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The ‘walking tour’ brought them through a museum of sorts. The automated speaker system sensed their approach. What lights remained unbroken flickered, casting the murals in a pale, inconsistent ambiance.
“It was a momentous day when Dewey Devereaux, famed futurist and Thinker of Tomorrow, departed Multiplex Pictures, leaving his famed creation, Willy the Water Buffalo, as a hostage to Multiplex Picture’s army of copyright lawyers,” began a roboticized announcer.
The moving sidewalk brought the crew past a statue of the complex’s esteemed founder – Germaine presumed him to be Dewey Devereaux. Featureless silhouettes of a buffalo-looking caricature went by on either flank.
“It was in California that he would create a new studio, free of restrictive corporate copyright laws, and creativity-dampening labor agitation. Truly the underdog, Dewey introduced Bailey the Beaver in the first-ever animated talkie…”
“It was actually the third or even fourth depending on how you count them,” Ms. Diaz said. “Don’t let the legal team catch you saying that on company property though.”
The receivers blared on, as the tour passed by mock-ups of an animation studio, fake Hollywood sign in the background. Dewey’s animatronic was aged, if idealized, compared to the first exhibit. According to the timeline Dewey was about forty but was granted features of a kindly old grandpa.
Germaine tapped Ms. Diaz on the shoulder, then nodded at the animatronic. “Alright, boss, you his long-lost granddaughter?”
Ms. Diaz did not turn to look at Germaine. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That’s how these stories always go! You seriously never met the guy? What, you went here on a family vacation ten years ago and just thought, hey, when things go tits up, I can raid this place for salvage?”
Wouldn’t have been Germaine’s first thoughts, back when he visited. Everything was obfuscated behind a fog of time and memories, but he was reasonably certain all his twelve-year-old self was interested in were the cartoon ducks and rat mascots.
The sidewalk ended at the animation wing, where a series of wall-mounted cartoon mascots beckoned. There was Bailey, the Cartoon Beaver; Morton, the Cartoon Moose; and…
“Hey!” Germaine said. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“What are you talking about?” Soto frowned. “You said you’d been here before?”
Germaine’s pulse was pounding at the front of his skull. “No, the mascots were different. Name of the guy, too. It wasn’t Devereaux…”
“Experiencing the Golubev Effect?” Dan asked.
“Golumn-who?” Germaine held his head in his hands.
The lighting grew harsh, blinding, like being forced to stare into dental lights. That pulse near Germaine’s eyes was giving way to a trio of ice-picked shaped killer migraines. The tour’s speakers degraded into a mechanical white noise.
“Golubev – when people think they heard a name or concept, but they got the name wrong the whole time,” Dan explained. “Comes from people who mistakenly think the Soviet Premier’s name is Gorbachev. Obviously, this occurs most often with subjects the person just never paid attention to. Far-off foreign officials, history in countries the subject would be hard pressed to find on a map, names of things people haven’t encountered since they were infants. Some fools are under the impression reality is bending to make them wrong.”
“It happened to my cousin,” Vic said. “Woke up one day insisting the Berlin Wall had fallen.”
Germaine felt well enough to try and balance on his own two feet again.
“Did he get better?”
Vic shook his head. “Psychotic break. He’s now studied in a university in Moscow.”
“Ah.” Germaine felt something sticky trickle through his mustache. A streak of blood from his nose dripping out of some burst vessel near his sinuses.
That painting of a beaver smiled at him, pose stuck in a permanent waving position. Big dumb ugly grin just sitting there, waiting to be punched.
I guess a rat and a beaver might as well be the same thing, Germaine thought as he held his nose shut.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The tinnitus faded long after the light sensitivity. Only then did Germaine make out the last of the tour’s narration.
“… and so, having perfected his proof of concept for the cutting-edge Theme Park and Community of Tomorrow at the California site, Dewey convinced the state to sign over governance rights for over 30,000 square acres of pristine Florida wilderness to what would become Dewey Devereaux’s Futureplex and World of Tomorrow. See the attendant about our country club and investment opportunities, waitlist permitting.”
Their employer ushered the group towards the facility’s west wing. Ms. Diaz held a door open.
“I’ve got my eye on you,” Germaine said to Miss Diaz as he passed. “If you expect us to secure your inheritance then stiff us on payment, lemme warn you: there’ll be hell to pay. Hell and litigation.”
Ms. Diaz wrinkled her nose and generally looked at Germaine as if he had tentacles spewing from his mouth.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “Mister Devereaux and I were not related by blood in the slightest. While I would say you’re free to wait back at the monorail until we are done here, well, the people-walkers only travel one-way.”
