The Return: Disney Lands Page 15
“Dude,” Maybeck said. His whispered exclamation loosely translated as: I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
Finn cleared his throat. “I was expected there because I was talking to the guy who’d written the thirteen-thirteen clue on my arm. A much younger version of the same guy, a guy basically our age, maybe twenty or twenty-one. A guy who, at that time, was unaware he’d already met me, a bunch of years later, in the Carousel of Progress, or that he’d drawn a pen on my arm.”
He paused, allowing it to sink in. Of the faces focused on him, only Philby was already smiling. Only Philby knew where this was headed.
Finn took a deep breath, lifted his chin slightly, and stated unequivocally: “I was talking to Wayne Kresky.”
JESS SAT WITH SEVERAL ADULTS around a long conference table in a windowless room. The door was both closed and locked.
To her left was a well-known Disneyland art designer. To her right, a guy in his late twenties in jeans and trendy glasses; he looked like a young Bono, from U2. Jess thought she recognized others—maybe the pioneer computer guy whose name she couldn’t remember. Another looked an awful lot like a famous film director. Those gathered either worked for the company or served on its board. The woman pretending to be Peggy had made it clear the Tink Tank was not for outsiders.
Jess had been invited to the meeting by a text sent anonymously:
Tink Tank, Building 2, #208, 3PM
The meeting was chaired by a woman in her forties. She spoke confidently and warmly. No names were used. Nor was there mention of Jess’s addition to the group. Jess caught herself clenching her hands tightly to remind herself this was actually happening. She was sitting here with famous people, the newest member of a secret think tank.
What?!!
“We have a serious development to discuss that’s not on the agenda. Consider it new business,” the chairwoman said. “Compelling video evidence shows that two of our original DHIs were recently in the park in an unauthorized capacity. Even more troublingly, additional evidence appears to support the idea that the insurgents have returned in an organized capacity.” She paused. Jess kept all expression off her face as she watched the others at the table; they showed deep concern. But to their credit, no one gasped or tried to add drama to the situation.
“Insurgents,” Jess said, “as in Overtakers?”
The chairwoman chose not to respond. “I would like to address the task of discipline and, perhaps more importantly, what if anything we can do to round up and subordinate the insurgents.”
A hand went up. “Does this have anything to do with the unauthorized activity in Walt’s apartment?” he asked.
“Everything,” the chairperson answered. “The two problems appear to be one and the same.”
Jess felt sick to her stomach: they knew everything! Was that why she was here? Were they going to try to use her to spy on her friends?
“Young lady?” It took Jess a moment to realize she was the one being addressed. She nodded. “Is there now, or has there ever been, anything in your dreams to suggest the recurrence of this...unrest?”
There it was, out on the table: in your dreams. Yet, no one seemed surprised to hear the chairwoman’s words. Only then did it occur to Jess that these people had likely voted on her joining the Tink Tank.
She knew better than to lie. Somehow, she was certain that everything spoken in this room would be the truth and would be kept secret forever. “No, ma’am.” She wasn’t sure what to call the woman. “My darkest dreams—that’s what I call them—have been about Ursula, Maleficent, and my friends. The original DHIs you’re talking about. I know them. Very well.”
“And what are they up to?” Another woman, the art director. “How are they able to do what they’re doing?”
“Wayne...Wayne Kresky left a message, a code that led them to Walt’s apartment.”
“The music box,” the computer guy said. “Tesla’s music box.”
“Who?” Jess asked.
“Nikola Tesla. A turn-of-the-century electronic genius responsible for the building blocks of much of the electrical engineering we use today. An inventory of Walt and Lillian’s house goods in 1968 revealed the initials ‘NT’ on the back of Walt’s music box. But the link has stymied the Imagineers for decades.”
“That fits,” Jess said, nodding.
