The New Guard at Liberty Square

Ad-hocracy generally works well. Lil's parents had seamlessly taken over the management of Liberty Square with a group of like-minded, compatible individuals. They did an excellent job, earning heaps of Whuffie, and anyone attempting to displace them would be met with such strong disapproval from the guests that they wouldn't find a pot to piss in. Alternatively, any challengers with a more radical approach might oust Lil's parents and their team, if they could do a better job.

However, ad-hocracy can break down. There were pretenders to the throne—former collaborators with the original ad-hocracy who had moved on to other ventures. Some had gone to school, some had made movies, written books, or gone to Disneyland Beijing to help with its establishment. A few had deadheaded for a couple of decades.

These returnees came back to Liberty Square with a clear message: update the attractions. The Liberty Square ad-hocs were the staunchest conservatives in the Magic Kingdom, preserving the aging technology while the rest of the Park evolved almost daily. The newcomer/old-timers had support from the broader Park and seemed poised to make a successful change.

Thus, it fell to Lil to ensure there were no issues with Liberty Square's modest attractions: the Hall of the Presidents, the Liberty Belle riverboat, and the illustrious Haunted Mansion. The Mansion was arguably the coolest attraction ever conceived by the visionary Disney Imagineers.

I found Lil backstage at the Hall of the Presidents, working on Lincoln II, the backup animatronic. Lil always kept two of everything running smoothly, just in case. She could swap out a malfunctioning bot for a backup in five minutes flat, which was all that crowd-control allowed.

It had been two weeks since Dan's arrival, and although I'd barely seen him during that time, his presence was still vivid in our lives. Our little ranch house now had a new scent—one of rejuvenation, hope, and loss—barely detectable over the tropical flowers swaying on our porch. My phone rang three or four times a day with Dan checking in from his rounds of the Park, looking for ways to accumulate personal capital. His enthusiasm and dedication were inspiring, pulling me into his relentless, high-energy mode of being.

"You just missed Dan," Lil said, her head buried in Lincoln's chest, working with an autosolder and a magnifier. Bent over with her red hair tied back in a neat bun, her wiry freckled arms glistening with sweat, she emitted a mix of girl-sweat and machine lubricant. I wished there were a mattress somewhere backstage but settled for affectionately patting her behind, which elicited an appreciative wriggle.

"He's looking better," she continued, "his rejuvenation has taken him back to about twenty-five, the way I remember him. He still has that defeated stoop that surprised me when I first saw him at the Adventurer's Club."

"What did he want?" I asked.

"He's been hanging out with Debra," Lil replied. "He wanted to make sure I knew what she's up to."

Debra was part of the old guard, a former colleague of Lil's parents. She had spent a decade in Disneyland Beijing coding simulation rides. If she had her way, every intricate contraption in the Park would be replaced with sleek, white sim boxes on articulated servos.

The issue was that Debra was exceptionally skilled at coding sims. Her rehabilitation of the Great Movie Ride at MGM was breathtaking—the Star Wars sequence had already inspired numerous fan sites with millions of hits.

She'd leveraged her success into a deal with the Adventureland ad-hocs to overhaul the Pirates of the Caribbean. The backstage areas were now cluttered with reference materials: treasure chests, cutlasses, and bowsprits. Navigating through the chaos was unsettling. Pirates of the Caribbean was the last ride Walt Disney personally supervised, and we had always considered it untouchable. Yet Debra had built a Pirates simulation in Beijing, inspired by Ching Shih, the 19th-century Chinese pirate queen. This sim had been pivotal in rescuing the Park from obscurity.

The Florida version would incorporate the best elements of its Chinese counterpart. The AI-driven sims would interact with guests, greet them by name, and spin age-appropriate tales of piracy. Guests would experience a spectacular fly-through of a sunken necropolis of rotting junks and face a thrilling storm simulation. Western themes would also be included: wafts of Jamaican pepper sauce, liquid Afro-Caribbean accents, and swordfights in the style of New World pirates. Identical sims would replace the bulky ride apparatus, increasing capacity fivefold and reducing load times.

"So, what's she up to?" I asked.

Lil, emerging from the mechanical guts of Lincoln II, made a comical face of worry. "She's rehabbing the Pirates—and doing an incredible job. They're ahead of schedule, generating positive buzz, and the focus groups are ecstatic." Her expression shifted from comedy to genuine concern.

Turning away, she closed up Honest Abe and activated his spiel. He began his routine silently, save for the soft hum and whine of his servos. Lil mimed adjusting a knob, and his audio track started softly: "All the armies of Europe, Asia, and Africa combined could not, by force, make a track on the Blue Ridge, nor take a drink from the Ohio. If destruction be our lot, then we ourselves must be its author—and its finisher." She adjusted the gain, and he fell silent again.

"You said it, Mr. President," she said, powering him down and adjusting his period topcoat. She carefully wound and set the turnip watch in his vest pocket.

I put my arm around her shoulders. "You're doing all you can—and it's good work," I said. I had fallen into the easy castmember mode of speaking, offering bland reassurances. Hearing my words, I felt a flush of embarrassment. I pulled her into a long, tight hug and searched for more meaningful comfort. Finding no words that sufficed, I gave her a final squeeze and let her go.

She glanced at me sidelong, nodding. "It'll be fine, of course," she said. "The worst-case scenario is that Debra does such a good job that things improve even further. That's not so bad."

This was a complete reversal from her previous stance on the matter, but you don't live over a century without learning when to address or overlook such changes.

My cochlea signaled noon with a reminder for my weekly backup. Lil was maneuvering Ben Franklin II back into his niche. I waved goodbye and walked to an uplink terminal. Once I was close enough for secure broadband communications, I prepared to back up. My cochlea chimed again, indicating an incoming call.

"Yes?" I subvocalized, a touch impatient. I disliked interruptions during backups—one of my enduring fears was forgetting the backup and leaving myself vulnerable for an entire week. My adolescent years had taught me to rely on machine reminders rather than conscious choices.

"It's Dan," came the voice, accompanied by the background noise of the bustling Park—children's laughter, recorded animatronic spiels, and the sound of thousands of footsteps. "Can you meet me at the Tiki Room? It's pretty important."

"Can it wait fifteen minutes?" I asked.

"Sure—see you then."

I ended the call and initiated the backup. A status bar appeared on my HUD, processing my digital memory before moving on to my organic memory. As my eyes rolled back and my life flashed before my eyes, the backup completed.