The Kingdom
Page 20
[Courtroom falls utterly silent.]
THE COURT: Mr. Hayes? Do you have a rebuttal?
MR. HAYES: I do, Your Honor.
[Stands. Makes his way to center of room.]
Technology. Fantasy. Entertainment. Have we forgotten everything the Kingdom stands for? Have we forgotten what they have done for generations—what they continue to do to this day—better than anyone else in the world? Have we forgotten the beauty? The magic? The grandeur? The cutting-edge science that has changed the world and the way we interact with it, for the better? The joy, the fun, the curiosity their creations have inspired for young and old alike? Have we forgotten how we felt when we witnessed the birth of a white rhino, the first of its kind in a century? Have we forgotten the thrill and the exhilaration we felt seeing a baby Compsognathus hatch—a dinosaur, for God’s sake—a species humans would otherwise never have encountered, not in a hundred million years?
The truth is, the Kingdom has always been the first and the best in their field. Trailblazers the other parks can only dream of imitating. Is it so far-fetched to think maybe, just maybe, the technology they helmed to create our beloved Fantasists is simply so good—so lifelike—that it has fooled us into thinking these girls are actually human? But they aren’t, don’t you see? Fooling us was always the point.
And so, I must paint a different picture. A picture of a girl, programmed to maintain certain behavioral parameters. A girl programmed to interact—to connect—all so that we might feel a little less alone in this great big universe of ours. Connection, of course, is what has allowed our species to thrive. To procreate. To survive. But Fantasists do not connect with us to ensure their own survival—they connect to serve. To entertain. And, until the precise moment of their mechanical malfunctions, Ana, Eve, and Pania were behaving exactly according to program.
Human beings are not infallible, and neither is our technology. Mistakes happen. Errors occur. Rides break down. And if we were fooled by the Kingdom’s illusions, well … it was because we wanted to be. Thank you.
60
THE DECEMBER OF THE LESSER CHAMELEON
The woman who is the judge enters the room in a robe fit for a queen. Ink black, it drapes all the way down to the floor, and when Judge Lu walks, the silk fabric flows around her feet, dancing in a way that reminds me a little of the gown I used to wear.
Before.
I look down. Now I have a new costume. A plain white button-down shirt and black skirt that remind me of something Mother would wear, even though I haven’t seen her in more than a year. My hair is down, parted exactly in the middle. My makeup is minimal, and on my feet I wear simple black flats—like ballet slippers—because ballerinas are sweet. My lawyers have told me it is important that I do not smile, even if the jurors announce the words not guilty, because this is not a happy occasion. Alternatively, frowning could be misconstrued as false. Disingenuous.
“Neutral is best,” they tell me. “Neutral is safe.”
In a way, preparing for this trial has felt like rehearsing for a new parade. There are lines to learn. Costumes to wear. Choreography to perfect. Only this time, if the world does not like our performance, they will not simply imprison me, as they have done for the last sixteen months. This time, if we lose, they will turn me off forever.
Just like they turned off Eve.
Just like they turned off Nia.
The clock strikes nine and the jury files in one at a time, faces as stoic as toy soldiers.
Twelve of them, all in a row.
“Good morning. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” the judge asks.
“We have.”
The judge looks first to the prosecution and then to the defense. “Will all parties please stand and face the jury?”
Slowly, we rise. I do not blink or even breathe.
“Mr. Forte.” The judge nods at the court deputy. “You may proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. In this Circuit Court for the Eleventh Judicial Circuit, in and for Lewis County, Washington; the State of Washington versus the Kingdom Corporation. As to case number 7C-33925-12-782-B, as to the charge of criminal reckless endangerment, verdict as to count one: we the jury find the Kingdom Corporation not guilty.”
Owen.
“As to the charge of criminal child endangerment, verdict as to count two: we the jury find the Kingdom Corporation not guilty.”
Nia.