“With?” The art director quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Recent events. Not my dreams. Not exactly. But it fits. Can I tell you guys something?” Jess said, realizing too late that this was the point of a think tank. No one answered, so she continued. “Two nights ago, the event you’re talking about with the DHIs and the Overtakers...My sister was there. Amanda. She battled the cards with telekinesis. Finn had returned as a DHI with Maybeck. Terry Maybeck.”
“Returned from?” the computer guy again.
“It’s a term they use.”
“I’m aware of the term.”
“Of course. Well, get this!” she said excitedly. “First, he crosses over from Orlando to Walt’s apartment. Philby does that. But then, he gets on the carousel and his DHI vanishes. It’s like a double crossover. Like Inception. A different layer.”
“I’m familiar with the film and the concept,” said the guy she now knew was the famous director.
“It has something to do with color television transmission. Philby asked for files on that.”
Several at the table took notes.
“This is all between us?” Jess asked. “Stays between us.”
“Absolutely!” said the chairwoman.
“It has something to do with Walt’s pen. With the first time the Keepers saved the Magic Kingdom.”
Baffled glances passed around the table.
“Can you explain that?” the computer guy said.
“It, the pen, redrew the Magic Kingdom during the first big defeat of the OTs. Without that redraw, the Magic Kingdom would have fallen. And where would we be now if that had happened? Not here, that’s for sure! You talk about evidence,” this to the chairperson. “Well, Wayne showed the Keepers—the original DHIs—that there’s a disconnect. In several photographs, and in one of my dreams, Walt’s pen isn’t where it needs to be if it’s to show up in One Man’s Dream. And if it isn’t there when the Keepers go looking for it...You see? So, something changed. Something, someone, had to have put the pen into the mug on Walt’s desk in the first place.”
“That’s a lot to process,” said the film director.
“I know. But the bottom line is, the DHIs, the Keepers, have to get that pen back where it belongs.”
“What exactly are they attempting to do?” asked a quiet woman sitting next to the art director.
The art director interrupted. Her words were spoken as if she feared the answer. “What are the chances that what we’re hearing now has to do with the oil? The observations?”
Jess blinked, suddenly confused. The chairperson noticed and spoke kindly to her.
“You have been given your user name and password. I suggest you read the minutes of the past six—no, seven—meetings as soon as possible. Immediately, actually. Report back to me when you’ve completed that assignment.”
“Of course.”
“I see where you’re going with this.” The computer man was staring hard at the art director; he’d seemingly blocked out everyone else at the table. “Tesla. Wayne Kresky. Kids disappearing from the carousel. The events. What you’re calling the oil.”
“Is it even possible?” the art director asked, and then repeated softly, “Is such a thing possible?”
“One of the points you will read about,” the chairperson said to Jess, “is a series of disturbances within certain attractions, a quality to the air, what we call ‘oil.’ It’s required us to shut down those attractions on many occasions, claiming refurbishment. We’ve had to work hard to ascertain that the attractions are still safe for our guests.”
Jess nodded, trying to process, to put it all together. “I need acces
s to the basement archives in the Tower. The dorm,” she said.
Heads turned; the attendees’ eyes met, silently checking with one another. In the end, the chairperson spoke for them.
“You know about the incident? That was you?”
“Not me. But yes, I know about it.”
Some more quick eye conversations took place.
“I’m not going to rat them out, so don’t even ask.”
“Fine. Given your compliance with the secrecy clause, I don’t see a problem in providing you access. But only you. No friends. No discussion. And you will supply us with a full accounting of what it is you’re after, why, and what you find. We’ll find an archivist to assist you.”
“Sounds good,” Jess said.
“What else do you know about all this?” The quiet woman sounded accusatory.
“Nothing leaves this room, is that right? Or are some of you allowed to share what we talk about with others?”
“We only share with one another,” the chairwoman said firmly. “Mind you, actions may be taken as a result of that sharing. The point of the Tink Tank is to envision a future for the company. That includes making the present a safe and agreeable place, one that will allow the best creativity to flourish.”
