Kingdom Keepers VII Page 34

  “You’re saying it’s now or never,” Willa says.

  Again, Joe smirks. “Perhaps. But that adds a kind of melodrama we all feel it’s important to stay away from.”

  “Killing Wayne out in the open triggers the endgame,” Finn says. “Funny how no one thought like that when the OTs killed Dillard out in the open.”

  “I’m glad you mentioned that,” Joe says. He makes a phone call. “We’re in the library at the Archives,” he says to whoever’s on the other end. “Make it a yard west of my GPS fix…Yes. Now is good.”

  “What’s going on?” Philby says. He knows this is something tech-oriented.

  “Hey, Finn.”

  Dillard Cole stands a yard away from Joe.

  Charlene screams loud enough to shatter glass. Finn stands up so fast, he sends his chair flying behind him. He takes two steps—and falls to the floor. Philby’s there to grab his elbow and help him up. Joe rolls up out of his chair to block Finn’s approach.

  “It’s okay! It’s okay!” Joe holds Finn and Philby back. “He’s a DHI.”

  All anyone hears is Finn’s excited breathing and Charlene’s sniffles.

  “Impossible,” Philby says. “You don’t have the proper files. You wouldn’t be able to—”

  “His parents lobbied hard for this,” Joe explains. “We resisted at first. Frankly, it struck us as morbid. But they pressed us, despite our concerns and caution. What convinced us to attempt this was their selflessness. They don’t want him for themselves—would rather never see him. They wanted him for you, Finn. A reminder of your friendship, a gift.”

  “He’s dead,” Finn manages to choke out; he can hardly breathe.

  “Think of him more as a walking encyclopedia, as portal to the Internet. One that looks like your friend, has some of the memories of your friend, but will never replace your friend.”

  “Memories? How?” Finn looks around at the Keepers and the two Fairlies. “You were all a part of this?”

  “They didn’t know why we were asking, Finn,” Joe says. “Nearly all the data was supplied by the family. Their memories. Home videos. His schoolwork.”

  “Joe told me they were just trying to get some background information, you know, to fill in the blanks,” Willa says.

  “Dillard is version 1.6,” Joe says, “but you should see him in 2.0. Outstanding. It’s too bad we’ve bunkered those servers and software, but for what it’s worth, he’s actually 1.6.3, thanks to the work Philby’s done. In fact, you all will be upgraded to 1.6.3 before you next cross over. If you think of Apple’s Siri, and move her about five generations forward, that’s what Dillard’s running on. It’s an artificial intelligence software that gets phenomenally close to real-time reasoning and response.”

  “RTRR,” Philby says, “is only theory.”

  “Was only theory,” Joe says. “Disney has no obligation to share the technology while we’re filing for patents, and that process takes several years. So, for now, we have RTRR and the rest of the world will have to wait.”

  “It’s Nobel Prize stuff!” Philby says. Turning to the vision of Finn’s lost friend, he tests it. “Dillard, who’s in the room?”

  “You, Philby. Amanda—hello, Amanda and Jess.”

  They answer in kind.

  “Terry Maybeck. Wil—”

  “Amazing!” Philby declares.

  “Video face recognition,” Joe says. “Like the TSA uses at airports. We’re still building his database.”

  “But not his personality,” Finn says. “You can’t build that.”

  “No, of course not. Never. Not possible,” Joe says. “But how do you like his voice?”

  Finn shakes his head. “I can’t do this.”

  “Please, Finn. He’s here to help.” Joe stands, walks around the table, and places his hands on Finn’s shoulders; he leans down and speaks so that only Finn can hear him. “Think of him as a device. A gateway. Try him for a few days. His parents believe he can help with your grief—with your misplaced sense of guilt.”

  Finn shakes his head and looks away. “It’s not misplaced.”

  “You see,” Joe says, “you do need him.”

  The others at the table study Finn and Joe, saying noth-ing.

  “You can do this, Finn,” Joe says confidentially. He moves back to his chair and speaks at a normal volume. “The more you talk to him, the more you remind him of things you’ve done together, the more he’ll retain and relate your stories to other events and instances, past, present, and future.”

