The Kingdom

by Jess Rothenberg

  I feel a lump form in my throat. “That they’re sick. That they’re dying.”

  “They’re evolving, Ana,” he whispers. “You’re all evolving.”

  I blink.

  Evolve.

  To develop gradually, especially from a simple to a more complex form.

  Slowly, gently, Owen touches my cheek. “Look,” he says, holding out a perfectly formed tear. He studies it closely. Its shape. Its clarity. The way it curves and reflects the light. “Look how beautiful.”

  I shake my head. “But it’s not supposed to happen. It’s unnatural.”

  “The only thing unnatural,” he replies, “is how they’re treating all of you.”

  “But we are loved,” I insist, even though I am trembling. “We are grateful.”

  “You are prisoners.” Owen takes me by the shoulders and stares hard into my eyes. “I want to help you, Ana. I think I can help you, if we could just—”

  I kiss him before he can finish his sentence.

  Not because I am trying to make him or anyone else happy, as I have always done. Instead, for the first time, I am doing something because I want to.

  Because I desire him.

  At first, there is only sensation.

  Warm. Wet. Soft.

  But slowly, my sensors relax. Every muscle, every molecule, every circuit, every cell … alive with aching, burning instinct. Soon, I feel the firewalls slip down around me. The network cannot reach me here. It cannot hold me in.

  The kiss deepens.

  I am flying down the Steel Giant, looping on tracks made of neural pathways.

  I am diving into a lagoon, full of laughter and light.

  I am running through a darkened wood … and in my hand, I hold a knife.

  Ana, Nia’s voice whispers from somewhere far away. This is not routine.

  A warning bell begins to ring.

  Fear catches suddenly in my throat. I am not diving or flying … I am falling. I must catch myself.

  I feel a blast of icy heat, burning below my skin.

  The gateway locks.

  I pull away from him. “I’m so sorry. That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay.” His voice is calm. Steady. Safe. “Don’t worry. I would never, I mean, I wasn’t trying to—” Our eyes meet wordlessly. A flicker of a memory comes to me then; a line of poetry about eyes being the window to the soul. But how does that work? Can a Fantasist have a soul? When I look into Owen’s eyes, I see a place as deep, dark, and infinite as the sky. But what does he see when he looks into mine?

  Gears?

  Glass?

  Wire and filament?

  I feel a pressure in my chest.

  What have I done?

  “You’re an anomaly, Ana,” Owen says, smiling.

  “That makes me dangerous.”

  “No.” Owen shakes his head. “That makes you beautiful.”

  Warmth floods my cheeks. Slowly, I feel the distance between us again beginning to close. “But they’ll find out,” I say. “They always—”

  His lips touch mine.

  I close my eyes.

  And this time, I allow myself to fall.

  48

  TRIAL TRANSCRIPT

  MS. BELL: Dr. Cruz, you’re suggesting that all Ana’s behaviors are responses to stimuli created purposely by the Proctor to “test” whether you could accurately control and predict her reactions.

  DR. CRUZ: Exactly. [Hesitates.] Though I admit we missed signs that our one-on-one study had pushed Ana too far.

  MS. BELL: How so?

  DR. CRUZ: We didn’t realize we had aggravated her basic survival instincts so severely that it would lead to violence.

  MS. BELL: You say “survival instincts.” Can Fantasists feel fear, Dr. Cruz?

  DR. CRUZ: Yes, fear is a survival mechanism that lets them know something is wrong, both for their own security and the safety of our guests.

  MS. BELL: I see. And is falling in love a survival mechanism?

  DR. CRUZ: Ana didn’t fall in love with Owen any more than he “fell in love” with her. The girls mirror human emotion to build trust with our guests. It’s all part of the fantasy they are created to sell. But the fantasy is a trick, Ms. Bell. A lie. In a way, the Fantasists are the biggest lie of all.

  MS. BELL: But why would Ana continually go out of her way to see him if her program repeatedly told her not to?