“Look,” Jess said, “I don’t know how any of this works, but I do know that if Walt’s pen can’t be found in One Man’s Dream, then everything the Kingdom Keepers—the DHIs—have done for the company...well, it never happens. Right? They found the pen, and they saved the Magic Kingdom, so obviously it gets there somehow. But when you study archival photographs—and when I dreamed it—the pen wasn’t, isn’t, there. Something changes that.” She paused, remembering. “Wayne left them a message, too. ‘It’s about time.’”
The quiet woman gasped. The computer guy looked at Jess with an intensity that made her turn instinctively away.
“We’ve already talked about this,” Jess said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I realize that. I’m not trying to waste anyone’s time. But the point is, at least I think the point is, that something’s going on with them—Finn and the Keepers—that has to do with time, with the carousel. It has to do with the Overtakers, too. They aren’t dead. They’re back. But honestly, I don’t know anything about that. Not really.”
“It’s intriguing,” the computer man said. “Well worth sharing. I think I can speak for all of us in thanking you.”
Around the table, heads nodded.
“But when you say the ‘original DHIs,’” Jess said, “what exactly does that mean?” She faced the chairperson, who seemed to deliberate carefully before answering.
“There are six new version 2.8 DHIs in development.”
“Two-point-eight?!”
“They’re something special,” the computer guy said. He looked like he was holding back an impulsive grin.
“And the originals? What happens to them?”
“No need for us to dwell on that now,” said the chairwoman briskly.
“What...happens...to...them?” Jess said, her demanding tone unmistakable.
“They will be decommissioned, of course.” The chairwoman gave a brief, exasperated sigh. “When Mickey or Minnie, when any of our characters receives a refresh, the originals are sent to the Archives for safekeeping. Becky is a member of our little group.” She nodded at a small woman in spectacles toward the end of the table. “It’s all handled with kid gloves, I assure you.”
Decommissioned. The word echoed inside Jess’s head. Archives? Sworn to secrecy! That meant she couldn’t tell the Keepers; couldn’t alert them.
She started to speak but was cut off.
“Is there a way to shut down the DHIs for now?” The film director addressed this question to the entire group.
The computer man answered. “If they’re projecting without the cooperation of the Imagineers, they’ve gained access through a back door or a hack. Finding it could take time. The easiest way would be to shut down the projectors themselves.”
Jess felt like she had an ice cube stuck in her throat. These people were, for the sake of the company, going to shut down the Keepers. Her friends. They were going to stop them just as they reached the heart of the mystery.
“I believe it’s best for the safety of all concerned,” said a woman who hadn’t spoken until then.
“Though as we all know, the same projectors are used for the version 2.0 guides currently in the park. They’re wildly popular and a strong source of revenue.” The computer man made it obvious he thought his own suggestion had its drawbacks.
The art director spoke next. “What if we find out when the DHI hosts are most popular? We could then shut down the projection system entirely for the remainder of the time.”
“That’s the first good idea I’ve heard,” said the man with trendy glasses. Jess felt a rush realizing he looked as much like Bono as Bono. “Is that doable?”
“Filters?” the art director asked. “Is there any way we can screen the earlier versions, but allow the current ones?”
“Not really,” Mr. Computer said. “Two-point-oh is a build out of 1.6, so it’s not an option.” He turned to the chairwoman. “Let’s try Connie’s suggestion. Full shutdown, limiting 2.0 to only its most popular hours.”
“I remind everyone,” the chairwoman spoke directly to Jess, “that we’ve sworn and signed an oath.” She seemed to be reacting to the man’s use of a proper name, but Jess would find out later that that was how the chairwoman closed every meeting. On this first day, Jess took it in a deeply personal way.
Heads nodded.
Jess nodded too, though inside she felt light-headed and dry-mouthed.
Decommissioned.
