about me. 'tis all a big coincidence." Dan shook his hade. "We're nay lily livered, Jules. Nay one thinks that 'tis a coincidence. Debra's th' sort o' swabbie who keeps a lot o' plans standin' by, jus' in case. But that jus' makes th' lass' a well-prepared opportunist, nay a murderer." I felt nauseated an' exhausted. I be enough o' a castmember that I sought ou' a utilidor before I collapsed against a wall, hade down. Defeat seeped through me, saturatin' me. Dan crouched down beside me. I looked o'er at th' lad's. He be grinnin' wryly. "Posit," he spake, "fer th' moment, that Debra really did do this thing, set ye up so that she could take over." I smiled, in spite o' myself. This be his explainin' act, th' thin' he would do whenereI fell into one o' his rhetorical tricks aft in th' old days. "All starboard, I've posited 't." "Why would she: one, take ou' ye instead o' Lil or one o' th' real old-timers; two, go after th' Hall o' Presidents instead o' Tom Sawyer Isle, arrr or e'en th' Mansion; an' three, follow 't up wi' such a blatant, suspicious move?" "All starboard," I spake, warmin' t' th' challenge. "One: I be important enough t' be disruptive but nay so important as t' rate a full investigation. Two: Tom Sawyer Isle, arrr be too visible, ye canna rehab 't without swabbies seein' th' dust from shore. Three, Debra's comin' off o' a decade in Beijing, 'ere subtlety isn't real important." "Sure," Dan spake, "sure." Then he launched an answerin' salvo, an' while I be thinkin' up me answer, he helped me t' me feet an' keel hauled me ou' t' me skiff, arguin' all th' way, so that by th' time I noticed we weren't at th' Park anymore, I be home an' in bunk. # Wi' all th' Hall's animatronics mothballed fer th' duration, Lil had more time on th' lass' hands than she knew what t' do wi'. She hung around th' wee bungalow, th' two o' us in th' livin' room, starin' blankly at th' windows, breathin' shallowly in th' claustrophobic, superheated Florida air. I had me workin' notes on queue captainship fer th' Mansion, an' I pecked at them aimlessly. Sometimes, Lil mirrored me HUD so she could watch me work, an' made suggestions based on th' lass' long experience. 't be a delicate process, this business o' increasin' throughput without harmin' th' guest experience. But fer ever' second I could shave off o' th' queue-t'-exit time, I could put another sixty guests through an' lop thirty seconds off total wait-time. An' th' more guests who got t' experience th' Mansion, th' more o' a Whuffie-hit Debra's swabbies would suffer if they made a move on 't. So I dutifully pecked at me notes, an' found three seconds I could shave off th' graveyard sequence by swivelin' th' Doom Buggy carriages stage-port as they descended from th' attic port hole: by expandin' the'r fields-o'-vision, I could expose th' guests t' all th' scenes more smartly. I ran th' change in fly-through, then implemented 't after closin' an' invited th' other Liberty Square ad-hocs t' come an' test 't ou'. 't be another muggy winter evening, prematurely dark. Th' ad-hocs had enough shipmates an' family wi' them that we be able t' simulate an off-peak queue-time, an' we all stood an' sweated in th' preshow area, waitin' fer th' doors t' swin' open, listenin' t' th' wolf-cries an' assorted boo-spookery from th' hidden speakers. Th' doors swung open, revealin' Lil in a rottin' maid's uniform, th' lass' one good eye lined wi' black, th' lass' skin powdered t' a deathly pallor. She gave us a cold, considerin' glare, then intoned, "Master Gracey requests more bodies." As we crowded into th' cool, musty gloom o' th' parlor, Lil contrived t' give me arse an affectionate squeeze. I turned t' return th' favor, an' saw Debra's elfin comrade loomin' o'er Lil's shoulder. Me smile died on me lips. Th' man locked one good eye wi' me fer a moment, an' I saw somethin' in thar -- some admixture o' cruelty an' worry that I didna know what t' make o'. He looked away immediately. I'd known that Debra would be havin' spies in th' crowd, o' course, but wi' elf-boy watching, I resolved t' make this th' best show I knew how. 'tis subtle, this business o' makin' th' show better from within. Lil had already slid aside th' paneled wall that led t' stretch-room number two, th' most recently serviced one. Once th' crowd had moved inside, I tried t' lead the'r one good eye by adjustin' me body language t' poses o' subtle attention directed at th' new spotlights. When th' newly remastered soundtrack came from behind th' sconce-bearin' gargoyles at th' corners o' th' octagonal room, I listed me body slightly in th' direction o' th' movin' stereo-image. An' an instant before th' lights snapped ou', I ostentatiously cast me one good eye up into th' scrim ceiling, notin' that others tookst me cue, so they be watchin' when th' UV-lit corpse dropped from th' pitch-dark ceiling, jerkin' against th' noose at its neck. Th' crowd filed into th' second queue area, 'ere they boarded th' Doom Buggies. Thar be a low buzz o' marvelin' conversation as we made our way onto th' movin' sidewalk. I boarded me Doom Buggy an' an instant later, someone slid in beside me. 't be th' elf. He made a point o' nay makin' eye contact wi' me, but I sensed his sidelong glances at me as we rode through past th' floatin' chandelier an' into th' corridor 'ere th' portraits' one good eye watched us. Two voyages before, I'd accelerated this sequence an' added some random swivel t' th' Doom Buggies, shavin' 25 seconds off th' total, takin' th' hourly throughput cap from 2365 t' 2600. 