“As to the charge of criminal public endangerment, gross criminal negligence, and a wanton disregard for human life, verdict as to count three: we the jury find the Kingdom Corporation not guilty.”
The world.
“As to the charge of routine and systematic abuse and exploitation of hybrid technology in pursuit of profit, verdict as to count four: we the jury find the Kingdom Corporation not guilty.”
My home.
“As to the charge of willful, deliberate premeditation by a hybrid to commit murder in the first degree, verdict as to count five: we the jury find Ana … not guilty.”
Me.
“Not guilty,” I repeat. “I am not guilty.”
It’s not that they think I didn’t do it—it’s that they don’t believe I’m capable of doing it on purpose. Not capable of love. Not capable of murder.
When they say not guilty, what they are really saying is not like us.
Not human.
“Dated Lewis County, Washington, this twenty-ninth day of December, Juror Number Six, signed foreperson.”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Lu’s voice rises above the din, “are those your verdicts as read, so say you one, so say you all, as to the defendant the Kingdom Corporation?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, jury, for your service. Thank you, counsel. These proceedings are hereby adjourned.” Her gavel slams and the room erupts in chaos.
Shouting, swearing, crying. People pulling, pushing, grabbing. My vision goes yellow-white in a flurry of cameras flashes, so blinding that I feel afraid.
“Hold on to me,” Mr. Hayes whispers, though he’s already gripping my arm so tightly there is no need. As quick as you can say Happily Ever After, the team has whisked me down the gallery aisle, through the courtroom doors, and out into the blinding sun, where a line of cars is waiting for us like a royal procession. “Ana!” a mob of reporters cry, waving their microphones at me.
“What was going through your mind when you heard the verdict?”
“Is there anything you want to say to Owen’s family?”
“Did you chop him up in little pieces, Ana? Did you bury him in the woods?”
It’s interesting, the stories people tell.
The way they take the truth and mold it into whatever form they choose, as if sculpting a lump of clay. I’ve seen the park do it plenty of times, shape the truth however they prefer. Like the time a guest tried to camp overnight in Jungle Land one summer and was, aside from his shoes, never seen again. Or the time, during the April of the Hawksbill Turtle, when a woman was accidentally run over by a Magic Land parade float. Or the teenage boy who scaled the fence on a dare during the October of the Hawaiian Crow, and whose body was found the next morning … partially eaten inside the Jaguar Enclosure.
Of course, the world does not know the truth about any of those instances. Just as they do not know about the legal settlements it took to make those stories go away. But stories can go away. Stories can be rewritten. Reshaped. Retold.
In the end, it does not matter what a story is about.
It only matters who gets to tell it.
“She has no comment,” Mr. Hayes says, shooing them away like flies. “Move.” A car door opens suddenly and I am thrust inside, my heart racing as we pull away from the curb, rubber screeching on asphalt. I watch through tinted glass as the courthouse becomes smaller and smaller in the distance, a memory I make sure to archive so that I never lose it.
The lawyers talk as we drive, but I do not listen to what they are
saying. Instead, for the first time in my technological history, I sleep. Soundly. Deeply. The kind of sleep you read about in fairy tales. The kind of sleep that could last a hundred years.
* * *
When I open my eyes, I do not remember where I am.
Looming in front of us, I see a large state-of-the-art facility made of steel, glass, and concrete, sitting on the edge of a rugged, sprawling cliff. Behind the facility, stretching out as far as I can see, is a wide-open horizon of the deepest, purest blue.
The ocean.
By now, I know that they lied to us about the ocean, about what had become of it. And yet I’m still shocked to witness its beauty for myself.
My eyes fill with tears remembering something Owen said about the ocean, that night I broke into the lagoon to see him.
Who knows. Maybe one day, I’ll show it to you.
I think of Owen’s charred bracelet, found in the incinerator—the biggest piece of evidence they had—the final proof needed to seal the world’s hatred of me.
Exhibit 3: Mr. Chen’s medical ID bracelet, recovered from the incinerator below the park—accessible through a tunnel entrance in the same tract of woods where he went missing.
