Utopia

by Lincoln Child

  Sarah was all too familiar with men who felt they needed to come on as strong as she was, act macho, posture like boardroom commandos. She hadn’t realized how much she simply wanted to be treated like a woman: to be taken to an elegant dinner, told she was pretty, admired for her mind, flirted with, schooled in the good life, maybe put on a pedestal now and then. Was it really only three weeks ago that she had awakened one sunny Saturday morning to realize her feelings for Fred Barksdale were much stronger than she’d ever expected?

  She sighed, sat up in the chair. Utopia and Freddy were now the two most important things in her life. Theonly things, in fact. She had to protect them, at all costs.

  Sarah stood up, walked to the head of the bed, composing herself. She should leave Medical briefly, show her face in a few choice spots. Then she’d locate Bob Allocco, talk damage control . . .

  There was a low rapping on the wall outside the recovery bay. The curtain parted and Fred Barksdale’s face appeared. His watery blue eyes traveled along the bed, then met hers.

  “Sarah!” he said. Then—darting his eyes toward the sleeping form—he winced slightly and lowered his voice. “Hullo. They told me you might be here.”

  For a moment, Sarah found speech difficult. The surprise of his presence, after what had just passed through her mind, brought an unexpected swell of emotion. She stepped toward him.

  “Fred,” she said. “Oh, Freddy. I feel broken up inside.”

  He took her hands. “Why? What is it?”

  “I’ve made terrible mistakes. I let my anger at John Doe cloud my judgment. Chris Green, what happened at Waterdark—it’s my fault.”

  “How can you say that, Sarah? John Doe’s the responsible party here. Blame him, not yourself. Besides, the plan was Allocco’s. You just approved it.”

  “Which makes me responsible.” She shook her head, refusing to be consoled. “Remember what you said outside Galactic Voyage? You said our plan was dangerous. Irresponsible. That our first responsibility was to our guests. In my rush to take on John Doe, I forgot that.”

  Barksdale said nothing.

  “I keep thinking about the way he came into my office, talked to me the way he did. I can’t explain it. It was as if heknew me, somehow; knew what I wanted to hear, knew what was important to me.Me , personally. I know it sounds odd, but he talked like all he wanted was the best for me—all the while slipping in the knife. And the oddest thing was,I wanted to believe him .” She sighed. “Christ, whois this guy? And why did he pick us to torment?”

  Barksdale did not answer. He looked stricken.

  “Freddy?” She was shocked to see how deeply he felt her distress.

  His pale eyes returned slowly to hers.

  “Doesn’t Shakespeare have something appropriate to say, right about now?” she asked, forcing a smile. “Something consoling, uplifting?”

  For a moment longer, Barksdale remained silent. Then he roused himself. “Something from, say,The Two Terrorists of Verona ?” He returned her smile, wanly. “I can’t think of anything suitable, actually. Save perhaps a title:All’s Well That Ends Well .”

  He seemed to be in the grip of some profound inner turmoil. “Sarah,” he added suddenly. “What if we were to get away from here? Just leave this all behind?”

  She looked back at him. “We will. When this is all over, you and I, we’ll go away. Someplace where there aren’t any telephones, where nobody wears shoes. We’ll pick a small spot of beach and claim it for our own. A week, maybe two. Okay?”

  “No,” he began. “That’s not what I meant. I—” Then he stopped. “Do you mean it, Sarah?”

  “Of course.”

  “No matter what happens?”

  Seeing his distress somehow restored her own strength. “Nothing’s going to happen. We’ll make it through this. I promise.”

  “I bloody hell hope you’re right,” he said in a voice so low she barely heard.

  The moment passed. Her eyes dropped to the bed.

  “Warne’s daughter, right?” Barksdale said, following her gaze. “How is she?”

  “Bruised, but otherwise fine.”

  He nodded. Now she freed one of her hands, stroked his face, leaned forward to kiss him.

  “One way or the other,” she said, “this will all be over soon. You’d better get ready.”

  “Of course,” he said. He held her gaze a moment, then turned toward the curtain.