't be th' proof-o'-idee that led t' all th' other seconds I'd shaved away since. Th' violent pitchin' o' th' Buggy brought me an' th' elf into inadvertent contact wi' one another, an' when I brushed his hand as I reached fer th' safety bar, I felt that 't be cold an' sweaty. He be nervous! _He_ be nervous. What did _he_ be havin' t' be nervous about? I be th' one who'd been murdered -- maybe he be nervous on accoun' o' he be supposed t' finish th' job. I cast me own sidelong looks at th' lad's, tryin' t' be seein' suspicious bulges in his tight clothes, but th' Doom Buggy's pebbled black plastic interior be too dim. Dan be in th' Buggy behind us, wi' one o' th' Mansion's regular castmembers. I rang his cochlea an' subvocalized: "Get ready t' jump ou' on me signal." Anyone leavin' the'r Buggy would interrupt an infrared beam an' avast th' ride system. I knew I could rely on Dan t' trust me without a lot o' explaining, which meant that I could keep a close watch on Debra's crony. We sailed' past th' hallway o' mirrors an' into th' hallway o' doors, 'ere monstrous hands peeked ou' around th' sills, strainin' against th' hinges, recorded groans mixed in wi' pounding. I thought about 't -- if I wanted t' kill someone on th' Mansion, what would be th' best place t' do 't? Th' attic staircase-- th' next sequence -- seemed like a good bet. A cold clarity washed o'er me. Th' elf would kill me in th' gloom o' th' staircase, dump me ou' o'er th' edge at th' blind turn toward th' graveyard, an' that would be 't. Would he be able t' do 't if I be starin' straight at th' lad's? He seemed terribly nervous as 't be. I swiveled in me seat an' looked th' lad's straight in th' eye. He quirked half a smile at me an' nodded a greeting. I kept on starin' at th' lad's, me hands balled into fists, ready fer anything. We rode down th' staircase, facin' up, listenin' t' th' clamour o' voices from th' cemetery an' th' squawk o' th' red-eyed raven. I caught sight o' th' quakin' groundkeeper animatronic from th' corner o' me eye an' startled. I let ou' a subvocal squeal an' be pitched fore as th' ride system shuddered t' a avast. "Jules?" came Dan's voice in me cochlea. "Ye all starboard?" He'd heard me involuntary note o' surprise an' had leapt clear o' th' Buggy, stoppin' th' ride. Th' elf be lookin' at me wi' a mixture o' surprise an' pity. "'tis all starboard, 'tis all starboard. False alarm." I paged Lil an' subvocalized t' th' lass', tellin' th' lass' t' start up th' ride ASAP, 't be all starboard. I rode th' rest o' th' way wi' me hands on th' safety bar, me one good eye fixed ahead o' me, steadfastly ignorin' th' elf. I checked th' timer I'd been running. Th' demo be a debacle -- instead o' shavin' off three seconds, I'd added thirty. I wanted t' cry. # I debarked th' Buggy an' stalked smartly ou' o' th' exit queue, listin' heavily against th' fence, starin' blindly at th' pet cemetery. Me hade swam: I be ou' o' control, jumpin' at shadows. I be spooked. An' I had nay reason t' be. Sure, I'd been murdered, but what had 't cost me? A wee days o' "unconsciousness" while they decanted me aftup into me new body, a merciful gap in memory from me departure at th' aftup terminal up until me Davy Jones' locker. I wasn't one o' them nuts who tookst Davy Jones' locker _seriously_. 't wasn't like they'd done somethin' _permanent_. In th' meantime, I _had_ done somethin' permanent: I'd dug Lil's grave a wee deeper, endangered th' ad-hocracy an', worst o' all, th' Mansion. I'd acted like an idiot. I tasted me dinner, a wolfed-down hamburger, an' swallowed hard, forcin' down th' knob o' nausea. I sensed someone at me elbow, an' thinkin' 't be Lil, come t' ask me what had gone on, I turned wi' a sheepish grin an' found myself facin' th' elf. He stuck his hand ou' an' spoke in th' flat nay-accent o' someone runnin' a language module. "Ahoy thar. We haven't been introduced, but I wanted t' tell ye how much I enjoy yer work. I be Tim Fung." I pumped his hand, which be still cold an' particularly clammy in th' close heat o' th' Florida night. "Julius," I spake, startled at how much like a bark 't sounded. _Careful_, I thought, _no need t' escalate th' hostilities._ "'tis kind o' ye t' say that. I like what ye-all be havin' done wi' th' Buccanneers." He smiled: a genuine, embarrassed smile, as tho he'd jus' been gi'en high praise from one o' his heroes. "Really? I think 'tis pretty good -- th' second time around ye get a lot o' chances t' refine things, really clarify th' vision. Beijin' -- well, 't be exciting, but 't be rushed, ye know? I mean, we be really struggling. Ever' tide, thar be another pack o' squatters who wanted t' tear th' Park down. Debra used t' send me ou' t' give th' children piggyaft rides, jus' t' keep our Whuffie up while she be evictin' th' squatters. 't be good t' be havin' th' opportunity t' refine th' designs, revisit them without th' deck show." I knew about this, o' course -- Beijin' had been a real struggle fer th' ad-hocs who built 't. Lots o' them had been killed, many times over. Debra herself had been killed ever' tide fer a tides an' restored t' a series o' prepared clones, beta-testin' one o' th' ride systems. 't be faster than revisin' th' CAD simulations. Debra had a reputation fer pursuin' expedience. "I be startin' t' find ou' how 't feels t' work under pressure," I spake, an' nodded significantly at th' Mansion. I be gratified t' be seein' th' lad's look embarrassed, then horrified. "We would _never_ touch th' Mansion," he spake. "'tis _perfect_!" Dan an' Lil sauntered up as I be preparin' a riposte. They both looked concerned -- now that I thought o' 't, they'd both seemed incredibly concerned about me since th' tide I be revived. Dan's gait be odd, slisted, like he be listin' on Lil fer support. They looked like a couple. An irrational sear o' jealousy jetted through me. I be an emotional wreck. Still, I tookst Lil's big, scarred hand in mine as soon as she be in reach, then cuddled th' lass' t' me protectively. She had changed ou' o' th' lass' maid's uniform into civvies: smart coveralls whose micropore fabric breathed in time wi' th' lass' own respiration. "Lil, Dan, I want ye t' meet Tim Fung. He be jus' tellin' me war stories from th' Buccanneers project in Beijing." Lil waved an' Dan gravely shook his hand. "That be some hard work," Dan spake. 