Kingdom Keepers V (9781423153429) (26 page)

Despite the hanger in hand, fear was his biggest weapon. If he could dominate these two early and establish himself as superior, if he could sow the seeds of doubt into both of them, he would weaken their DHIs and gain the superiority he pretended to possess.

He stepped forward to where the hallway became the bedroom. Another step and he'd be free of his confines.

The girl lunged forward. Philby jumped back instinctively. He would have to fight such instincts. He had to hold his ground.

She seized the ship's-wheel clock from the semi-circular counter top at the end of the closets. She held it out as a shield.

Philby swung the hanger. She deftly deflected the blow.

The boy leaped forward—a fast one, this kid—and swiped the broken glass across Philby's left arm, getting nothing but air. The shards of glass swept through Philby's hologram. The next attempt was met by Philby with the life preserver. A sliver of the bulb's glass broke and rained to the floor.

Distracted as he was, Philby left himself open to a charge from the girl. She swung the clock for Philby's head. He leaned back and felt the wind from the miss.

The boy's blue outline dimmed following Philby's block. Philby took advantage of the weakness of the hologram and stabbed with the end of the hanger. He hit the boy in the shoulder—the boy, not his hologram—and sent the kid back onto the bed. He quickly recovered, leaping to his feet. His blue outline regained color.

Philby swung to his right and caught the girl on the forearm. She dropped the clock. He swung again, hitting her on the side of the knee, and she collapsed.

His hand stung. He'd let go of the life vest. The boy had wisely attacked his hand, knowing it had to be material enough to hold on to the vest. Philby was bleeding, a shard of glass lodged in his wrist. Philby screamed—out of anger and strategy, not pain—and charged the boy, swinging the hanger like a sword fighter and pushing the boy back into a corner formed by the bed and end table. Pinned. He whipped him with the hanger, watching the blue outline drain of color as welts formed on the boy's forearm.

The girl would not be intimidated. With Philby's attention on her partner and his body angled away from her, she also screamed out as she charged, hands outstretched. She passed through his hologram, but managed to take hold of his more solid hand and pulled him with her. She dragged him through the wall and into the next stateroom—or almost.

His hand holding the hanger caught against the interior wall. He stopped suddenly, half in, half out, as he had at the stateroom door. It was like someone had stepped on the brakes. He stopped so quickly, she lost her grip and let go. She fell into the adjacent stateroom, landing on the floor by the bed, while Philby remained stuck in the wall. He lunged back into the original stateroom, where the boy had now recovered and picked up the hanger.

The boy swung and stabbed at Philby's 2.0 hologram, swiping through his hologram's projection until focusing just on Philby's hands. Three repeated blows connected with the knuckles on his right hand.

Philby cried out in pain. With the pain, fear. With fear, a somewhat weakened hologram, 2.0 or not. The boy was winning.

Spinning and kicking, Philby managed to slip past the battery of blows and reach the closet. He grabbed a hanger and the two boys launched into a sword fight, the object of which was to strike the other's hand and make him drop the hanger, then step in and beat the other's failing hologram senseless.

The girl reappeared through the wall. Angry. Defiant.

“The bulb on the floor,” her partner said.

She bent and picked it up.

“We've got him now,” the boy said.

Philby wanted to object. He felt wounded. Decidedly at a disadvantage. But he did not feel defeated. Far from it. In fact, as his hologram went through the motions of defending himself, and while admittedly losing some ground, Professor Philby was again thinking about his getting stuck in the wall—stuck for a second time in a matter of minutes.

The hanger had been knocked from his hand by contact with the interior wall. Had he not let go, it too would have prevented him from making it through the wall. But he had let go. It wasn't a limitation of projection that prevented him from making it through the wall and door—the girl's first-generation DHI had managed just fine. It was something material, like the hanger. Something holding him from getting through as a projection.

And then it occurred to him: the strand of black hair.

He'd put it into his pocket. It was a material item he had not crossed over with, but had picked up from within the stateroom. A single human hair, but matter, not projected light. Matter that could not pass through a door or a wall. The strand of hair was stranding him.

He turned his pocket inside out as he fended off the dual attack. Picked at the fabric, lacking any possibility of taking the time to look down for the strand of hair. The boy swung at him. Philby dodged the blow, moving right. The girl swiped his hand—his material hand—and the bulb's glass sliced into him. The pain caused him to look down. With that glance, he saw the black hair against the white cotton of his pants pocket. He snagged it and dropped it to the carpet. It floated, nearly motionless.

The next few attempts with the broken bulb failed, passing through Philby's hologram. Of all the Keepers, Philby was by far the most cerebral. His brain never rested. For months he'd been occupied with mastering DHI 2.0, and now his work paid off.