  “Remember my promise.”

  He hesitated. Then he nodded without turning and slipped out of the bay.

  She listened as his footsteps faded into the background hum. Then she straightened the covers around Georgia, caressed the girl’s forehead, and turned to leave herself. As she did, the curtain parted and a nurse stuck in her head.

  “Ms. Boatwright,” she said. “Mr. Allocco is on the phone at the admitting desk. He says it’s important.”

  “Very well.” But as she began to follow the nurse, the radio in her pocket buzzed softly.

  She stopped immediately, still inside the recovery bay. Then she reached for the radio, snapped it on.

  “Sarah Boatwright.”

  “Sarah.” John Doe’s voice was slow, almost honeyed, affable once again.

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you didn’t find the lesson too painful.”

  “Some would disagree.”

  “It was actually intended to be much harsher than it was. Consider it a lucky break—in a manner of speaking.” A dry laugh. “However, there will be no such luck next time.”

  Sarah remained silent.

  “I don’t mean that as a threat. I just want you to be fully aware of the consequences of any more irresponsible actions.”

  Still Sarah remained quiet, listening.

  “You wouldn’t care to atone for your betrayal, would you?” John Doe asked mildly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “To make up for all the trouble your little welcoming committee caused. It would go a long way toward mending fences between us. You wouldn’t, say, like to give me Andrew Warne? He’s proven very elusive.”

  Sarah’s grip tightened on the radio, but she did not reply.

  “I didn’t think so. You’re a charming woman, Sarah Boatwright, but I weary of this dance. You will be given one more chance to turn over the Crucible.”

  “Go on.”

  “The handoff will take place in the Holo Mirrors, at precisely four o’clock.”

  She looked at her watch: 3:15.

  “You will see to it that the place is emptied of all guests, cast, and crew members beginning at ten minutes to four. Are you with me so far?”

  “I am.”

  “And Sarah? I’ve been thinking. That nasty bit of business in Galactic Voyage was your own idea, wasn’t it?”

  Sarah did not reply.

  “So this time, you’ll deliver the disc personally. It seems the most prudent course of action. Given the rapport between us, I mean.”

  Silence.

  “You understand, Sarah?”

  “I understand.”

  “Enter the Hall as a guest normally would. I’ll be waiting inside. Just yourself, now. I’m sure I don’t need to warn you about any more unwanted visitors.”

  Sarah waited, the hard unfamiliar line of the radio against her cheek.

  “I don’t need to warn you, do I?”

  “No.”

  “I knew I wouldn’t. But let me leave you with this parting thought. InThe Soul of Man Under Socialism, Oscar Wilde said any work of art created in hope of profit is unhealthy. In part, I disagree. You see, I’ve made Utopia my work of art. It is my intention to profit, and profit handsomely. But itwill be unhealthy for any who stand in my way. Sometimes art can be terrible in its beauty, Sarah. Please remember that.”

  Sarah forced herself to take a breath.

  “I look forward to seeing you again.”

  3:15P.M.

  AS THE AFTERNOONlengthened, and the unrelieved blue hanging over the Nevada des
ert began to pale with the promise of approaching evening, the estimated crowd of 66,000 strolling the boulevards of Utopia reached what Park psychologists termed the “mature” stage. The initial peak of excitement had crested. The pace slowed slightly as parents—feet a little sore and limbs a little weary—sought temporary refuge in restaurants, live performances, or shows likeThe Enchanted Prince, where they could relax in comfortable seats. A small percentage of visitors, unwilling to face the parking lot delays at closing, made an early start for the Nexus and the monorail, where they found a few more outgoing trains than usual. The vast majority, however, stayed on, preferring to return yet again to a beloved ride, or perhaps tour a World not yet visited, marking time until 8:30. That was when Utopia’s biggest spectacle began: four simultaneous indoor fireworks displays, computer-synchronized and launched from spots within each of the Worlds, bursting with awe-inspiring brilliance beneath the dark canopy of the dome. This was followed by an even more massive outdoor display, rising high above the dome: a farewell gift to the guests as they left the Park and pointed their cars toward Vegas or Reno.

