Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom Part 14

She shook her head, and anger blazed in her utterly scrutable hazel eyes. "No. I'm going back to who I was, before I met you."

It hurt, bad. I had loved the old, steeplechase Zed, had loved her fun and mischief. The Zed she'd become after we wed was terrible and terrifying, but I'd stuck with her out of respect for the person she'd been.

Now she was off to restore herself from a backup made before she met me.

She was going to lop 18 months out of her life, start over again, revert to a saved version.

Hurt? It ached like a motherf.u.c.ker.

I went back to the station a month later, and saw her jamming in the sphere with a guy who had three extra sets of arms depending from his hips. He scuttled around the sphere while she played a jig on the piano, and when her silver eyes lit on me, there wasn't a shred of recognition in them. She'd never met me.

I died some, too, putting the incident out of my head and sojourning to Disney World, there to reinvent myself with a new group of friends, a new career, a new life. I never spoke of Zed again -- especially not to Lil, who hardly needed me to pollute her with remembrances of my crazy exes.

If I was nuts, it wasn't the kind of spectacular nuts that Zed had gone.

It was a slow, seething, ugly nuts that had me alienating my friends, sabotaging my enemies, driving my girlfriend into my best friend's arms.

I decided that I would see a doctor, just as soon as we'd run the rehab past the ad-hoc's general meeting. I had to get my priorities straight.

I pulled on last night's clothes and walked out to the Monorail station in the main lobby. The platform was jammed with happy guests, bright and cheerful and ready for a day of steady, hypermediated fun. I tried to make myself attend to them as individuals, but try as I might, they kept turning into a crowd, and I had to plant my feet firmly on the platform to keep from weaving among them to the edge, the better to snag a seat.

The meeting was being held over the Suns.h.i.+ne Tree Terrace in Adventureland, just steps from where I'd been turned into a road-pizza by the still-unidentified a.s.sa.s.sin. The Adventureland ad-hocs owed the Liberty Square crew a favor since my death had gone down on their turf, so they had given us use of their prize meeting room, where the Florida sun streamed through the slats of the shutters, casting a hash of dust- filled shafts of light across the room. The faint sounds of the tiki- drums and the spieling Jungle Cruise guides leaked through the room, a low-key ambient buzz from two of the Park's oldest rides.

There were almost a hundred ad-hocs in the Liberty Square crew, almost all second-gen castmembers with big, friendly smiles. They filled the room to capacity, and there was much hugging and handshaking before the meeting came to order. I was thankful that the room was too small for the _de rigeur_ ad-hoc circle-of-chairs, so that Lil was able to stand at a podium and command a smidge of respect.

"Hi there!" she said, brightly. The weepy puffiness was still present around her eyes, if you knew how to look for it, but she was expert at putting on a brave face no matter what the ache.

The ad-hocs roared back a collective, "Hi, Lil!" and laughed at their own corny tradition. Oh, they sure were a barrel of laughs at the Magic Kingdom.

"Everybody knows why we're here, right?" Lil said, with a self- deprecating smile. She'd been lobbying hard for weeks, after all. "Does anyone have any questions about the plans? We'd like to start executing right away."

A guy with deliberately boyish, wholesome features put his arm in the air. Lil acknowledged him with a nod. "When you say 'right away,' do you mean --"

I cut in. "Tonight. After this meeting. We're on an eight-week production schedule, and the sooner we start, the sooner it'll be finished."

The crowd murmured, unsettled. Lil shot me a withering look. I shrugged.

Politics was not my game.

Lil said, "Don, we're trying something new here, a really streamlined process. The good part is, the process is _short_. In a couple months, we'll know if it's working for us. If it's not, hey, we can turn it around in a couple months, too. That's why we're not spending as much time planning as we usually do. It won't take five years for the idea to prove out, so the risks are lower."

Another castmember, a woman, apparent 40 with a round, motherly demeanor said, "I'm all for moving fast -- Lord knows, our pacing hasn't always been that hot. But I'm concerned about all these new people you propose to recruit -- won't having more people slow us down when it comes to making new decisions?"

_No_, I thought sourly, _because the people I'm bringing in aren't addicted to meetings_.

Lil nodded. "That's a good point, Lisa. The offer we're making to the telepresence players is probationary -- they don't get to vote until after we've agreed that the rehab is a success."

Another castmember stood. I recognized him: Dave, a heavyset, self- important jerk who loved to work the front door, even though he blew his spiel about half the time. "Lillian," he said, smiling sadly at her, "I think you're really making a big mistake here. We love the Mansion, all of us, and so do the guests. It's a piece of history, and we're its custodians, not its masters. Changing it like this, well. . ." he shook his head. "It's not good stewards.h.i.+p. If the guests wanted to walk through a funhouse with guys jumping out of the shadows saying 'booga- booga,' they'd go to one of the Halloween Houses in their hometowns. The Mansion's better than that. I can't be a part of this plan."