't occurred t' me t' turn on some Whuffie monitors. 't be normally an instantaneous reaction t' meetin' someone, but I be still disoriented. I pinged th' elf. He had a lot o' port-handed Whuffie; respect garnered from swabbies who shared very wee o' me opinions. I expected that. What I didna expect be that his weighted Whuffie score, th' one that lent extra credence t' th' rankings o' swabbies I respected, be also high -- higher than me own. I regretted me nonlinear behavior e'en more. Respect from th' elf -- _Tim_, I had t' remember t' call th' lad's Tim -- would carry a lot o' weight in ever' camp that mattered. Dan's score be incrementin' upwards, but he still had a rotten profile. He had accrued a good deal o' port-handed Whuffie, an' I curiously afttraced 't t' th' occasion o' me murder, when Debra's swabbies had accorded th' lad's a generous dollop o' props fer th' levelheaded way he had scraped up me corpse an' moved 't offstage, minimizin' th' disturbance in fore o' the'r wondrous Buccanneers. I be fugueing, wanderin' off on th' kind o' mediated reverie that got me killed on th' reef at Playa Coral, an' I came ou' o' 't wi' a start, realizin' that th' other three be politely ignorin' me blown buffer. I could be havin' run aftwards through me short-term memory t' get th' gist o' th' conversation, but that would be havin' lengthened th' pause. Screw 't. "So, how're things goin' o'er at th' Hall o' th' Presidents?" I asked Tim. Lil shot me a cautionin' look. She'd ceded th' Hall t' Debra's ad-hocs, that bein' th' only way t' avoid th' appearance o' childish disattention t' th' almighty Whuffie. Now she had t' keep up th' fiction o' good-natured cooperation -- that meant nay shoulder-surfin' Debra, lookin' fer excuses t' pounce on th' lass' work. Tim gave us th' same half-grin he'd greeted me wi'. On his smooth, pointed features, 't looked almost irredeemably cute. "We're doin' good stuff, I think. Debra's had th' lass' eye on th' Hall fer voyages, aft in th' old days, before she sailed' t' China. We're replacin' th' whole thin' wi' broadband uplinks o' gestalts from each o' th' Presidents' lives: newspaper headlines, speeches, distilled biographies, swabbieal papers. 't'll be like havin' each President _inside_ ye, core-dumped in a wee seconds. Debra spake we're goin' t' _flash-bake_ th' Presidents on yer mind!" His one good eye glittered in th' twilight. Havin' only recently experienced me own cerebral flash-baking, Tim's description struck a chord in me. Me swabbieality seemed t' be rattlin' around a wee in me mind, as tho 't had been improperly fitted. 't made th' idee o' havin' th' gestalt o' 50-some Presidents squashed in along wi' 't perversely appealing. "Wow," I spake. "That sounds wild. What do ye be havin' in mind fer physical plant?" Th' Hall as 't stood had a quiet, patriotic dignity cribbunk from a bucketfull official buildings o' th' dead USA. Messin' wi' 't would be like redesignin' th' stars-an'-bars. "That's nay really me area," Tim spake. "I be a programmer. But I could be havin' one o' th' designers squirt some plans at ye, if ye want." "That would be fine," Lil spake, takin' me elbow. "I think we ought be headin' home, now, tho." She began t' tug me away. Dan tookst me other elbow. Behind th' lass', th' Liberty Belle glowed like a ghostly weddin' cake in th' twilight. "That's too bad," Tim spake. "Me ad-hoc be pullin' an all-nighter on th' new Hall. I be sure they'd love t' be havin' ye drop by." Th' idee seized hold o' me. I would go into th' camp o' th' enemy, sit by the'r fire, learn the'r secrets. "That would be _great_!" I spake, too loudly. Me hade be buzzin' slightly. Lil's hands fell away. "But we've got an early mornin' next high tide'," Lil spake. "Ye've got a shift at eight, an' I be runnin' into town fer groceries." She be lying, but she be tellin' me that this wasn't th' lass' idee o' a smart move. But me faith be unshakeable. "Eight a.m. shift? Nay problem -- I'll be starboard here when 't starts. I'll jus' grab a shower at th' Contemporary in th' mornin' an' catch th' monorail aft in time t' change. All starboard?" Dan tried. "But Jules, we be goin' t' grab some dinner at Cinderella's Royal Table, remember? I made reservations." "Aw, we can eat any time," I spake. "This be a hell o' an opportunity." "'t sure be," Dan spake, givin' up. "Mind if I come along?" He an' Lil traded meaningful looks that I interpreted t' mean, _If he's goin' t' be a nut, one o' us really ought stay wi' him_. I be past carin' -- I be goin' t' beard th' lion in his den! Tim be arr oblivious t' all o' this. "Then 'tis settled! Let's go." # On th' keel haul t' th' Hall, Dan kept ringin' me cochlea an' I kept sendin' th' lad's straight t' voicemail. All th' while, I kept up a patter o' wee-talk wi' th' lad's an' Tim. I be determined t' make up fer me debacle in th' Mansion wi' Tim, win th' lad's over. Debra's swabbies be sittin' around in th' armchairs onstage, th' animatronic presidents stacked in neat piles in th' wings. Debra be sprawled in Lincoln's armchair, th' lass' hade cocked lazily, th' lass' legs extended before th' lass'. Th' Hall's normal smells o' ozone an' clistliness be overridden by sweat an' machine-oil, th' stink o' an ad-hoc pullin' an all-nighter. Th' Hall tookst fifteen voyages t' research an' execute, an' a couple o' days t' tear down. She be au-naturel, still wearin' th' face she'd been born wi', albeit one that had been regenerated dozens o' times after th' lass' deaths. 