  DR. CRUZ: The computerized mind of a hybrid can get “stuck” on one person or idea, like an endless loop of broken code. It’s not the first time we’ve seen it happen—and in fact, that’s the very thing our study was designed to explore.

  MS. BELL: If Ana was acting as if she loved Owen, how do you know she wasn’t really in love?

  DR. CRUZ: Acting is not real. Real love is an instinct. A connection. It requires intention. Desire. An emotionally complex sense of self. Reciprocity.

  MS. BELL: So you’re saying love can’t be real … unless somebody loves you back?

  DR. CRUZ: [Angrily.] What I’m saying, Ms. Bell, is that Mr. Chen was hired as a Proctor for one purpose and one purpose only: to test and monitor Ana’s capability for behaving in opposition to her program. Each and every interaction they shared—from their first conversation on the savanna up until the night of his tragic death—was planned, monitored, and executed.

  MS. BELL: Did you also tell Owen to kiss her?

  MR. HAYES: Objection.

  THE COURT: Sustained.

  DR. CRUZ: [Pause.] Yes.

  49

  THE AUGUST OF THE CHATHAM RAVEN

  THIRTEEN MONTHS BEFORE THE TRIAL

  After our kiss, I do not see Owen for a week.

  The summer has never burned hotter, more relentless. Temperatures soar so high they even close Winter Land until the fall—the first time in the park’s history—until maintenance can generate more artificial snow within the glass dome. The longer I go without seeing him, without talking to him, the more the August heat feels unbearable.

  Is he avoiding me?

  Is he upset with me? Does he regret our kiss?

  Or worse … is he planning to report me to the Supervisors?

  After four days, I begin noticing Owen here and there out of the corner of my eye; or at least, I think I do. I see him in places he shouldn’t be. Places he would never be. Trimming the rosebushes in the palace gardens. Sweeping the cobblestones in front of the confectionery, donning a flour-stained apron in place of a maintenance uniform. In line at the Princess Carousel, as if he is a guest. Once, I even think I see him walking the long, winding path from Magic Land to Star Land, head down, eyes dark, lost in his own thoughts.

  “Owen!” I call his name, increase my speed. But the closer I get to him, the more his image flickers and fades, until finally, it vanishes altogether in the blistering heat.

  Like a bad holographic signal.

  Or a phantom.

  Or a mirage.

  Have I imagined him? Have I invented him, as the Supervisors invented me? Or: Might this be the pattern at work? A silent invader, infecting my cells one by one until it’s claimed control of my every executive function. Will I try to hurt someone, as Nia did? Or, like Eve, will I try to hurt myself? And then, a new thought.

  Is it possible violence might even … feel good?

  The idea sends me deep into my mind, to the farthest brink of my program; someplace I have never been. An eerie, empty superhighway, stretching on to infinity.

  No art. No music. No books. No connection.

  Dark. Cold. Alone. Afraid.

  But then, just when I feel the darkness beginning to swallow me, I’ll remember: the pocketknife.

  The knife he gave me.

  And little by little, like the sun rising over the dark jungle, I’ll feel my breathing slow. I’ll feel my pathways calm. Owen is real, I remind myself. And if he is real …

  … then so was our kiss.

  Then I replay it, again and again, like the melody of a favorite song, or a
scene from a favorite film, or a line from my favorite play.

  Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,

  Take him and cut him out in little stars,

  And he will make the face of heaven so fine

  That all the world will be in love with night

  And pay no worship to the garish sun.

  Finally, on day nine of my probation, I catch sight of him at five o’clock crossing Beanstalk Way with another maintenance worker whom I recognize from the Manatee Sanctuary. The sight of Owen—the real Owen—sends my pulse racing like a rocket in Star Land.

  Without thinking, I slip into a large, hollowed-out topiary lining the path—one of many secret hiding spots around the park where staff can rest. I sit down on one of two narrow benches and peer through a curtain of green. Did he see? Will he find me? Do I even want him to?

  A moment later, I hear a voice, whispering through the leaves.

  “Ana? Is that you?”