He charged the girl—the bloody broken bulb aimed into his face passed through him; he knocked her back, continuing past her through the wall and into the adjoining stateroom.

The boy jumped through the wall after him, but without the hanger. A thump on the wall suggested the girl had tried but failed at
all clear
. The boy swept the contents of a nightstand into the air, demonstrating a facile and impressive ability to control DHI 1.6. A Bible and a water glass flew at Philby, but passed through his projection.

“Come and get me,” he felt like saying, feeling fully in control of his hologram, having no worry he might cross back to the slightest degree.

He jumped in two strides and passed through the glass door and out onto the balcony. The boy followed, the two of them only a few feet apart.

“You want to test your control?” Philby said. He gestured over the banister. “Feel like a swim? I hear the water's great.”

“You'll have to tell me how it is,” the boy said. He upended a low table. It flew at Philby, but went through him.

“Nice try,” Philby said.

“I've got better,” the boy said.

“You're on the wrong side. You understand that, right?”

“What's more likely? That everything's going to work out fine, like a fairy tale, or that stuff happens, bad stuff, and that's just the way it is? The universe is not all sweet and pretty. Grow up. It's total chaos.”

They moved in a slow circle like a pair of boxers. The boy had his back to the rail now. Philby needed to make sure his opponent slipped out of
all clear
.

“So you want a world with no imagination, no dreams? You want to take orders from a green-skinned, pointy-chinned fairy forever? Be my guest. Did you decide to come here on your own, or were you told to come here? Because let me tell you something: no one told me to go into that stateroom. That was my choice.”

Philby saw a flicker of light in the boy's eyes. Maybe it was a trick of light playing off the glass, but maybe it was consideration and doubt, the kindling for the fire of fear. That was how he was going to play it.

The boy's hologram filled with static interference likely caused by the balcony's railing.

The girl suddenly appeared through the metal barrier that separated the small balconies. She seethed with anger—as destructive to a DHI as fear. Philby edged to his right, hoping to move the boy away from the projection interference. But the boy stood there, his image sparkling and spitting like bad television reception.

Unable to control her anger, the girl charged. Philby never flinched. She passed through him and smacked into the plate glass window behind him with a thud. He spun, found her wrist substantial enough to grasp, and whipped her toward her sparkling partner. The boy jumped out of the way—and out of the projection interference. The girl hit the rail, and Philby dumped her over the side. She fell a long distance and splashed into the turquoise water. The boy lunged, but Philby was ready for him. Philby ducked, using 2.0 to transform himself more solid, and stood just as the boy collided with him. Philby had the boy on his back like a fireman's carry. He stood, turned, and leaned heavily back against the rail. The jolt sent the boy over the side, screaming on his way down. Philby watched as the boy bobbed to the surface. He and the girl were treading water.

A
Dream
life preserver flew through the air from a higher deck. An alarm sounded.

Philby's hologram hurried through the plate glass and out into the hallway where Storey Ming waited, looking panicked.

“Ran into some friends,” Philby said, tucking in his shirt.

She took him by the hand and led him calmly down the hallway toward the bow.

“You feel cold,” she said, glancing down at his hand.

He'd never thought of it before. Couldn't remember anyone touching his hologram but Overtakers.

Don't let go, he wanted to say, enjoying the contact.

She caught him staring at her profile as they walked.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, embarrassed.

A
seagull flew lazily above the beach as preparations for the Beach Blanket Barbecue got under way. A pink sun sank quickly beyond the horizon. The beach chairs were being wiped down; barbecue grills huffed gray smoke; the volleyball court was being raked; a hundred tiki torches were flickering with yellow flame. A stream of ship passengers was currently disembarking, the people having returned to shower and change for the festivities. The empty beaches would soon swell with guests; the steel-drum music would start. It was party time.

The gull continued its uncharted path, riding the air currents, watching the waves lap to shore. The same every night; it never tired of the sight. It would land soon and hunker down for the night, head tucked into its wings, awaiting the stir of a morning breeze.

It headed lower and lower, passing over some brush that ruffled in the breeze. It circled this once, having memorized nearly every speck of terrain in its domain. Out of curiosity it dove and landed on the pile. Its feet hit something cold and hard beneath the brush. Metal. It worked to move the brush out of the way, exposing more white metal and a label.

DANGER:

PROPANE GAS—UNDER PRESSURE

The gull did not have what humans think of as memory. But there were images floating around in its pea-size brain. One of those images was of a person carrying a tank with an identical label as this one earlier in the day. The human had placed it on the back of a golf cart. This tank was identical to the one that had been removed. It also connected to the same black tubing as had the other. A second tank, identical to the first. A tank undiscovered by the humans.

