Lethal Velocity Page 4

  When this announcement was greeted with silence, Boatwright stood up. “Very well. We’re at two minutes and counting. Let’s saddle up.”

  She turned to her desk as the group began to shuffle out of the office. When she turned back, only Fred Barksdale remained. As she’d known he would.

  “Why is Warne coming today?” he asked, elegant Home Counties accent sounding ever so slightly aggrieved. “He wasn’t due for another week.”

  So that’s it, she thought. “I moved up his visit.”

  “Couldn’t you have informed me, Sarah? I’ll have to get workloads reassigned, he’ll need the resources of—”

  Boatwright put a finger to her lips. “It was Emory’s idea; it just came together on Thursday. With the accident at Notting Hill Chase the week before last, OSHA about to get involved, the home office wants us seen as fast on the case. But listen.” She drew closer to Barksdale, lowering her voice. “I’m leaving for that entertainment convention in Frisco tomorrow. Remember?”

  “How could I forget?” And then a light suddenly dawned behind Barksdale’s eyes. A smile returned to his lips, faint but noticeable. “And the convention keeps you far from the irritant—who might, after all, still be suffering the, ah, ‘pangs of dispriz’d love’?”

  “That wasn’t my first thought. I was going to ask if you feel we can trust Teresa Bonifacio to buy in on this, in my absence. To work with Andrew, get this done. He’s the only one who can do it, but he can’t do it alone. It’s not going to be easy on either of them. After all, this is Andrew’s life work we’re about to compromise. And you know how Teresa feels about the whole thing.”

  Barksdale nodded slowly. “Terri and I have had our differences of opinion. But they’ve never been about the quality of her work. She may not like what has to be done, but I think we can count on her to do it.”

  “And you’ll keep close watch on their progress, in my absence?”

  Barksdale nodded again.

  “Thanks, Freddy.” She glanced toward the open door of her office, making sure the corridor was empty. Then she reached for his lapels, pulled him to her, kissed him gently. “I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” she murmured.

  Then she stepped back and reached for her cup. “Now, come on. We’ve got a Park to open.”

  MOMENTS LATER, TEN thousand clocks within Utopia shifted in unison. The final seconds were counted down; the clockfaces went blank; then 9:00 was displayed and normal time resumed. Zero Hour had arrived.

  The Transportation Center had become a place of controlled pandemonium. Attendants with coned flashlights fanned out through the parking lots and onto the approach roads, directing the heavy flow of traffic in a carefully choreographed ballet. Blue-and-white trams, long and snakelike, wound their sinuous ways between loading points and the Center. Guides in the front cars of the trams, wearing jaunty white berets blazoned with the nightingale logo, spoke into microphones in a dozen languages, laying down the ground rules of the Park between jokes and bits of Utopia trivia.

  Within the Center, every ticket window was now in operation, taking credit cards and—for seventy-five dollars a head, all ages, no discounts—distributing personalized nightingale-shaped pins that, when displayed on a shirt or lapel, granted one day’s access to the magical lands beyond. Monorails glided beneath the twin metal tracks that curved down the middle of the entrance canyon, running 35 percent faster now in “peak mode,” shuttling a thousand people to and from the Nexus every ten minutes.

  The Nexus itself, which had been cloaked in a watchful, preternatural silence, now echoed with the sound of countless voices. First-timers stood in the shadow of palm fronds and fountains, scratching their heads, consulting maps and guidebooks. Veteran visitors—“Utopians” who formed clubs and Internet sites to share their passion—strode confidently, neophytes in tow, toward their favorite Worlds.

  Inside Gaslight, a fish and chips seller ran past the entrance to Notting Hill Chase—closed for renovations—and headed for her stand. In Boardwalk, the spotters on the Scream Machine finished their walk-by, typed their authorization codes into the control room console, and authorized the operator to initialize the roller coaster. Deep within Caernarvon castle, an imaging specialist did a final run-through of the computer array that controlled the holographic sequences for The Enchanted Prince.