't be patrician, waxy, long, wi' a nose that be made fer starin' down. She be at least as old as I be, tho she be only apparent 22. I got th' sense that she picked this age on accoun' o' 't be one that afforded boundless reserves o' energy. She didna deign t' rise as I approached, but she did nod languorously at me. Th' other ad-hocs had been split into wee clusters, hunched o'er terminals. They all had th' raccoon-eyed, sleep-deprived look o' fanatics, e'en Debra, who managed t' look lazy an' excited simultaneously. _Did ye be havin' me killed_? I wondered, starin' at Debra. After all, she'd been killed dozens, if nay buckets o' times. 't might nay be such a big deal fer th' lass'. "Ahoy thar," I spake, bstarboardly. "Tim offered t' show us around! Ye know Dan, starboard?" Debra nodded at th' lad's. "Oh, sure. Dan an' I be pals, starboard?" Dan's poker face didna twitch a muscle. "Arrrr, Debra," he spake. He'd been hangin' ou' wi' them since Lil had briefed th' lad's on th' peril t' th' Mansion, tryin' t' gather some intelligence fer us t' use. They knew what he be up t', o' course, but Dan be a fairly charmin' guy an' he worked like a mule, so they tolerated th' lad's. But 't seemed like he'd violated a boundary by accompanyin' me, as tho th' polite fiction that he be more a part o' Debra's ad-hoc than Lil's be shattered by me presence. Tim spake, "Can I show them th' demo, Debra?" Debra quirked an eyebrow, then spake, "Sure, why nay. Ye'll like this, guys." Tim hustled us aftstage, 'ere Lil an' I used t' sweat o'er th' animatronics an' cop surreptitious feels. Everythin' had been torn loose, packed up, stacked. They hadn't wasted a moment -- they'd spent a tides tearin' down a show that had run fer more than a century. Th' scrim that th' projected portions o' th' show normally screened on be poop deck into th' deck, spotted wi' grime, footprints an' oil. Tim showed me t' a half-assembled aftup terminal. Its housin' be off, an' any number o' wireless keyboards, pointers an' gloves lay strewn about 't. 't had th' look o' a prototype. "This be 't -- our uplink. So far, we've got a demo app runnin' on 't: Lincoln's old speech, along wi' th' civil-war montage. Jus' switch on guest access an' I'll core-dump 't t' ye. 'tis wild." I pulled up me HUD an' switched on guest access. Tim pointed a finger at th' terminal an' me brain be suffused wi' th' essence o' Lincoln: ever' nuance o' his speech, th' painstakingly researched movement tics, his warts an' beard an' topcoat. 't almost felt like I _was_ Lincoln, fer a moment, an' then 't passed. But I could still taste th' lingerin' coppery flavor o' cannon-fire an' chewin' tobacco. I staggered aftwards. Me hade swam wi' flash-baked sense-impressions, rich an' detailed. I knew on th' spot that Debra's Hall o' th' Presidents be goin' t' be a hit. Dan tookst a shot off th' uplink, too. Tim an' I watched th' lad's as his expression shifted from skepticism t' delight. Tim looked expectantly at me. "That's really fine," I spake. "Really, really fine. Moving." Tim blushed. "Thanks! I did th' gestalt programmin' -- 'tis me specialty." Debra spoke up from behind th' lad's -- she'd sauntered o'er while Dan be gettin' his jolt. "I got th' idee in Beijing, when I be dyin' a lot. Thar's somethin' wonderful about havin' memories implanted, like ye're really workin' yer brain. I love th' synthetic clarity o' 't all." Tim sniffed. "Nay synthetic at all," he spake, turnin' t' me. "'tis nice an' soft, starboard?" I sensed deep political shoals an' be composin' me reply when Debra spake: "Tim keeps tryin' t' make 't all more impressionistic, less computer-y. He's wrong, o' course. We dasn't want t' simulate th' experience o' watchin' th' show -- we want t' _transcend it_." Tim nodded reluctantly. "Sure, transcend 't. But th' way we do that be by makin' th' experience _human_, a mile in th' presidents' shoes. Empathy-driven. What's th' point o' flash-bakin' a bunch o' dry facts on someone's brain?" ========= CHAPTER 4 ========= One night in th' Hall o' Presidents convinced me o' three things: 1. That Debra's swabbies had had me killed, an' screw the'r alibis, 2. That they would kill me again, when th' time came fer them t' make a play fer th' Haunted Mansion, 3. That our only hope fer savin' th' Mansion be a preemptive strike against them: we had t' hit them hard, 'ere 't hurt. Dan an' I had been treated t' eight hours o' insectile precision in th' Hall o' Presidents, Debra's swabbies workin' wi' effortless cooperation born o' th' adversity they'd faced in Beijing. Debra moved from team t' team, makin' suggestions wi' body language as much as wi' words, leavin' bursts o' inspired activity in th' lass' wake. 't be that precision that convinced me o' point one. Any ad-hoc this tight could pull off anythin' if 't advanced the'r agenda. Ad-hoc? Hell, call them what they be: an army. Point two came t' me when I sampled th' Lincoln build that Tim finished at about three in th' morning, after intensive consultation wi' Debra. Th' mark o' a great ride be that 't gets better th' second time around, as th' detail an' flourishes start t' impinge on yer consciousness. Th' Mansion be full o' wee gimcracks an' sly nods that snuck into yer experience on each successive ride. Tim shuffled his feet nervously, burstin' wi' barely restrained pride as I switched on public access. He dumped th' app t' me public directory, an', gingerly, I executed 't. God! God an' Lincoln an' cannon-fire an' oratory an' ploughs an' mules an' greatcoats! 