  One place where the midafternoon slump was not apparent was in the queues outside Utopia’s roller coasters and free-falls. At mainline attractions like the Linear Induction–powered Event Horizon and Dragonspire, thick crowds continued to mill, and the atmosphere of excitement and apprehensive glee was as heavily charged as ever.

  This was especially true at the entrance to Boardwalk’s most notorious ride, the Scream Machine. The Machine, as it was universally known, was a re-creation of the kind of roller coaster made famous on Coney Island in the 1920s. It looked like the consummate midway relic: a vast, sprawling forest of spars and timbers, carefully distressed by the Park’s illusion engineers to a dangerously weathered appearance. Just the sight of its near-vertical drops and cruel corkscrew twists convinced many would-be riders to seek tamer diversions.

  The Machine, like all roller coasters, was more about psychology than engineering. It was actually a tubular steel ride, cleverly disguised to look like a traditional wooden coaster. The metal construction allowed for sharper banks, tighter loops, and more “air time”—moments of negative gravity when riders were actually lifted out of their seats. The complex timbered shell, on the other hand, enhanced the “picket fence” effect of a wooden coaster: spars and beams, rushing past only a few feet from riders, made the fifty-mile-per-hour speed seem several times greater. And the ride’s designers intentionally heightened the sense of menace by placing some very un-Utopia warnings about the dangerous effects of high-G turns at its entrance, installing a full-time nurse at the unloading ramp. Small wonder that “I Survived the Machine” T-shirts, available only in Boardwalk, were one of the Park’s hottest-selling concession items.

  Eric Nightingale had mandated that the Scream Machine boast the tallest first drop—290 feet—of any coaster west of the Mississippi. This proved a challenge: at such height, the monumental lift hill would have risen close enough to the dome to destroy the artificial perspective. Engineers solved this problem by constructing the ride so that the bottom of the first drop was below “street level.” A portion of A and B Levels underneath Boardwalk was carved out and the double tracks of the Machine fitted into place. After climbing the initial hill, riders on the Scream Machine would plunge down a nearly vertical drop, its bottom section a tunnel of complete darkness. The track would then rise abruptly, bringing the riders—grimacing under a “pullout” of 3 Gs—back into the light and up over Boardwalk again, never realizing that, for a few seconds, they had actually been traveling beneath the Park.

  This solution, however, created a fresh problem. The roar of the cars, passing by at one-minute intervals, was so intense that no Utopia employee working in the Underground wanted to be anywhere near the areas of A and B Levels closest to the tracks.

  Once again, engineers found a solution.

  During the Park’s construction, the underground levels were awash in a sea of wires: theTour Guide’s Manual stated the backstage areas contained more wiring than two Pentagons or the town of Springfield, Illinois. Designers decided to use the no-man’s-land around the dip in the tracks as a hub for Utopia’s internal wiring. They encased the dip in two layers of soundproof walls. Between these soundproof walls—in a narrow compartment forty feet high—lay Utopia’s central nervous system. Endless rivers of cabling—coax, cat-5, light pipe, digital—climbed the walls, punctuated by fiber-optic couplings and electrical junctions. The entire Hub was autonomous, requiring no maintenance beyond monthly inspections. As a result, it was a “lights out” area, unoccupied save for a lone sanitation bot.

  Today, however, the sanitation bot had company.

  In one corner of the routing Hub, a man sat on a folding camp chair. He was dressed in the blue jumpsuit of a Utopia electrician, and his back rested against an oversize utility case, strapped to a red handcart. Within the open case sat a powerful minicomputer. Diagnostic lights on its front panel glowed like fiery pinpoints in the dim light of the Hub. A dozen cables of various thicknesses led from the computer to the nearby wall, where they were fixed by alligator clips and digital couplers to trunk lines and data conduits. A keyboard was on the man’s lap, and two small flat-panel displays were propped on the floor in front of him. As he typed, his eyes darted from one screen to the other. Beneath the camp chair was a profusion of litter: crumpled napkins, stained with peanut butter and jelly; empty Slim Jim wrappers; a can of Cherry Coke, drained and dented.