  The ninety-minute periods directly after opening and before closing—when the maximum volume of guests entered and exited the Park—were the most anxious for Utopia management. Operations specialists were on full alert, ready to deal instantly with any traffic flow irregularities that might create bottlenecks at the Transportation Center, the Nexus, or within the Worlds themselves. Thousands of cameras—discreetly placed behind one-way glass, within false walls and beams, behind facades—scanned the Park, ensuring that the Worlds filled without hitches or snags. Security specialists, some dressed in black blazers, others in plain clothes, mingled with the crowds, on the lookout for lost children and pickpockets. But none of this was visible to the average guest, who roamed the grounds and midways, smiling and unaware.

  One place the guests did not roam—were, in fact, never permitted to enter—was the “Underground,” the subterranean levels beneath the Park. Most guests did not even know the Underground existed: they assumed they were standing on ground level, rather than four stories above the canyon floor. Although the Underground sported no lifelike holograms or laser shows, no foamed-concrete fairy-tale confections, this was where the real magic of Utopia occurred. Park employees scurried about, some wearing the costumes of the “cast” who worked among the attractions and tourists above; other “crew,” whom guests never saw, wearing an assortment of coveralls, jeans, and suits. Cutaway diagrams on the bare concrete walls showed the layout of staff cafeterias, wardrobe, barbershops, break rooms, storage, computer centers, research labs, and the rest of the thriving secret city below the park. Tour guides and Guest Services specialists used the tunnels as shortcuts between the different Worlds. Technicians, artists, and bureaucrats huddled in a dozen conference rooms and labs, dreaming up new attractions or fretting about market penetration. Electric carts purred their way through the labyrinths, whisking a celebrity performer or a much-needed replacement part from one section of Utopia to another.

  Tom Tibbald made his way through the corridors of C Level, humming tunelessly. He was in his early thirties, had a thick head of tightly coiled brown hair, and was beginning to sag a bit around the middle. His white blazer sported the gold logo of an electronics specialist. Despite the humming, he felt uncomfortably self-conscious: of the fellow crew who passed quickly by without remark; of the surveillance cameras mounted in the arched ceiling of the tunnel; and especially of the hard little pieces of plastic and copper in his blazer pocket. He walked past Central Makeup and Machine Shop 3. The humming stopped as he approached the security checkpoint at the staff entrance.

  The security specialist in the booth glanced at his identification, nodded, and turned to a keyboard to make an entry. Humming again, Tibbald proceeded through the automatic doors and out into the staff parking lot.

  After the cool air and muted light of the tunnels, the heat and brilliant Nevada sunlight struck him a double blow. Tibbald grimaced, turning away for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. Then he sniffed and moved forward, more slowly now, glancing carefully around the staff lot. Looking for the van.

  The backside of Utopia had none of the dramatic beauty of its front door. The canyon walls fell sharply away on both sides, running down into the endless brown of the desert floor below. Behind him rose the massive rear wall of the Park, concrete and cinder block, infrequent windows like tiny pockmarks in its bulk. At either side, near the top, were huge green doors, opening onto ramps that sloped gently down in long, curved planes: guest emergency exits, never used except in drills. Between them, at ground level, was a thicket of loading docks, staff entrances, equipment shops, and vehicle sheds.

  There it was: a brown, long-w
heelbase van, parked to one side away from other vehicles, Exotic Bird Trainers of Las Vegas stenciled on its windowless sides. Tibbald made for it, hoping to hell the thing was air-conditioned. Windows were rolled shut: a good sign. But when he reached it and opened the passenger door, there was no welcoming gush of chill air. He sighed regretfully, tugged at his collar, and climbed in.

  The stench of guano was almost palpable, and the front seat of the van was covered in olive-colored oilskin. Not surprising, Tibbald thought, with all the bird shit in this junker. In the back, he could see a tall white-barred cage containing half a dozen Moluccan cockatoos, huge and pale pink. They regarded him silently, salmon-colored crests flared. Then Tibbald glanced over at the driver and blinked in surprise.