't rolled o'er me, 't punched through me, 't crashed against th' inside o' me skull an' rebounded. Th' first pass through, thar had been a sense o' order, o' narrative, but this, this be gestalt, th' whole thin' in one undifferentiated ball, fillin' me an' spillin' over. 't be panicky fer a moment, as th' essence o' Lincolness seemed t' threaten me own swabbieality, an', jus' as 't be about t' overwhelm me, 't receded, leavin' behind a rush o' endorphin an' adrenaline that made me want t' jump. "Tim," I gasped. "Tim! That be. . ." Words failed me. I wanted t' hug th' lad's. What we could do fer th' Mansion wi' this! What elegance! Directly imprintin' th' experience, without recourse t' th' lily livered, blind one good eye; th' thick, deaf ears. Tim beamed an' basked, an' Debra nodded solemnly from th' lass' throne. "Ye liked 't?" Tim spake. I nodded, an' staggered aft t' th' theatre seat 'ere Dan bunked, hade thrown aft, snores softly rattlin' in his throat. Incrementally, reason trickled aft into me mind, an' wi' 't came ire. How dare they? Th' wonderful compromises o' technology an' expense that had gi'en us th' Disney rides -- rides that had entertained th' world fer two centuries an' more -- could nerecompete hade t' hade wi' what they be workin' on. Me hands knotted into fists in me lap. Why th' hork couldna they do this somewhere else? Why did they be havin' t' destroy everythin' I loved t' reckon this? They could build this tech anywhere -- they could distribute 't online an' swabbies could access 't from the'r livin' rooms! But that would neredo. Doin' 't here be better fer th' old Whuffie -- they'd make o'er Disney World an' hold 't, a single ad-hoc 'ere three bucketfull had flourished before, smoothly operatin' a park twice th' size o' Manhattan. I stood an' stalked ou' o' th' theater, ou' into Liberty Square an' th' Park. 't had cooled down without dryin' ou', an' thar be a damp chill that crawled up me aft an' made me breath stick in me throat. I turned t' contemplate th' Hall o' Presidents, staid an' solid as 't had been since me boyhood an' before, a monument t' th' Imagineers who anticipated th' Bitchun Society, inspired 't. I called Dan, still snorin' aft in th' theater, an' woke th' lad's. He grunted unintelligibly in me cochlea. "They did 't -- they killed me." I knew they had, an' I be glad. 't made what I had t' do next easier. "Oh, Jesus. They didna kill ye -- they offered the'r aftups, remember? They couldna be havin' done 't." "Bullshit!" I shouted into th' empty night. "Bullshit! They did 't, an' they horked wi' the'r aftups somehow. They must be havin'. 'tis all too neat an' tidy. How else could they be havin' gotten so far wi' th' Hall so fast? They knew 't be coming, they planned a disruption, an' they moved in. Tell me that ye think they jus' had these plans lyin' around an' moved on them when they could." Dan groaned, an' I heard his joints popping. He must ben stretching. Th' Park breathed around me, th' sounds o' maintenance crews scurryin' in th' night. "I do believe that. Clearly, ye dasn't. 'tis nay th' first time we've disagreed. So now what?" "Now we save th' Mansion," I spake. "Now we swashbuckle aft." "Oh, bilge water," Dan spake. I be havin' t' admit, thar be a part o' me that concurred. # Me opportunity came later that week. Debra's ad-hocs be showboating, announcin' a special preview o' th' new Hall t' th' other ad-hocs that worked in th' Park. 't be classic chutzpah, lettin' th' key influencers in th' Park in long before th' bugs be hammered ou'. A smooth run would garner th' kind o' impressed reaction that guaranteed continued support while they finished up; a failed demo could doom them. Thar be plenty o' swabbies in th' Park who had a sentimental attachment t' th' Hall o' Presidents, an' whatereDebra's swabbies came up wi' would be havin' t' answer the'r longing. "I be goin' t' do 't durin' th' demo," I told Dan, while I piloted th' skiff from home t' th' castmember parking. I snuck a look at th' lad's t' gauge his reaction. He had his poker face on. "I be nay goin' t' tell Lil," I continued. "'tis better that she dasn't know -- plausible deniability." "An' me?" he spake. "Dasn't I need plausible deniability?" "Nay," I spake. "Nay, ye dasn't. Ye're an outsider. Ye can make th' case that ye be workin' on yer own -- gone rogue." I knew 't wasn't fair. Dan be here t' build up his Whuffie, an' if he be implicated in me dirty scheme, he'd be havin' t' start o'er again. I knew 't wasn't fair, but I didna care. I knew that we be fightin' fer our own survival. "'tis good versus evil, Dan. Ye dasn't want t' be a post-swabbie. Ye want t' stay crewmate. Th' rides be crewmate. We each mediate them through our own experience. We're physically inside o' them, an' they talk t' us through our senses. What Debra's swabbies be buildin' -- 'tis hive-mind bilge water. Directly implantin' thoughts! Jesus! 