* * *

Propped on Charlene's shoulders, Willa could see water in the distance. But this was an island, a small island, so spotting water hardly won her any points. This was their fourth attempt to see over the jungle top and the first offering any success, limited as it was.

“I'm sorry,” Willa said, back on the ground again.

“It's not your fault. Stupid jungle is too high.” Charlene thought for a moment and said, “No ship?”

“No.”

Charlene then drew an arrow into the sand of the narrow path.

“So…no ship this direction. And what about the water? Where did you see it?” She handed Willa the stick she'd drawn with.

Willa engraved the path's sand with wavy lines in the direction of the arrow and to the right. The two girls studied their map.

“So there was shore along here?” Charlene asked.

“There was.”

“Last night…when we rode the lifeboats and snuck ashore…the sun set behind the ship to port, remember?”

“Ah…if you say so.”

“Trust me. It did. So…look at the shadows.” Charlene pointed into the thick undergrowth. The plants were crosshatched with sharp, angular shadows.

“So the shadows are pointing east because the afternoon sun moves west.”

“Correct.”

“And if the sun set to the left of the ship…”

“The ship is docked basically aiming north.”

“So the beach is on the south side of the island!” Charlene said. “If we head south, by the time we reach water…”

“We should be able to see the
Dream
. It's not a very big island, and it's a very big ship.” She exhaled loudly. “Only one problem,” Willa said. “The paths are totally random. And there are a zillion of them.”

“We can do this,” Charlene said.

“And if we can't?”

“What's the first thing the Professor will do when they can't find us?” Charlene said in a know-it-all voice.

“Philby? I suppose…I don't know…maybe check the server to try to see if we're in SBS. Can he even do that?”

“The server, yes,” Charlene said. “He'll do a manual return in case we're somehow DHIs.”

“Note to Charlene: we're not DHIs. We won't return.”

“No…but there's no one smarter than Philby. First, he'll try to return us, and then—?”

“Oh my gosh! You think?”

“I know.”

* * *

Shutters, the cruise ship photo display area, was really high-tech compared to similar shops on older Disney ships. The same expansive gallery was there—walls and partitions covered in hundreds of professional photos of passengers on arrival day, at dinners, with characters, and with the captain. The gallery spread out to Deck 4's balcony overlook of the atrium. Here were rows of handsome wooden “post office” boxes from which guests could collect their ordered shots. A marvel of organization and efficiency.

Finn decided to check it out, to follow up on the missing-kid photo. He located the most recent shots—guests on Castaway Cay with the
Dream
behind them—and searched for the picture. It took him several minutes, but he finally spied a shot of two kids in which the ship behind them was cut off. The photo had been cropped. A tall kid about Finn's age had quite possibly been cut out.

He approached the desk.

“Excuse me,” he said, passing the photo to the Cast Member, a young woman. “I think there was a third boy in this photo. Do you mind checking?”

She took a moment to reference the corresponding computer file.

“You're right,” she said, “but I see the problem…” She spun the terminal around so Finn could see also. “This kind of stuff happens from time to time.”

The kind of stuff she was referring to was a pixelated image in the frame.

“They cropped it,” she explained, “for obvious reasons.”

Finn felt his fists clench. The boy's blackened, hollow eye sockets turned his stomach, but it was the face that startled him. Greg Luowski's hologram was turned sideways to the camera, his chin over his left shoulder. His green eyes were not eyes at all, just black holes in his piggish face. He'd turned to avoid having his picture taken, but too late. Captured there was the disintegrated image of the school bully who'd endlessly tormented Finn, had nearly poisoned him in his own home, had Tasered Maybeck's aunt. There was no question of his being a DHI to anyone who knew of such things. The photographers could promote all the speculation they wanted as to why the boy was transparent; Finn knew.

Lousy Luowski was, at the very least, being projected by the Overtaker's secret server; at the worst, he was physically aboard the
Dream
.

Finn glanced over both shoulders, eerily aware of his own paranoia.

“May I get a copy of the whole picture, please?” He spun the monitor back to face the Cast Member. He couldn't have imagined he'd be asking to pay for a photo of Greg Luowski. But Philby would know how to study the photograph, to confirm what Finn already knew.

“Mailbox one thirty. It'll be about an hour.”

“Thank you.” Finn handed over his room card for the sake of charges.

Clearly impressed by its unique color that indicated his celebrity status, she smiled slightly.

“I thought I recognized you. The Disney Hosts, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It's your cruise.”

“Not exactly.”

“Pretty much,” she said.

“Just working, same as you.”

“Must be cool.”

“Yeah, I suppose. We have a…good time.”

“And the stories—like the Overtakers and everything?”

“You know Disney. The story comes first!” He tried to make it sound fanciful.