  “What happened to the other guy?” he asked with a sniff. “The one I met the first time, I mean.”

  The man behind the wheel returned the glance. He had almond eyes and wide, sharp cheekbones that gave his face a strange heart-shaped symmetry. “Other engagements,” he replied after a moment.

  Tibbald thought a moment, decided this was supposed to be a joke, and made the appropriate laugh.

  “You’ve got them?” the man asked. He spoke carefully, with the faintest trace of an accent. Tibbald tried to place it. He had friends in Guest Services who talked to foreigners every day, could name any accent there was with just one word. But Tibbald never dealt with guests, and after a moment gave up.

  “Right here.” He reached into his blazer pocket, fished out the plastic cards, and held them up, fanning them like a hand of playing cards. “All your favorite flavors: lemon-lime, grape, root beer, and new wild cherry.”

  The man frowned and made a quick suppressing gesture with his hand. Tibbald dropped the passcards below the level of the window. “You know, for a little bit more money, I could have gotten you the specs for that audio-morphing technology you want. Would have saved you a lot of bother, snagging it yourself like this. What park did you say you work for? Paradise Island? FantasyWorld?”

  “I didn’t say,” the man replied. He pointed to the passcards. “Tested?”

  Tibbald nodded proudly. “Reprogrammed every one myself.” He began ticking them off with his fingers. “This one gives access to all guest areas, this one to Maintenance, this one to the Hub.” His finger lighted on the last passcard, colored a pale red. “And this right here is the real bad boy. All secure sites up to level 3.” He withdrew the finger, a nervous look coming over his face. “Look, if they catch you, don’t use my name. I know nothing about it. Right?”

  The man nodded.

  Tibbald smiled, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of nightingale-shaped pins. “Right. And here’s the imagetags you asked for. They’re generic, can’t be traced. Just pin one to your jacket and you’re good to go.”

  “Everything else is set?”

  “Today’s downlink already took place. Couldn’t change things now to save my life.” Tibbald licked his lips. “Could I have the money now?” Though this was said casually, it was followed by another sniff: the dry sniff of a habitual cocaine user.

  “Sure thing.” The man reached into his coat pocket—Tibbald noticed idly the coat was leather, despite the heat—and pulled out a thick envelope of bills. He handed it over to Tibbald. “You’ve done well,” he said.

  As Tibbald began to count the bills, the man threw an appreciative arm over his shoulder. The man’s other hand went back into the leather jacket, coming out this time with a small automatic pistol.

  Tibbald’s eyes were on the money, and it wasn’t until the man placed the gun between his ribs and pulled him in close that he realized what was happening. His eyes widened, his lips worked to form a protest, but surprise dulled his speed.

  Although the bullets were hollow-point, designed to explode inside meat rather than pass through it, the leather-jacketed man angled the barrel carefully downward, toward the struggling Tibbald’s spine, to avoid the possibility of hitting his own encircling elbow.

  There was a muffled thunk, then another. The parrots screamed their approval. Tibbald jerked, sagged. He made a thin reedy sound like air escaping from a bellows. The man released his hold, letting Tibbald flop back, plucking the envelope of money away from the flood of red. Pulling the tarp down over the body, he wrapped it carefully, then rolled it over the seat into the rear of the van. He glanced through the windows quickly, then grunted, satisfied everything had gone unnoticed.

  He began to snug the gun back into his coat, then stopped. He’d moved quickly, but not quickly enough: a thin crimson jet traced a damp line up the front of his shirt.

  With a curse, he slid the gun home, grabbed the zipper of his coat, and snugged it up tight. Two minutes in a men’s room would set things right.

  Besides, once inside a costume, it would make no difference.

  ANDREW WARNE SAT in a plush chair in a large office on A Level. Amanda Freeman was at a computer terminal, typing. Over the last fifteen minutes, she had asked a remarkable number of questions. Once, years before, Warne had done some consulting work for the CIA. The case officer who’d done the background check for Langley had been far less inquisitive.