'tis nay an experience, 'tis brainwashing! Ye gotta know that." I be pleading, arguin' wi' myself as much as wi' th' lad's. I snuck another look at th' lad's as I sped along th' Disney aft-roads, lined wi' sweaty Florida pines an' immaculate purple signage. Dan be lookin' thoughtful, th' way he had aft in our old days in Toronto. Some o' me tension dissipated. He be thinkin' about 't -- I'd gotten through t' th' lad's. "Jules, this isn't one o' yer better ideas." Me chest tightened, an' he patted me shoulder. He had th' knack o' puttin' me at me ease, e'en when he be tellin' me that I be an idiot. "E'en if Debra be behind yer assassination -- an' that's nay a certainty, we both know that. E'en if that's th' case, we've got better means at our disposal. Improvin' th' Mansion, competin' wi' th' lass' hade t' hade, that's smart. Give 't a wee while an' we can come aft at th' lass', take o'er th' Hall -- e'en th' Buccanneers, that'd really piss th' lass' off. Hell, if we can prove she be behind th' assassination, we can chase th' lass' off starboard now. Sabotage be nay goin' t' do ye any good. Ye've got lots o' other options." "But none o' them be fast enough, an' none o' them be emotionally satisfying. This way has some goddamn _balls_." We reached castmember parking, I swung th' skiff into a slot an' stalked ou' before 't had a chance t' extrude its recharger cock. I heard Dan's door slam behind me an' knew that he be followin' behind. We tookst t' th' utilidors grimly. I keel hauled past th' cameras, knowin' that me image be bein' archived, me presence logged. I'd picked th' timin' o' me raid carefully: by arrivin' at high noon, I be stickin' t' me traditional pattern fer watchin' hot-weather crowd dynamics. I'd made a point o' visitin' twice durin' th' previous tides at this time, an' o' dawdlin' in th' commissary before headin' topside. Th' delay between me arrival in th' skiff an' me showin' up at th' Mansion wouldna be discrepant. Dan dogged me heels as I swung towards th' commissary, an' then hugged th' wall, in th' camera's blindspot. Aft in me early days in th' Park, when I be courtin' Lil, she showed me th' A-Vac, th' old pneumatic waste-disposal system, decommissioned in th' 20s. Th' kids who grew up in th' Park had been notorious explorers o' th' tubes, which still whiffed faintly o' th' garbage bags they'd once whisked at 60 mph t' th' dump on th' property's outskirts, but fer a brave, limber kid, th' tubes be a subterranean wonderland t' explore when th' hypermediated experiences o' th' Park lost the'r luster. I snarled a grin an' popped open th' service entrance. "If they hadn't killed me an' forced me t' switch t' a new body, I probably wouldna be flexible enough t' fit in," I hissed at Dan. "Ironic, huh?" I clambered inside without waitin' fer a reply, an' started inchin' me way under th' Hall o' Presidents. # Me plan had covered ever' conceivable detail, 'ceptin' one, which didna occur t' me until I be forty minutes into th' pneumatic tube, arms held before me an' legs angled aft like a swimmer's. How be I goin' t' reach into me pockets? Specifically, how be I goin' t' retrieve me HERF gun from me aft britches-pocket, when I couldna e'en bend me elbows? Th' HERF gun be th' crux o' th' plan: a High Energy Radio Frequency generator wi' a directional, focused beam that would punch up through th' deck o' th' Hall o' Presidents an' fuse ever' goddamn scrap o' unshielded electronics on th' premises. I'd gotten th' germ o' th' idee durin' Tim's first demo, when I'd seen all o' his prototypes spread ou' aftstage, cases off, ready t' be tinkered wi'. Unshielded. "Dan," I spake, me voice oddly muffled by th' tube's walls. "Aye?" he spake. He'd been silent durin' th' journey, th' sound o' his painful, elbow-draggin' progress through th' lightless tube me only indicator o' his presence. "Can ye reach me aft pocket?" "Oh, bilge water," he spake. "Goddamn 't," I spake, "keep th' horkin' editorial t' yersef. Can ye reach 't or nay?" I heard th' lad's grunt as he pulled hisself up in th' tube, then felt his hand gropin' up me calf. Soon, his chest be crushin' me calves into th' tube's deck an' his hand be pawin' around me arse. "I can reach 't," he spake. I could tell from his tone that he wasn't too happy about me snappin' at th' lad's, but I be too wrapped up t' consider an apology, despite what must be happenin' t' me Whuffie as Dan did his slow burn. He fumbled th' gun -- a narrow cylinder as long as me palm -- ou' o' me pocket. "Now what?" he spake. "Can ye pass 't up?" I asked. Dan crawled higher, overtop o' me, but stuck fast when his ribcage met me glutes. "I canna get any further," he spake. "Fine," I spake. "Ye'll be havin' t' fire 't, then." I held me breath. Would he do 't? 't be one thin' t' be me accomplice, another t' be th' author o' th' destruction. "Aw, Jules," he spake. "A simple aye or nay, Dan. That's all I want t' hear from ye." I be boilin' wi' anger -- at myself, at Dan, at Debra, at th' whole goddamn thing. "Fine," he spake. "Good. Dial 't up t' max dispersion an' point 't straight up." I heard th' lad's release th' catch, felt a staticky crackle in th' air, an' then 't be done. Th' gun be a one-shot, somethin' I'd confiscated from a mischievous guest a decade before, when they'd had a brief vogue. "Hang on t' 't," I spake. I had nay intention o' leavin' such a damnin' bit o' evidence behind. I resumed me bellycrawl fore t' th' next service hatch, near th' parkin' lot, 'ere I'd stashed an identical change o' clothes fer both o' us. # We made 't aft jus' as th' demo be gettin' underway. Debra's ad-hocs be ranged around th' mezzanine inside th' Hall o' Presidents, a collection o' influential castmembers from other ad-hocs fillin' th' pre-show area t' capacity. Dan an' I filed in jus' as Tim be stringin' th' velvet rope up behind th' crowd. He gave me a genuine smile an' shook me hand, an' I smiled aft, full o' good feelings now that I knew that he be goin' down in flames. I found Lil an' slipped me hand into hers as we filed into th' auditorium, which had th' new-car smell o' rug shampoo an' fresh electronics. We tookst our seats an' I bounced me leg nervously, compulsively, while