  The door opens, and Becky reenters, her arms full. Dillard crosses the room to meet up with her. “Hello, Ms. Cline,” Dillard says, “I’m Dillard Cole. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She places down her materials and reaches out to shake his hand, but Dillard awkwardly avoids making contact. There’s a breathless pause as everyone in the room waits for her to realize Dillard is a hologram.

  Becky gives up on the handshake. “Nice to meet you, Dillard.” She glances toward the door to make sure it’s still locked. “Funny, we have a bell in the back that goes off if someone…and I didn’t hear…Well, anyway.”

  Dillard turns robotically toward Finn, who can barely keep from squirming.

  “What?” Becky asks, noticing that everyone is looking at her. She wipes her mouth, her nose, as if afraid there’s something unwanted on her face.

  “Nothing,” Joe says, also eyeing Finn. “We just wondered what you’d found.”

  Dillard takes an open seat next to Willa. Finn can’t stop looking at him.

  “Well, let’s see.” The portfolios are oversize. Becky dons a pair of clean white gloves and opens the first. “This is the original cell artwork for—”

  “Sleeping Beauty,” Willa says, seeing the first sheet. “Wow!”

  The artwork is breathtaking—actual images that appeared in the film and are therefore familiar to everyone at the table. Becky works through the stack, keeping a sheet of special protective paper between each cell, moving through the first third of the film.

  “Nothing,” she says, returning the material to its box. “Let’s look at this.” She unties the ribbons on a portfolio and opens it. “These are alchemical emblems.”

  “Meaning?” Maybeck asks, squinting at the images. The symbols are circles, crosses, X’s, tridents, and more.

  “The occult,” Becky says.

  The Keepers come out of their seats and gather around her.

  “The symbol for the letter L,” Jess says, pointing but not touching. “That could be from this woman or king or whatever it is. Maybe that line is his beard.”

  “But the L is backward,” Maybeck says. “I don’t think so.”

  “We’re close,” Finn says.

  Dillard remains in his chair, Jess’s drawing on the table before him. “This figure is the Egyptian hieroglyph for ‘throne,’” he says, his hologram finger pointing to the boxlike glyph the Keepers have been calling “stairs.” The comment, directed at no one, silences the room.

  “This is the eye of Horus, the all-seeing eye,” Dillard continues. “It is a symbol of protection, health, and royal power, commonly associated with the pharaoh, another hieroglyph that therefore moves us toward an Egyptian translation.” His finger slides lower and to the right. He’s pointing at the human figure.

  “Am I missing something here?” Becky asks Joe while looking directly at Dillard, who is sitting up as straight as a pharaoh himself.

  “Show her,” Joe instructs Finn.

  Finn swipes his hand through Dillard’s hologram. Becky startles, jerking so hard in her chair, she nearly tips over. “Good gracious!” she gasps.

  Joe gives her a brief history of Dillard’s hologram.

  Finn stares at Joe and says, “The Dillard I know struggled to get C’s.”

  Joe smiles. “I told you we’d upgraded him. He’s not like you or me, Finn. Through the server he has access to Wikipedia, to dozens of extensive Disney databases and reference materials. He’s a virtual Einstein. We
’re working on moving the tech-nology to your DHIs.”

  “Wait a second.” Maybeck sounds outraged, but also impressed. “Are you saying we’re going to be smarter as DHIs than as our normal selves?”

  “That wouldn’t be hard,” snaps Philby, winking at Maybeck.

  “Ha-ha,” Maybeck fires back.

  “Right now,” Joe says, “Dillard has access to more knowledge than any human ever will. What he lacks is intuition. That human trait is impossible to program. We believe we—UCLA, actually, one of our partners—are coming closer to an AI model that teaches itself unique responses, ones that approximate intuition. But right now, Dillard is a fiber-optically generated reference library—a historian, weatherman, bundle of facts.”

  “He’s our new Philby!” Charlene cries, clapping her hands together.

  One boy in the room does not like her comment. As if to prove his worth, Philby asks Dillard, “Egyptian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Throne. Pharaoh. King.”