Diaz’s face didn’t look like she was lying. Her natural resting half-frown didn’t look particularly sincere either. From her face to her business pantsuit, everything was masked with rehearsed professionalism. Well, everything but the rugged combat boots; they betrayed a hint of spartan functionality.
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The doors in this wing were unmarked. Only way to determine what was inside was to peek. Most were blocked by a security keypad – no hurdle for Vic’s wristband.
The first room they checked was empty. Whatever was once in here, it had been carted away long ago.
Beyond the second door waited a dry office. They loitered for a bit. Cubicles sat frozen in time, as if the workers were out for perpetual lunch. Filing cabinets, however, were barren. What little documentation remained said this space was used for internal marketing purposes.
“If we check every room, we’ll be here all day,” Miss Diaz said.
“Would help to know what to look for,” Germaine said.
Their employer urged the salvage crew down the hall.
An enclave like a hospital’s nursing station was carved into a corner. Instead of an attendant nurse, another fridge-sized mechanical bot-thing awaited, silent.
“Welcome [Prospective Actor And/or Actress]. No current interviews are scheduled with [Research and Development].”
Vaguely British mechanical voicework came out of a row of speakers mounted two thirds of the way up the machine’s torso. An exhaust port and two flanking glass lenses higher up rounded out the “face.”. With no cartoon animal head to stare into it was hard to define where the “face” was. Or if there was even a face to speak of.
“At least this one’s employee-facing,” Dan said, then shivered.
Vic scanned his wristband.
“Welcome… [Maintenance Personnel]. No trouble tickets have been reported in… [Nine-hundred-eighty] days. What department are you reporting to?”
“Park operations,” Miss Diaz said.
“Acknowledged.” There was a whir of fans and grinding of hard drives as this sedentary sentry processed this info. “You are in the [wrong] wing. Park operations can be found in the [North-east] campus.”
Miss Diaz swore blunt and sharply. Unnoteworthy, beyond the contrast with her professional business attire.
“It must have been moved.” She adjusted her suit cuffs. “No matter, it’s just a short walk.”
“Would you like an automated guide, [Sir/Madame]?” the bot gazed straight ahead, with no rising tenor to mark this as a question.”
“Won’t be necessary.”
“You responded [Yes]. An automated guide is on its way.”
Voice recognition was clearly buggy. Regardless, the bot said and did nothing as Vic retrieved a floorplan from a cabinet behind the mechanical secretary.
They planned their approach in front of the bot with no further harassment. Vic pointed at their current location – they were in the dead center of this campus. Two turns would take them to an exterior walkway over to the north-east campus.
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They were walking along the ground floor, along an exterior walkway – a glorified sidewalk, really. Nothing could be seen of that cityscape to the north. A fine swampy canopy concealed everything, with vines running up the windows, obscuring what was once an outdoor office park.
A pint-sized sweeper-bot toppled over and wedged between the ajar door and its frame. Wheels spun in a failed self-righting attempt.
Germaine held the door open and gave the sweeper a kick. It rolled down the hall until the self-righting mechanisms took. Now on its proverbial feet, the bot continued past the group and into the exterior hallway.
“It’ll just get stuck on another door,” Germaine said.
Even so, he did nothing. Place was a bit too much of a weird robot funhouse for Germaine’s tastes. Dealing with people would be much more his style.
A second informational desk in the dead center of this wing had no such automated secretary. Instead, it had only a public-facing map, with a ‘you are here’ signifier.
“Seems this wing was more for aeronautics, defense contractors,” Miss Diaz said. “Our target is on the second floor, right next to the exit back to the terminal.”
At least this detour didn’t take them too far out of the way.
“Defense? The Department of Defense is here?” Germaine asked. “That doesn’t seem like the kind of project you house in a family fun park.”
“Corporate sponsors pulled out when the tourism money dried up.” Miss Diaz didn’t bother looking up from the map. “DoD bought up half the complex. They were the last major organization who could afford it.”
“Might want to mention that before we break and enter next time,” Soto said. “Cause if you had a permit for that you would’ve bragged about it. Your expedition just became a federal offense.”
Miss Diaz frowned, dismissive. “Only if we’re arrested, and only if we fess up. And only then if the Union doesn’t dissolve between now and the trial. Just ask for a lawyer, as usual. Everything’ll get caught up in the churn.”
Stairwells beckoned. While the endless whitewashed halls were once daunting, navigation became easier once they got a feel for the layout. Everything was in a simple grid. Three-by-nine “blocks” to a floor across five floors.
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