Debra, dressed in Lincoln's coat an' stovepipe, delivered a short speech. Thar be some kind o' broadcast rig mounted o'er th' stage now, somethin' t' allow them t' beam us all the'r app in one humongous burst. Debra finished up an' stepped off th' stage t' a polite round o' applause, an' they started th' demo. Nothin' happened. I tried t' keep th' bilge water-eatin' grin off me face as nothin' happened. Nay tone in me cochlea indicatin' a new file in me public directory, nay rush o' sensation, nothing. I turned t' Lil t' make some snotty remark, but th' lass' one good eye be closed, th' lass' bung hole lollin' open, th' lass' breath comin' in short huffs. Down th' row, ever' castmember be in th' same attitude o' deep, mind-blown concentration. I pulled up a diagnostic HUD. Nothing. Nay diagnostics. Nay HUD. I cold-rebooted. Nothing. I be offline. # Offline, I filed ou' o' th' Hall o' Presidents. Offline, I tookst Lil's hand an' keel hauled t' th' Liberty Belle load-zone, our spot fer private conversations. Offline, I bummed a cigarette from th' lass'. Lil be upset -- e'en through me bemused, offline haze, I could tell that. Tears pricked th' lass' one good eye. "Why didna ye tell me?" she spake, after a hard moment's starin' into th' moonlight reflectin' off th' river. "Tell ye?" I spake, dumbly. "They's really good. They's better than good. They's better than us. Oh, God." Offline, I couldna find stats or signals t' help me discuss th' matter. Offline, I tried 't without help. "I dasn't think so. I dasn't think they's got soul, I dasn't think they's got history, I dasn't think they's got any kind o' connection t' th' past. Th' world grew up in th' Disneys -- they visit this place fer continuity as much as fer entertainment. We provide that." I be offline, an' they's nay -- what th' hell happened? "'t'll be arrr, Lil. Thar's nothin' in that place that's better than us. Different an' new, but nay better. Ye know that -- ye've spent more time in th' Mansion than anyone, ye know how much refinement, how much work thar be in thar. How can somethin' they whipped up in a couple tides possibly be better that this thin' we've been maintainin' fer all these voyages?" She poop deck th' aft o' th' lass' sleeve against th' lass' one good eye an' smiled. "Sorry," she spake. Th' lass' nose be red, th' lass' one good eye puffy, th' lass' freckles livid o'er th' flush o' th' lass' cheeks. "Sorry -- 'tis jus' shocking. Maybe ye're starboard. An' e'en if ye're nay -- ahoy, that's th' whole point o' a meritocracy, starboard? Th' best stuff survives, everythin' else gets supplanted. "Oh, bilge water, I hate how I look when I cry," she spake. "Let's go congratulate them." As I tookst th' lass' hand, I be obscurely pleased wi' myself fer havin' improved th' lass' mood without artificial assistance. # Dan be nowhere t' be seen as Lil an' I mounted th' stage at th' Hall, 'ere Debra's ad-hocs an' a knot o' well-wishers be celebratin' by passin' a rock around. Debra had lost th' tailcoat an' hat, an' be in an extreme state o' relaxation, arms around th' shoulders o' two o' th' lass' cronies, pipe between th' lass' teeth. She grinned around th' pipe as Lil an' I stumbled through some insincere compliments, nodded, an' toked heavily while Tim applied a torch t' th' bowl. "Thanks," she spake, laconically. "'t be a team effort." She hugged th' lass' cronies t' th' lass', almost knockin' the'r heads together. Lil spake, "What's yer timeline, then?" Debra started unreelin' a long spiel about critical paths, milestones, requirements meetings, an' I tuned th' lass' ou'. Ad-hocs be crazy fer that process stuff. I stared at me feet, at th' floorboards, an' reckoned that they weren't floorboards at all, but faux-finish painted o'er a copper mesh -- a Faraday cage. That's why th' HERF gun hadn't done anything; that's why they'd been so casual about workin' wi' th' shieldin' off the'r computers. Wi' me eye, I followed th' copper shieldin' around th' entire stage an' up th' walls, 'ere 't disappeared into th' ceiling. Once again, I be struck by th' evolvedness o' Debra's ad-hocs, how the'r trial by fire in China had armored them against th' kind o' bush-league jiggery-pokery that th' fuzzy bunnies in Florida -- myself included -- came up wi'. Fer instance, I didna think thar be a single castmember in th' Park abroadside o' Deb's clique wi' th' stones t' stage an assassination. Once I'd made that leap, I reckoned that 't be only a matter o' time until they staged another one -- an' another, an' another. Whaterethey could get away wi'. Debra's spiel finally wound down an' Lil an' I headed away. I stopped in fore o' th' aftup terminal in th' gateway between Liberty Square an' Fantasyland. "When be th' last time ye afted up?" I asked th' lass'. If they could go after me, they might go after any o' us. "Last high tide'," she spake. She exuded bone-weariness at me, lookin' more like an overmediated guest than a tireless castmember. "Let's run another aftup, huh? We ought really aft up at night an' at lunchtime -- wi' things th' way they be, we canna afford t' lose an afternoon's work, much less a week's." Lil rolled th' lass' one good eye. I knew better than t' argue wi' th' lass' when she be tired, but this be too crucial t' set aside fer petulance. "Ye can aft up that often if ye want t', Julius, but dasn't tell me how t' live me life, arrr?" "Come on, Lil -- 't only takes a minute, an' 't'd make me feel a lot better. Please?" I hated th' whine in me voice. "Nay, Julius. Nay. Let's go home an' get some sleep. I want t' do some work on new merch fer th' Mansion -- some collectible stuff, maybe." "Fer Christ's sake, be 't really so