  “Or god. Yeah.”

  “What about together? Do they mean anything in this particular order?”

  Dillard studies the photograph of Wayne’s watch back and closes his eyes, thinking.

  “This can’t be happening,” Finn whispers.

  Dillard is now looking at Philby. It’s as if this is a private conversation—or competition—between them. “Osiris. That’s his Greek name; there are about ten different versions in Ancient Egyptian. He is the lord of the dead and carries a crook and flail.”

  “Lord of the dead,” Willa mutters.

  “And of the underworld and the afterlife. In Egyptian mythology, he is generally represented with green skin, which is a sign of rebirth.”

  “Green skin?” Willa sounds like she might vomit. “As in—”

  “Wait!” Finn can’t keep from interrupting. “Rebirth? Renewal? Starting over!”

  “Yes,” Dillard says. “The lord of the underworld possesses the power to renew life.”

  Finn seems to grow a few inches taller as he addresses the gathering. “Don’t you see? It’s a code. A clue passed from Walt to Wayne to—”

  “You,” Amanda says.

  “Never mind me,” Finn says. “It’s a plan, and it goes as far back as…” Finn addresses Becky. “How old is the folder the wraiths helped steal?”

  “The notes from Fantasia are dated 1938.”

  “And Sleeping Beauty?”

  “That would be 1957 and 1958.”

  “And Disneyland opened in—”

  “In 1955,” says Willa.

  “So,” Finn says. “As early as 1938, when Walt first dreamed up Chernabog, all the way through the opening of the park and the making of Sleeping Beauty, when he chose to make a character’s skin green just like Osiris’s skin, Walt was already devising a code to save the Kingdom from—”

  “His own imagination,” Philby says. “He foresaw where all this might lead.”

  “Or something happened in those twenty years that made him realize it could all go impossibly bad,” Finn says. “Impossibly wrong.”

  “So he made a backup plan,” says Maybeck.

  Joe is on his feet. “A plan he hid in invisible ink beneath a sheet about a production meeting that discussed Chernabog’s powers.”

  “And he passed it on to a very young Wayne, so that Wayne would know the Kingdom had a chance,” says Charlene.

  “Wayne passed it to Finn,” Philby says, drawing everyone’s attention to Finn.

  Maybeck breaks the silence. “You’re the new Wayne, dude.”

  “WHAT NOW?”

  Finn stands by his bed, looking at the boy in the doorway. A boy he has cried over, a boy that caused him to throw a wrench at Cruella, a boy that resulted in the death of a dragon.

  A boy who isn’t there. Not really.

  “We don’t have projection in our rooms,” Finn says awkwardly.

  “Of course you do.” Dillard steps inside and closes the door.

  “But we were told—

  “Enough lies to keep you where they needed you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Think about it, Finn,” Dillard says. His voice is smooth and uncharacteristically confident. “Whose side do you think I’m on?”

  “I don’t even know who you are. I know what you are, because I’ve been one myself, but I honestly don’t know if I like having you around.”

  “And yet. Here I am.”

  “Here you are.”

  “They blew it, Finn. In wanting me to know so much, they programmed me through their server, right? I can’t act like the real me around them, because they’ll reconsider what they’ve done.”

  Finn plops down onto the mattress. “I’m lost.”

  “Their server has all their files, e-mails, even texts. They seem to think communication is only one-way. But by its very definition, communication involves a minimum of two. I have no idea when it happened. It all happened so fast! But it was amazing.”

  Dillard sits on the bed near him. Finn can see them in his mind’s eye, in his room back home, sitting just like this. Finn stands, his hands clenching into fists.

  “I’m sorry!” he cries. “I can’t do this.”

  “What’s happening?” Dillard asks. “Do what?”

  “Pretend like everything—Pretend like you’re—”

  A distant police siren hangs in the air like a mosquito’s whine.

  “Oh.” Dillard stares at the wall, the floor, anywhere but at Finn.

  “It’s just that—”

  “No! Don’t. I recognize your regret. I’m not stupid.”