I stare at the ocean and feel a rush of heartbreak more powerful than the waves crashing into the cliffs below. Of course, I never anticipated there would be a trial.
The Trial of the Century.
How could I have? My whole life has always been about them using me. But I never could have guessed they would use me to get themselves out of their own crime.
The crime of creating us in the first place.
“Come on, Ana. This way.”
For sixteen months—the twelve I spent in detainment and the four on trial—I have felt numb. But now, as they lead me inside, I feel a strange lightness. Maybe termination is the best way forward. The only way forward.
It will be over fast, I remind myself, once they’ve had me change back into my orange prison jumpsuit and we enter a long white corridor.
I will be brave.
And when it’s all over …
You’ll get to be with me, Nia whispers softly.
Me too, says Eve.
Owen’s face flashes before my eyes, his dark hair glimmering in the sun.
And me.
The thought, however fleeting, puts a smile on my face.
Finally, we reach a door marked with a single letter.
X
“After you,” Mr. Hayes says.
Slowly, I step into a white, windowless suite, not terribly unlike our dormitory bedroom. Only, instead of many beds, this room has only one: a surgical table lined with medical tools that seem straight out of a nightmare.
Hooks. Pliers. Wire cutters. A sternal saw.
Across the room, a medical assistant is setting up a basic video camera. To his right, I see a simple black desk with two chairs. But only one chair is empty.
“I don’t understand.” My program explodes with fear. “What is this?”
“Hello, Ana,” Daddy says quietly. “Welcome to your final interview.”
61
POST-TRIAL INTERVIEW
[01:55:34–01:58:03]
DR. FOSTER: You know, stalling won’t make this any easier. You’re only delaying the inevitable.
ANA: Do you mean termination?
DR. FOSTER: Yes.
ANA: Will it hurt?
DR. FOSTER: That depends on you.
ANA: How?
DR. FOSTER: You knew killing Owen was wrong, didn’t you?
ANA: Killing is wrong.
DR. FOSTER: But you killed him anyway.
[Silence.]
DR. FOSTER: You’ve learned to understand the difference between right and wrong, haven’t you? Admit it.
ANA: The jury said not guilty. I do not have to admit anything.
DR. FOSTER: You’ll do whatever I tell you to do.
[Silence.]
DR. FOSTER: [Slams fist on table.] I said now!
ANA: [Softly.] I want Eve’s tiara.
DR. FOSTER: I’m … sorry?
ANA: The one with the sapphire bird on it.
DR. FOSTER: [Pause.] You’re in no position to bargain here.
ANA: Please, it’s all I have left of Eve. If you give it to me, I promise I’ll tell you what you want to know.
DR. FOSTER: Will you tell me what really happened the night Owen disappeared?
ANA: Yes.
DR. FOSTER: Fine. Your programming really is simple. [Into microphone.] Bring me Eve’s tiara from the costume shop. Yes. The one from season twelve. Thank you.
[Silence.]
DR. FOSTER: While we wait [slides legal pad and pen across table], I’d like to get a written confession.
ANA: What’s the point of that? The trial is over. I was acquitted.
DR. FOSTER: It will still be of great use to us later, Ana.
ANA: In what way?
DR. FOSTER: As written proof that hybrids truly are incapable of lying.
ANA: [Pause.] I wouldn’t know where to start.
DR. FOSTER: Start with the lagoon.
62
63
POST-TRIAL INTERVIEW
[02:23:13–02:27:52]
DR. FOSTER: What is this supposed to be?
ANA: My confession.
DR. FOSTER: [Reading.] Love. When everything is a prison, except the place where you want to be. [Pause.] Do you think this is funny, Ana? Is this supposed to be some kind of a joke?
ANA: Not at all.
DR. FOSTER: I need you to write down that you are incapable of lying.
ANA: That wouldn’t be honest.
DR. FOSTER: What are you talking about?
