Kingdom Keepers VII (38 page)

“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.”

“W
HAT 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 character 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—”

“Tell me,” Finn says. “We would say, ‘If you would tell me.’”

“If you instruct me to ‘return,’ my projection will cease. You can verbally program me to project as you would set a calendar event, and you can preprogram me for an action at the time of projection if you wish. For example: upon projection I will wake you, defend you, advise you. And so on.” Dillard’s hologram looks forward, away from Finn. “Should you fail to program me to project at a later time, you must contact the appropriate Cast Member and request projection.”

Finn sits for a long time, studying Dillard in profile. A part of him wants to instruct the hologram to return and never appear again. Another part considers Dillard his own private genie. He doesn’t know what to do, how to feel. He tells himself this is not Dillard, that nothing will ever be or replace Dillard in his heart. The hologram is a toy, a tool.

Wayne would tell him to use whatever resources were available.

Learn how to use this to your advantage
. Wayne’s voice apparently resides at the back of Finn’s brain, whispering to him like Obi-Wan Kenobi in
Star Wars
. Finn doesn’t know what immortality is, but once again he thinks this has something to do with it.

“Talk to me,” Finn says. “What are the possible relationships between what we’ve observed of the Osiris images and the Disney villains…or Mickey Mouse?”

“I can tell you about: the Osiris myth; the comparison of the Disney character, Maleficent, to Osiris; Osiris in fantasy literature; Osiris shoes; Osiris, the near-infrared integral field spectrograph.”

The hologram’s clinical delivery of topics reminds Finn that this isn’t his neighborhood friend. He actually appreciates that distinction. This is not Dillard, it’s
the Dillard
.

“Osiris myth,” Finn says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

“In Plutarch’s version, or ancient Greek, Typhon arranges a banquet and issues a challenge, tricking Osiris into climbing into a chest. In Egyptian mythology, the god Set is responsible for the ruse. Osiris is locked in the chest and dies. The chest is set afloat and arrives at the shore of Byblos, where a tree grows around it. The goddess Isis, Osiris’s wife, eventually removes the chest from the tree. The tree becomes a center of worship. This explanation is unknown in Egyptian sources dating to the New Kingdom.”

“The
what?
” Finn says. “Let’s start at the word
kingdom
.”

“The most prosperous phase in Egyptian history is known as the New Kingdom. The five hundred years between 1600 and 1100 B.C. marked the peak of Egyptian power and influence.”

“The New Kingdom,” Finn repeats reverentially, reaching for a pencil to make notes. “That is not a coincidence. It can’t be.”

“Is that a question?”

Finn laughs. “No, Dillard. Hang on.”

The hologram grips the edge of the bed.

“Let go of the bed. The expression
hang on
means ‘wait a moment.’”

“I’ve added that. Thank you. The command is ‘Pause.’”

“Pause,” Finn says. He writes down everything the Dillard has told him. “What about the Egyptian version?” He waits. There’s a prolonged pause. “Resume! Please inform me about the Egyptian version of the Osiris myth. Make it abridged and include facts relevant to our current situation.”

“One moment…editing. The story is much the same as the one I just relayed. In the Egyptian version, Isis discovers Osiris’s corpse in the box embedded in a tree. The tree supports the roof of the palace of Byblos on the Phoenician coast. In several versions, Isis then casts a spell that allows her to conceive a child with her dead husband.”

“Gross!”

The Dillard continues without comment.

“In this version, Set comes across the body and cuts it into fourteen pieces.”

“This is more and more disgusting!”

“But Isis recovers the parts and bandages them back together. The gods are so impressed that they resurrect Osiris and appoint him god of the underworld, lord of rebirth and resurrection.”

“Pause,” Finn says, his mind whirring. He scribbles down what he’s heard. “Resume. Are you aware of my conversation with Wayne at Club 33?”

“Yes.”

“The topics?”

“Yes.”

Finn debates how to ask the Dillard his next question. “Is there a relationship between my conversation with Wayne and the Osiris myth?” Finn feels like he’s on a television game show. Everything hinges on asking the right questions.

“Wayne Kresky’s reference to the destruction of the Mickey Mouse illustration could be taken as an analogy to the pieces of Osiris. Isis, the personification of whom is yet to be defined, would accept the assignment—”

“To gather the pieces!”

“—to collect and reassemble the various—”

“Pause!” Finn shouts. There’s no visual reaction to Finn’s raising his voice. “Resume. You need to blink more often! Pause.”

The hologram blinks, but then the Dillard is caught with his lids closed; he looks like he’s fallen asleep sitting up.

Finn writes quickly:

Walt understood how to resurrect Mickey.


Osiris code given to Wayne, given to me.


Collect and reassemble the parts.


Are the Imagineers the “gods” who can restore Mickey’s power? Or the Keepers?


Must find the parts!


“Resume. If the Mickey Mouse illustration was destroyed by the Disney villains, is there still a chance of finding the pieces?”

“Of the fourteen missing pieces in the Osiris myth, thirteen were collected. Some believe this gave this gave rise to the superstition that thirteen causes bad luck. The number represented incompletion, a state of being not whole. Since 1956, Cast Members employed by WED Enterprises have scoured Disneyland for the missing pieces of the Mickey artwork, which they believed were dispersed by an unknown entity.”

“The Overtakers!”

“During the reconstruction that turned Canal Boats of the World into the Storybook Land Canal Boats, work halted for two full days while WED Enterprise employees cordoned off the work area. They were seen to be sifting earth.”

“This is from?”

“
The Imagineers Almanac, 1950 to 1957.
Five volumes.”

“Can you get me that almanac?”

“I have no way to print from my memory.”

“Of course you don’t. Sorry about that. How tricky!” Finn says. “They give me access to information I can’t substantiate one way or the other.”

“Is that a question?”

“No. Where are the pieces of Mickey that’ve been recovered?”

“In the vault in the Disney Gallery.”

“Of course! If you want to hide something, hide it in the open.”

The Dillard does not respond. Finn is getting used to him, is even coming to like him; he’s not sure if the feeling is real, or part of the rush he gets from seeing all the clues come together.