  “Stupid? You’re like a supercomputer stuck inside my best friend, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Do nothing,” Dillard says. “Do what you’d normally do.”

  “Normal? Are we really going to go there?”

  “I feel like the unwanted Christmas gift, Finn. Like your parents give you last year’s cool game and it’s not even the right version for your new machine.”

  The analogy is so Dillard. He always loved gaming. Finn forces his mind back to his friend—this hologram of his friend—and his words.

  “You read the Imagineers’ files, e-mails, and texts? Seriously?”

  “Finn, I don’t have to read them. I know them. They don’t call it random-access memory for nothing. It is totally random. And I have full access.”

  “For example?”

  “Name a subject. I need prompting. Think of me like Siri on the iPhone.”

  “Amanda and Jess,” Finn says.

  “Internships in the company have been discussed in…sixteen e-mails among seven Cast Members. Five e-mails concern full scholarships at community college. The two Fairlies are currently designated as international visitors, which has something to do with concealing their identities and location from the government, which may be looking for them. Some of the e-mails refer to an encrypted system to which I have no access.”

  “Sheesh!” Finn drops into a chair and cradles his head in his hands.

  “I’m here to help you, Finn. You and the others. I want to help.”

  “But that’s a recorded phrase. Scripted, right? Do you know what it is to want something?”

  “To feel or have a desire for. To have need of.”

  “Not the dictionary definition. Do you know what it is to want something?”

  “I can only repeat myself. Based on what I observed earlier, that will not appeal to you. I see no positive outcome from trying this.”

  “You’re Spock!” Finn shouts.

  “Mister or Doctor?”

  “What?”

  “Dr. Benjamin McLane Spock, born May 2, 1903, died March 15, 1998, was an American pediatrician whose book—”

  “Stop!”

  Dillard is frozen in place.

  “Dillard?” Finn tests. “Hey!” Dillard looks like DVR video in pause mode. “Play.” Nothing. “Continue.”

  “Mr. Spock, a fictional c
haracter in the Star Trek franchise written by Gene—”

  “Enough!”

  “You asked me a question,” Dillard says. “Questions require answers.”

  “Yeah.” Finn slumps back, staring at the ceiling.

  “Do you not feel well? You are assuming a position suggestive of—”

  “Oh my gosh!” Finn laces his fingers behind his head and leans his forehead to his knees. “That’s enough talking, please.”

  Seconds pass. Minutes. Finn sits up, thinking Dillard must have left, but the hologram remains where it was. Only the blinking eyes reveal that someone’s home.

  Finn makes a face at the hologram. There’s no reaction.

  “Lift your left arm.” Dillard’s arm rises to shoulder height. “Now that’s interesting,” Finn says. “Talk to me.”

  “What is interesting?” Dillard asks. “Can you be more explicit?”

  “Stop talking.” Finn studies the hologram. Bile stings his throat. He inhales sharply, recoils, holding his legs against his chest.

  He bawls like a baby.

  * * *

  Finn awakens some time later. How long, he’s not sure. Dillard remains in the exact same spot on his bed, looking at Finn with unflinching eyes.

  “Did you enjoy your rest?”

  “You don’t sound like the real Dill.” Dillard says nothing. “That used to be a joke with us: the real deal! The real Dill!” Still, nothing. Finn focuses on asking a question. “Do you laugh?”

  The hologram laughs. Surprisingly, it’s Dillard’s laugh.

  “Joe mentioned home videos,” Finn says. “So I get where most of you comes from. Do I have to ask a question to get you to talk?”

  “Conversation is the informal exchange of ideas through words. I am capable of several levels of conversation—casual, formal, technical—but I did not detect the desire for conversation in your inflections, Finn. Have I misinterpreted?”

  “A person would say, ‘misunderstood.’”

  “I will replace that response. My parameters expand with each conversation cycle. Feel free to correct me. Thank you.”

  “I can’t do this, Dillard. I can’t train you.”

  “How do you wish to train me? Physically or verbally?”

  “Never mind.” Finn lets out a deep sigh.

  “If you instruct me to—”