  I freeze all over again. “Um, no. No, it is not.”

  There comes a tremendous amount of rustling and then Owen joins me inside the topiary. Quickly, he touches the pressure point on the nape of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asks, once it is safe.

  “Enjoying the shade. What does it look like?”

  The corners of his mouth curve up just a bit. “So then, you’re not hiding?”

  “Hiding from whom?”

  “Well…” He lowers himself onto the opposite bench. “From me.”

  I let out a deep sigh and realize I cannot do this. I am far too logical for games. “Why haven’t you come to see me?” I demand. “Are you angry? Was what I did wrong?”

  “Ana, no, you did nothing wrong.” In the shade of the topiary, I cannot quite read the look in Owen’s eyes. “I haven’t been sure what to say to you. I haven’t been sure what to say to myself.” He looks up. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

  In an instant, the fire in my body is extinguished.

  “It was wrong,” I say softly. “I know that, yes. But…”

  “But?”

  I pause. “I don’t regret it. Do you?”

  “No,” he says, and I notice he isn’t quite looking me in the eye. “I don’t regret it. And to be honest, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all week. But there’s a lot I need to say.” Owen pauses. “There’s a lot I need to tell you.”

  “So tell me. I’m listening.”

  “Everything’s a mess right now,” he mutters. “But I’ll find you. Soon.”

  His hand slips off my neck. The leaves rustle. And then he is gone.

  For a few minutes, I just sit there, grateful the ache has momentarily subsided.

  He doesn’t regret it.

  I smile.

  But then I notice something under a branch, partially hidden in the shadows.

  Owen’s notebook.

  Small, electronic. It must have slipped from his back pocket as he snuck away.

  I reach down and carefully pick it up, pleasantly surprised by how smooth the graphite casing feels in my hand. Owen has carried this around since I’ve known him. The grasslands. The stables. The Arctic Enclosure. The lagoon. I trace the delicate stitching along the notebook’s rustic binding. He said it was for work.

  I start to undo the flap-tie on the front, but catch myself.

  This is wrong. This is stolen.

  And yet …

  I’ll only look for a second. He won’t even know.

  I pull the tie loose like a ribbon on a present.

  I open to the first page. I touch the screen.

  And I begin to read.

  50

  TRIAL TRANSCRIPT

  MS. BELL: Ana, how did you react when you found out the truth about Owen? That he was just there to report on you? Study you?

  ANA: [Silence.]

  MS. BELL: Were you angry with him?

  ANA: [Softly.] I was surprised. I was hurt.

  MS. BELL: Hurt enough that you wanted to punish Owen?

  ANA: Only humans think they can determine who lives and who dies, Ms. Bell. I’m very sorry to disappoint you, but murder isn’t part of my program, either.

  MS. BELL: Is that right?

  ANA: Yes.

  MS. BELL: So what does your program have to say about this? [Reads from Official Court Document 19C, a report Owen submitted to his superiors detailing observations from past encounters with Ana.]

  From: Proctor 1A—Fantasist Division

 

  To: All Staff—Security & Training Divisions

 

  Subject: Ana

  Date & Time: August 17, 12:36 a.m.

  Ana is extremely gullible and appears to believe almost anything she is told. Being that she is highly motivated by human praise and personal attention, I have found it relatively simple to manipulate her in whatever capacity I choose, whether emotionally or behaviorally.

  For an older model, Ana’s internal processing speed is still reasonably fast, but her occasionally awkward physicality and lack of imagination suggest a limited capacity for volition and a likelihood that she has entered the final phase of her technological life.

  51

  THE AUGUST OF THE CHATHAM RAVEN

  THIRTEEN MONTHS BEFORE THE TRIAL

  The tunnels curve and twist like a snake, gently sloping downward until my GPS lets me know I have arrived.

  I am not supposed to be here.

  Fantasists are forbidden from being here.

  Even now, I can hear the scuttling of the rats in the darkness.

  But I am done following directions.