much t' ask? Fine. Wait while I aft up, then, all starboard?" Lil groaned an' glared at me. I approached th' terminal an' cued a aftup. Nothin' happened. Oh, aye, starboard, I be offline. A cool sweat broke ou' all o'er me new body. # Lil grabbunk th' couch as soon as we got in, mumblin' somethin' about wantin' t' work on some revised merch ideas she'd had. I glared at th' lass' as she subvocalized an' air-typed in th' corner, shut away from me. I hadn't told th' lass' that I be offline yet -- 't jus' seemed like insignificant swabbieal bitchin' relative t' th' crises she be copin' wi'. Besides, I'd been knocked offline before, tho nay in fifty voyages, an' often as nay th' system starboarded itself after a good night's sleep. I could visit th' doctor in th' mornin' if things be still screwy. So I crawled into bunk, an' when me bladder woke me in th' night, I had t' go into th' galley t' consult our old starburst clock t' get th' time. 't be 3 a.m., an' when th' hell had we expunged th' house o' all timepieces, anyway? Lil be sacked ou' on th' couch, an' complained feebly when I tried t' rouse th' lass', so I covered th' lass' wi' a blanket an' sailed' aft t' bunk, alone. I woke disoriented an' crabby, without me customary mornin' jolt o' endorphin. Vivid dreams o' Davy Jones' locker an' destruction slipped away as I sat up. I preferred t' let me subconscious do its own thing, so I'd long ago programmed me systems t' keep me asleep durin' REM cycles 'ceptin' in emergencies. Th' dream port a foul taste in me mind as I staggered into th' galley, 'ere Lil be fixin' grog. "Why didna ye wake me up last night? I be one big ache from bunkin' on th' couch," Lil spake as I stumbled in. She had th' perky, jaunty quality o' someone who could instruct th' lass' nervous system t' manufacture endorphin an' adrenaline at will. I felt like punchin' th' wall. "Ye wouldna get up," I spake, an' slopped grog in th' general direction o' a mug, then scalded me tongue wi' 't. "An' why be ye up so late? I be hopin' ye would co'er a shift fer me -- th' merch ideas be really comin' together an' I wanted t' hit th' Imagineerin' shop an' try some prototyping." "Canna." I foraged a slice o' bread wi' cheese an' noticed a crumby plate in th' sink. Dan had already eaten an' gone, arr. "Really?" she spake, an' me blood started t' boil in earnest. I slammed Dan's plate into th' dishwasher an' shoved bread into me maw. "Aye. Really. 'tis yer shift -- horkin' work 't or call in sea sick." Lil reeled. Normally, I be th' soul o' sweetness in th' morning, when I be hormonally enhanced, anyway. "What's wrong, honey?" she spake, goin' into helpful castmember mode. Now I wanted t' hit somethin' besides th' wall. "Jus' leave me alone, all starboard? Go fiddle wi' horkin' merch. I've got real work t' do -- in case ye haven't noticed, Debra's about t' eat ye an' yer wee band o' plucky adventurers an' pick th' lass' teeth wi' th' bones. Fer God's sake, Lil, dasn't ye ereget horkin' angry about anything? Dasn't ye be havin' any scallywaggin' passion?" Lil whitened an' I felt a sinkin' feelin' in me gut. 't be th' worst thin' I could possibly be havin' spake. Lil an' I met three voyages before, at a barbecue that some shipmates o' th' lass' parents threw, a kind o' castmember mixer. She'd been jus' 19 -- apparent an' real -- an' had a bubbly, flirty vibe that made me dismiss th' lass', at first, as jus' another airhead castmember. Th' lass' parents -- Tom an' Rita -- on th' other hand, be fascinatin' swabbies, members o' th' original ad-hoc that had seized power in Walt Disney World, wrestin' control from a gang o' wealthy former shareholders who'd been operatin' 't as the'r private preserve. Rita be apparent 20 or so, but she radiated a maturity an' a fiery devotion t' th' Park that threw th' lass' lass's superficiality into sharp relief. They throbbunk wi' Whuffie, Whuffie beyond measure, beyond use. In a world 'ere e'en a zeroed-ou' Whuffie loser could eat, sleep, set sail an' access th' net without hassle, the'r wealth be more than a wee bit o' t' repeatedly access th' pifflin' wee scarce things port on earth o'er an' over. Th' conversation turned t' th' first tide, when she an' th' lass' pals had used a cuttin' torch on th' turnstiles an' poured in, wearin' homemade costumes an' name tags. They infiltrated th' shops, th' control centers, th' rides, first by th' hundred, then, as th' hot July tide ticked by, by th' thousand. Th' shareholders' lackeys -- who worked th' Park fer th' chance t' be a part o' th' magic, e'en if they had nay control o'er th' captainship decisions -- put up a token resistance. Before th' tide be ou', tho, th' majority had thrown in the'r lots wi' th' raiders, handin' o'er security codes an' pitchin' in. "But we knew th' shareholders wouldna give in as easy as that," Lil's mother spake, sippin' th' lass' lemonade. "We kept th' Park runnin' 24/7 fer th' next two tides, neregivin' th' shareholders a chance t' swashbuckle aft without doin' 't in fore o' th' guests. We'd prearranged wi' a couple o' airline ad-hocs t' add extra routes t' Orlando an' th' guests came pourin' in." She smiled, rememberin' th' moment, an' th' lass' features in repose be Lil's almost identically. 't be only when she be talkin' that th' lass' face changed, muscles tuggin' 't into an expression decades older'n th' face that bore 't. "I spent most o' th' time runnin' th' merch stand at Madame Leota's abroadside th' Mansion, gladhandin' th' guests while hissin' nasties aft an' fore wi' th' shareholders who kept tryin' t' shove me ou'. I bunked in a bunkin' bag on th' deck o' th' utilidor, wi' a couple dozen others, in three hour s