  Amanda finished typing, then looked over at him. “I knew you were in robotics, but I had no idea you were the brain behind the Metanet. I understand it controls all the robots in the Park?”

  Warne nodded. “Except for the few that are totally autonomous.”

  “Very impressive.” Freeman consulted her screen again, then scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “I believe we’re through here. Your meeting’s scheduled for eleven. Here’s the office number. Just ask anybody in Guest Services for directions. You might want to use the time to look around.”

  “Sure thing. Maybe I’ll take in the nuclear reactor.”

  Freeman’s eyes darted to his face, her faint ironic smile returning. “So you’ve heard that one, too. I’m trained to respond that we utilize hydroelectric power.” She stood up. “This just leaves the orientation—standard for all external specialists.”

  “What, like a training film? I was hoping to see a bit of the Park with my daughter.”

  “It takes just five minutes. Follow me, please.”

  She led the way out of the office and down the corridor. Warne followed, feeling a growing annoyance. He’d already sat through more red tape than he should have. And now, orientation? As if he were just another specialist brought in to do some window dressing. Had Sarah set this up for his personal mortification? But Warne quickly dismissed this. Sarah Boatwright may have been many things, but she’d never been petty.

  He hugged himself as he walked, rubbing his arms. “I thought my old computer lab was chilly. But it’s cold enough to hang meat in here.”

  “It’s a by-product of the purification process. There’s two million square feet of floor space beneath the Park, but the air purity here approaches that of a chip fabrication plant.” She gestured down the corridor. “No smoking, of course. And all the scooters and carts are electric. The only nonelectric vehicle allowed is the armored car that makes a weekly pickup.”

  They were walking past a gallery of offices identical to the one they just left. Warne glanced through their windows, still hugging himself. In one office, he saw Norman Pepper, his friend from the monorail, hands moving animatedly through the air. “Did you know,” the eager voice filtered through the open doorway, “that orchids are the sex maniacs of the floral world? Instead of fertilizing themselves like other plants, they go to incredible lengths to have sex with other orchids. Why, the flower of the Paphiopedilum venustum has even evolved, right down to the veins, to look exactly like a…”

  “It’s in here,” Freeman said, opening an unmarked door and ushering Warne into a small room. Walls, floor, and ceiling were all lined in the same dark material, and there were only two identical chairs, across from each other. He glanced around curiously. This was not the projection room he’d expected. It looked mor
e like the office of a psychiatrist with an underdeveloped sense of interior design.

  Freeman directed him to the nearest chair. “You can let yourself out afterwards. You’ve got my card, feel free to page me at any time. First visits can get a little overwhelming.”

  She left the room, closed the door behind her.

  A moment later, Eric Nightingale was sitting in the opposite chair.

  Warne almost leaped to his feet in surprise. He stared in amazement.

  The holograph was incredible in its detail. Warne knew, of course, that holographic technology was a specialty of the Park, but he had no idea they’d made such advances. The image in the chair could have been Nightingale himself. There he sat—consummate magician, the visionary behind Utopia—in his trademark top hat, white tie, and tails, the same thin intelligent face and bright black eyes, small goatee on his youthful chin detailed down to the individual whiskers. The fabulously successful, legendarily eccentric performer, notorious for his theatrical extravaganzas, his perfectionism, his penchant for blurring the line between reality and illusion. By combining traditional stage performances with technology and dark role-playing, he had leveraged the art of magic into a vast entertainment engine. Nightingale’s two cartoon series, based on characters developed in his act, had become the biggest prime-time shows ever for the five-to-fifteen-year-old set. It was his star power that had brought together the conglomeration of corporations and venture capitalists forming the original Utopia Holding Company. And he had been the singular visionary behind Utopia’s development—up until his death in a plane crash, six months before the Park was to open its doors.

  And here he sat, a highly processed confection of diffracted light, gazing directly at Warne.

  The image spoke. “Thank you for coming to Utopia,” it said. “We appreciate the expertise you bring to the System, and we hope your stay here will be a pleasant one.”