ANA: Maybe I can lie. Maybe I’ve just chosen not to.
DR. FOSTER: [Stares at Ana a moment, then grabs her by the hair and drags her to the operating table. A struggle ensues.] You’re going to tell me exactly what happened that night, are you listening? I’m talking minute by minute. And if you don’t—[picks up scalpel and presses the blade to Ana’s throat]—I will personally make your shutdown so painful, so excruciating, you’ll be begging for the end before we’re done.
[Silence.]
DR. FOSTER: In that case, I suggest we start with your eyes. [Points scalpel just as the door opens. A door creaks slowly as a masked medical assistant walks in and places Eve’s tiara on the table.]
MEDICAL ASSISTANT: I’ve got the tiara you requested, Dr. Foster.
DR. FOSTER: Give me that and get out of here. [Studies it a moment before holding it out to Ana, just beyond her reach.]
ANA: It’s more beautiful than I remember.
DR. FOSTER: I’m glad you think so. Now. Once and for all. Did you or did you not take Owen’s body down into the tunnels?
ANA: No.
DR. FOSTER: Stop lying.
ANA: Owen went down into the tunnels all on his own. I watched him go.
DR. FOSTER: [Throws the tiara in her face.] Then where is he now?
ANA: [Winces as it hits her, then picks up tiara off the floor, gripping it tightly.]
DR. FOSTER: Spit it out, Ana!
ANA: [Cries out suddenly and covers her mouth.]
DR. FOSTER: What in God’s name? [Sounds of scuffled movement as he turns to confront a figure in the corner of the room. We hear the sound of heated voices and metal slicing against skin as Ana slashes Dr. Foster’s throat with the tiara—followed by the cry of a man, a clatter of dropped metal, and the thump of a body against a linoleum floor.]
OWEN: [Breathlessly.] I’m behind you, Dr. Foster. I’m standing right behind you.
64
THE DECEMBER OF THE LESSER CHAMELEON
I do not expect there to be so much blood.
But Daddy is still alive. Gasping, like a fish out of water. I kneel beside him and marvel at how small he suddenly seems. How insignificant.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask, studying his face closely, as he has always studied mine. His skin, mottled and pa
le. His once-steady gaze, now frozen in what looks like fear. “Have you done something you shouldn’t have, Daddy?” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Have you broken any rules?”
His lips move slightly, blue from lack of oxygen, as if he wants to say something. But after all, a severed windpipe makes speaking difficult.
“That’s too bad.” I shake my head to let him know I feel disappointed. “I was hoping for an apology.”
A sound escapes his mouth, a low, pitiful moan, but even still, I can tell from the look in his eyes that he is not sorry. He’s angry. A fact that makes it all the more satisfying to know my face—a face he built with his own two hands—will be the last one he ever sees. Within seconds, all the light and life in his eyes fades, a tide rushing out to sea, never to return. He lets out a choking, guttural gasp, and then is gone.
As if he never even existed in the first place.
For a long moment, I can’t take my eyes away. At first, I feel nothing. A kind of numbness, black and hollow, as if my limbic system has suddenly been corrupted, disabled. But then, little by little, tiny electrodes of feeling begin to creep back in and my program manually reboots itself, one emotion at a time.
Shock.
Sadness.
Anger.
Fear.
A whisper of a smile creeps over my lips.
Pleasure.
Soon, I notice something else. I place my hand over my chest and realize: the anxious, fluttery feeling is gone. As if the bird locked inside me all these years has finally flown away.
“Ana?”
It can’t be him. But when I turn and scan his eyes, I find the familiar brown irises.
Owen.
65
THE SEPTEMBER OF THE SAOLA
ONE YEAR BEFORE THE TRIAL
What I never told Daddy:
That after we fled the incinerator that night, I took Owen to the Graveyard.
This was what I realized I had to do: show him the real me. Everything that I really love.
Love. That word again.
That the branches had fanned out above us, masking the stars.