  Behind the man, the inner wall of the Hub began to vibrate slightly. A second later, a terrific roar came from beyond as the cars of the Scream Machine hurtled down, bottomed out in the lightless cube, then rose again up into the light and air of Boardwalk. The man paid no attention, typing on as the din receded, then vanished. The pair of military grade noise-suppressing headphones he wore canceled out any sound over fifty decibels.

  Now the typing slowed, then ceased. The man pushed himself forward, massaged his lower back. Then he stretched out his legs, rubbing first the left, then the right, forcing the circulation to return. He had been sitting here—monitoring Utopia’s video feeds, scrambling selected camera views, tapping Intranet bandwidth—since early morning. At last, his work was almost done.

  He glanced up, rolling his head from side to side, working the kinks out of his neck. His eyes strayed to the two monitoring cameras, placed high on opposing walls. Even here, in the tenantless Hub, security was ever-present. But the man’s glance was indifferent rather than anxious: he himself had put both cameras into looping routines, patched in from week-old video logs. To the surveillance specialists in the Hive, these cameras showed a space that was shadowy, utterly empty.

  The man was young, no older than twenty-five. And yet, even in the dim light, the dark nicotine stains on his fingertips were clearly visible. Smoking would have meant instant detection, so the man chewed nicotine-laced gum instead, swapping pieces as a chain-smoker swaps cigarettes. Still massaging his neck, he fished a spent piece of gum from his mouth and stuck it to a nearby cable port. Several dozen wads had already been pressed into place beside it, hardening in the still air of the Hub.

  Leaning back against the utility case, he picked up the keyboard and began to type once more, checking the state of the various secret processes he was running within the Utopia network. Then he stopped typing and frowned, staring at one of the screens.

  Everything had gone as planned, without a hitch or a hiccup.

  Until now.

  As a precaution, he had installed keystroke monitors in a few of the most critical Utopia terminals. These monitors hid in the background, secretly collecting everything typed on the keyboard they were watching. Once an hour, each monitor sent its captured keystrokes, encrypted and disguised, over the Utopia Intranet to his terminal in the Hub.

  So far, all the good little Utopia employees had been acting just like they were supposed to. With one exception: the computer that controlled the Metanet. That was t
urning into a different story.

  The man scrolled back through the most recent keystroke file pilfered from the Metanet terminal. Someone was using that terminal to go over old logs, examine routines and instruction sets. Clearly, this was not some random search: this was a deliberate analysis, done by somebody who knew what they were doing.

  The man glanced over his shoulder, down the corridor of the Hub. It rose up into the darkness overhead, tall and narrow as a giant’s chimney, its walls covered in a complex filigree of wires and cable. Slowly, thoughtfully, he raised one hand to his head, pulling the headphones away from his ears. He could hear the distant tick of machinery, the whir of the sanitation bot’s propulsion assembly, rumbling in some far quadrant.

  Behind him, the soundproofing on the inner wall began to tremble again.

  Placing the keyboard to one side, he glanced toward a radio that stood beside the monitors. It had a large amber blinker fitted to its upper edge, alerting him to incoming transmissions if the headphones were on. He picked up the radio, punched in the descrambling code, raised it to his lips.

  “Cracker Jack to Prime Factor,” he said. “Cracker Jack to Prime Factor, do you copy?”

  There was a brief hiss. Then the cultivated voice of John Doe sounded over the speaker, clear despite the digital encryption. “Cracker Jack, your signal is five by five. What’s your status?”

  “Except for the passives, another ten minutes and everything will be complete.”

  “Then why the report?”

  “I’ve been going over the keystroke logs of the terminals we’re shadowing. All seem normal except for the Metanet’s master computer. Somebody has been spending quite a lot of time on it the last hour, digging around.”

  “With any results?”

  “Of course not. But whoever it is seems to know his business.”