I wanted to knock the smug grin off his face. I'd delivered essentially the same polemic a thousand times -- in reference to Debra's work -- and hearing it from this jerk in reference to _mine_ made me go all hot and red inside.

"Look," I said. "If we don't do this, if we don't change things, they'll get changed _for_ us. By someone else. The question, _Dave_, is whether a responsible custodian lets his custodians.h.i.+p be taken away from him, or whether he does everything he can to make sure that he's still around to ensure that his charge is properly cared for. Good custodians.h.i.+p isn't sticking your head in the sand."

I could tell I wasn't doing any good. The mood of the crowd was getting darker, the faces more set. I resolved not to speak again until the meeting was done, no matter what the provocation.

Lil smoothed my remarks over, and fielded a dozen more, and it looked like the objections would continue all afternoon and all night and all the next day, and I felt woozy and overwrought and miserable all at the same time, staring at Lil and her harried smile and her nervous smoothing of her hair over her ears.

Finally, she called the question. By tradition, the votes were collected in secret and publicly tabulated over the data-channels. The group's eyes unfocussed as they called up HUDs and watched the totals as they rolled in. I was offline and unable to vote or watch.

At length, Lil heaved a relieved sigh and smiled, dropping her hands behind her back.

"All right then," she said, over the crowd's buzz. "Let's get to work."

I stood up, saw Dan and Lil staring into each other's eyes, a meaningful glance between new lovers, and I saw red. Literally. My vision washed over pink, and a strobe pounded at the edges of my vision. I took two lumbering steps towards them and opened my mouth to say something horrible, and what came out was "Waaagh." My right side went numb and my leg slipped out from under me and I crashed to the floor.

The slatted light from the shutters cast its way across my chest as I tried to struggle up with my left arm, and then it all went black.

I wasn't nuts after all.

The doctor's office in the Main Street infirmary was clean and white and decorated with posters of Jiminy Cricket in doctors' whites with an outsized stethoscope. I came to on a hard pallet under a sign that reminded me to get a check-up twice a year, by gum! and I tried to bring my hands up to s.h.i.+eld my eyes from the over bright light and the over- cheerful signage, and discovered that I couldn't move my arms. Further investigation revealed that this was because I was strapped down, in full-on four-point restraint.

"Waaagh," I said again.

Dan's worried face swam into my field of vision, along with a serious- looking doctor, apparent 70, with a Norman Rockwell face full of crow'sfeet and smile-lines.

"Welcome back, Julius. I'm Doctor Pete," the doctor said, in a kindly voice that matched the face. Despite my recent disillusion with castmember bulls.h.i.+t, I found his schtick comforting.

I slumped back against the palette while the doc shone lights in my eyes and consulted various diagnostic apparati. I bore it in stoic silence, too confounded by the horrible Waaagh sounds to attempt more speech. The doc would tell me what was going on when he was ready.

"Does he need to be tied up still?" Dan asked, and I shook my head urgently. Being tied up wasn't my idea of a good time.

The doc smiled kindly. "I think it's for the best, for now. Don't worry, Julius, we'll have you up and about soon enough."

Dan protested, but stopped when the doc threatened to send him out of the room. He took my hand instead.

My nose itched. I tried to ignore it, but it got worse and worse, until it was all I could think of, the flaming lance of itch that strobed at the tip of my nostril. Furiously, I wrinkled my face, rattled at my restraints. The doc absentmindedly noticed my gyrations and delicately scratched my nose with a gloved finger. The relief was fantastic. I just hoped my nuts didn't start itching anytime soon.

Finally, the doctor pulled up a chair and did something that caused the head of the bed to raise up so that I could look him in the eye.

"Well, now," he said, stroking his chin. "Julius, you've got a problem.

Your friend here tells me your systems have been offline for more than a month. It sure would've been better if you'd come in to see me when it started up.

"But you didn't, and things got worse." He nodded up at Jiminy Cricket's recriminations: Go ahead, see your doc! "It's good advice, son, but what's done is done. You were restored from a backup about eight weeks ago, I see. Without more tests, I can't be sure, but my theory is that the brain-machine interface they installed at that time had a material defect. It's been deteriorating ever since, misfiring and rebooting. The shut-downs are a protective mechanism, meant to keep it from introducing the kind of seizure you experienced this afternoon. When the interface senses malfunction, it shuts itself down and boots a diagnostic mode, attempts to fix itself and come back online.

"Well, that's fine for minor problems, but in cases like this, it's bad news. The interface has been deteriorating steadily, and it's only a matter of time before it does some serious damage."

"Waaagh?" I asked. I meant to say, _All right, but what's wrong with my mouth?_