“That's exactly what I would say,” she said.

They met eyes, and Finn realized there were no secrets anymore. Their story was out. Deny it or not, people knew. It was almost as if by denying it he just made it all the more true.

But what if the stories hadn't been true? What if like other celebrities people just made up anything they felt like and people believed it? Rumor was poison. He'd learned to stick with the facts.

“Not every story is true,” he said. “Not every rumor is false.”

“I appreciate what you're doing,” she said. “You and the others. If they're stories, they're good stories.”

She was at least five years older than Finn, but he had the feeling that if he'd asked her to hang out she'd have agreed. Without knowing him. On reputation only. He measured that against having been invisible to girls only a few years before, wondering how to act, who to be. All of a sudden he wanted off the ship; he wanted his mother back, his life back.

“Okay, then. Mailbox one hundred thirty.”

“One hour.” She sounded disappointed.

He hated disappointing anyone. Everyone. Much of what he did and the way he acted was for his mom. To meet her expectations of him. Though he'd been raised to be giving and considerate, there were times he wanted to do what he wanted to do, not what someone else wanted him to do. Like this.

“See you then?” he asked.

She brightened with excitement. “I'm working until six. Yeah. Absolutely.”

They both knew the rules—Cast Members couldn't interact with passengers. But was Finn a Cast Member or a passenger?

He had no idea who he was.

Luowski, he reminded himself. Don't get distracted. Stay focused. The enemy is out there.

The enemy is on the ship.

* * *

“We have to cover for the girls!” Maybeck said behind clenched teeth, hoping only Philby and Finn would hear him. Events had progressed rapidly. Upon returning to their staterooms, the Keepers had found notes outside their doors and messages on their Wave Phones asking that, due to the change in itinerary, the Disney Hosts participate in the Beach Blanket Barbecue welcome on the beach stage at seven. Short scripts to be memorized were included in the envelopes. The request presented myriad problems, foremost of which was that Willa
and Charlene still had not been heard from. The most likely explanation was that the Overtakers had captured them, a terrifying thought given that the ship was set to sail in a matter of hours. Another problem was the not-so-small matter of staking out Tia Dalma's cabana in order to figure out who was being delivered to her and why.

Compounding it all was Maybeck's discovery of the propane tank rigged to the bug-killing black tubing. Philby claimed that from what he'd heard it hardly added up to a bomb—“the tubing is porous, after all, like soaker hose”—and that its remote location, on the far side of the abandoned runway, meant it wasn't a threat to passengers or Cast Members. In fact, he wondered if it wasn't meant as a distraction or diversion, a line of bursting flame to turn the heads of passengers at a particular moment.

“Another attack on us during the welcome?” Finn had said in their brief meeting outside the Cove coffee shop. It seemed similar to the effort by Jack Sparrow during the Sail-Away.

“It feels like it, doesn't it?” Philby said.

“I wish they'd stop trying to kill us,” Maybeck said. The boys couldn't tell if it was meant as a joke or not.

“So here's what we do,” Finn said. “First, we're going to be in our DHI costumes, so I don't see how you're going to get backstage.” He said this to Maybeck.

“Leave that to me. I can put the coveralls over my DHI look. Why?”

“If the diversion wasn't meant for us—and how could it be, given that when the propane was hooked to the tubing there was no Beach Blanket Barbecue planned?—then I'm thinking it was supposed to distract the island Cast Members long enough for someone to get backstage and do something in the Cast Member area.”

Philby said, “Because on a typical day they'd be the only ones on the island at that point.”

“Exactly.”

“So you want me,” Maybeck said, “to get backstage at the same time I'm supposed to be onstage? How's that going to work?”

“We don't know when the propane was supposed to go off. Not at seven o'clock, that's for sure. It's still daytime. It had to be planned for dark.”

“So after nine thirty-two,” Philby said.

Maybeck and Finn gave him a look.

“What?” Philby said defensively. “It's what I do!”

“Second,” Finn said, “we need to stake out the cabanas.”

“You can handle that the minute the welcoming stuff is over,” Philby said to Finn. “We're all on Wave Phones. We can text or call. Anything else?”

“What about you?” Finn asked.

“I need to get back aboard the ship after the welcome and check the server. The OTKs came after me as holograms. What if the girls have been projected without us knowing it?”

“The Syndrome?” Maybeck gasped.

“All I'm saying is, it's possible.”

Finn said, “At least one of us is going to have to stay behind on the island until the final all-aboard is called to try to counter whatever the propane was supposed to do. Remember, whoever planted that probably doesn't know it's not going to work.”

“That would be me,” Maybeck said. “Backstage, like you said.”

“You can't miss the ship,” Philby warned. “They won't wait for you.”

“Yeah, I know.”