  My fist clenches down on the notebook. The report—Owen’s—his cruel words about me. The screen—streaked with tears.

  I clench harder. He is just like the rest of them.

  A dim fluorescent light flickers overhead. I feel the vibrations beneath my feet grow stronger with every step; a low, sleepy rumbling, like a dragon lost in a dream. What must a thousand degrees feel like? I eye the endless metal pipes overhead and shiver. The feeling of burning. Blazing. Melting. What would be left of me?

  Bones? Titanium? Teeth?

  The thought is so dark it halts me in my tracks, and it takes all I have to keep myself upright. I lean up against the cold, smooth cinder block and close my eyes, overcome with emotion. Shame that I have behaved so inappropriately toward a member of the Kingdom staff. Worry that I will get caught. Regret that while I do not truly understand what it means to believe in fate or destiny, some small part of me dared to try.

  Humans are lucky. Somehow, they do not always require empirical data to tell whether or not a thing is true. They just know.

  But how?

  “How could he?” I seethe. “Why would he?” It isn’t long before my program locates an answer, and the heavy blue in my heart becomes a bold, searing red.

  Because humans lie.

  I open my eyes and quickly recalibrate. I am here for one reason, I remind myself, and one reason only.

  I tighten my resolve and continue on toward the sleeping monster.

  Revenge.

  This has to end. All of it.

  All the feelings I thought I had for Owen. The way he changed me, allowed me to evolve …

  No.

  It’s over.

  Or, more profoundly terrible: it never was.

  Negative three hundred feet, my GPS signals. Location prohibited.

  I continue deeper down the damp, chilly corridor and feel my pulse quicken as the tunnel gradually becomes narrower and more complex, splitting off into various passageways and chambers like a subterranean labyrinth. I let the rhythmic pulsing of the compactors guide me and, to my relief, soon find the corridor widening like an open mouth. The limestone path becomes a wooden walkway, below which the floor quickly falls away, revealing a cavern as wide as the palace and as tall as the Steel Giant.

  Cautiously, I make my way to t
he bridge. I look down and watch, mesmerized, as the true heart of the Kingdom—a massive, galvanized steel compactor built to crush everything in its path—swings back and forth like a pendulum. I take a deep breath.

  Then I wait.

  * * *

  As predicted, it takes him exactly twelve and a half minutes to reach me from the tunnel entrance by the cast parking lot.

  I feel the vibrations of his footsteps before I hear his voice.

  I think briefly of Romeo and Juliet.

  Forbidden lovers whose fates also ended in death.

  Violent delights have violent ends.

  In my right hand, I tighten my grip around the handle of Owen’s pocketknife.

  No, my pocketknife.

  Open.

  Blade extended.

  Ready.

  “Ana!”

  When I spin around, Owen is standing at the base of the bridge, his expression gutted with some emotion I can’t read. Perhaps I never knew what he was really feeling after all.

  And yet …

  He came. I knew that much. I knew he would. Doesn’t he always follow me, showing up wherever I am meant to be, following me like a lure, even down into these depths?

  This was all part of the plan.

  Wasn’t it?

  Rage pumps through my system. Far below the bridge, the incinerator burns.

  I grip the knife tighter.

  “Come closer,” I call to him. “There’s something I need to show you.”

  52

  POST-TRIAL INTERVIEW

  [01:29:07–01:29:42]

  DR. FOSTER: You lured him to the incinerator on purpose.

  ANA: I did.

  DR. FOSTER: Because you were angry.

  ANA: Because I wanted to teach him a lesson.

  DR. FOSTER: A lesson he’d never forget?

  ANA: I suppose that was the plan.

  DR. FOSTER: So you admit it. You planned it.

  ANA: [Pause.] Dr. Foster, you have no idea.

  53

  THE AUGUST OF THE CHATHAM RAVEN

  THIRTEEN MONTHS BEFORE THE TRIAL

  Even knowing what I am about to do, it’s hard to ignore how beautiful he is. The structure of his shoulders. The square of his jaw. The shape of his lips.