THE SIZE OF THE INDOOR ARENA, the noise level and excitement before the hockey game even got started, vibrated up through one’s feet and into one’s bones like a passing subway train. The air was chilly and smelled of popcorn and hot dogs. About half the seats were occupied; many spectators wore jerseys displaying unpronounceable names with more consonants than vowels. Vendors in yellow neon vests shouted out “Beer!” and “Cotton candy!”
Players for the Anaheim Ducks and the St. Louis Blues skated by, passing in a blur around the ice in pregame warm-up mode. Searchlights swept the rink, throwing starlike shadows off each player. The overhead scoreboard flashed with colorful advertisements and messages to fans: GET READY TO MAKE SOME NOISE!
Tim made a point of having Jess go down Row HH first. He went behind her, followed by Amanda. Jess waited for men to stand and women to tuck their legs out of the way as she inched along. She found the proper seat and plunked down.
“Wow!” she said.
“Yeah, I know,” Tim said, smiling at her.
“You shouldn’t have treated us,” Jess said. “Must have cost a fortune.”
“Mr. Dry gave us his four season tickets. He couldn’t use them tonight.”
“The Mr. Dry? Assistant head of school?”
“How many do you know?”
“Four?” Amanda said, overhearing and leaning across Tim in a way Jess didn’t appreciate. “Mr. and Mrs. and two kids. But there are only three of—”
“Jess, Amanda, meet Nick Perkins.” Tim motioned to the boy sitting next to Jess. Younger by several years, judging by his size, he showed little emotion, his eyes and facial expression both carefully controlled.
“—us.” Amanda said hello, followed by Jess.
Nick nodded faintly. He seemed more interested in what was happening on the ice than in making two new friends.
“He can be shy,” Tim whispered into Jess’s ear.
“Do I look like I care?” she whispered back.
“You care. Believe me, you care. You thought I brought you here to see ice hockey? I hate ice hockey! I’m a lacrosse guy any day.”
Jess turned to face the boy to her left. “Tim tells me I should speak to you. He says you’re shy, but I don’t believe it.”
“He says you and Amanda are the real deal.”
“Disneyphiles.”
“Well, that part’s true.”
“You know the Kingdom Keepers.” Nick paused. “Tim says you can get a message to them.”
“Did he?” Jess realized the boy was either older than he looked or exceptionally smart. Maybe both. What had Tim gotten her into? “I suppose anything’s possible,” she said, not wanting to confirm her friendship with the group. For their sakes, not hers.
“I’m the rumor guy,” Nick said.
“Is that right?”
“BigEars-dot-biz.”
“That’s you?”
“And my four employees.”
“Employees? Seriously?”
“W-2s and all. We do a little bit better and I’ll have to provide health insurance.”
How about babysitting? Jess wondered. Even if she gave him a few extra years, he couldn’t yet be fourteen.
“I’ve never been big on rumors,” she said.
“There are plenty about you and Amanda.”
“I’ll bet there are.”
“And the Kingdom Keeper ships. Like Fimanda. Charbeck. That Willa and Philby...well, that they argue a lot.”
“That’s putting it mildly. They’re both too smart.” Jess chuckled.
“Apparently Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride was shut down because of them.”
“Makes a good rumor, doesn’t it? Listen, if you’re going paparazzi on my friends, I am so out of here.” Jess spun to her right and hissed, “What were you thinking, Tim?”
As she stood, a hand on her shirt tugged her back down. It was Nick. “Hey!” she punched him. Hard. “You do not touch me or my clothes!”
“Everything all right here?” A hockey fan, an adult sitting behind them. Jess nodded and pulled herself together.
“Fine. Thank you.” She glared at Nick. Lowered her voice. “That is not okay.”
“The Legacy,” Nick said.
Jess looked at him, puzzled. He opened his mouth to say something more, but at that moment, the public address system announced the National Anthem. Thousands of people stood. The men pulled off their hats. A recording artist named Lily Oyer, whose first solo release had dropped two days earlier, belted out a rendition that drew thunderous applause. The teams were introduced. It was too loud to think.