Utopia

by Lincoln Child

  “This router, or whatever,” Allocco said. “Could it be what’s playing havoc with our video surveillance?”

  “Very likely.”

  Allocco glanced at Sarah. “What do you think?”

  Sarah’s eyes remained on Warne. “Andrew, I want you to listen to me. These people aren’t afraid to kill to get their way.” Her voice was remarkably steady; Warne wondered how she was managing to keep herself together under such terrible pressure. “John Doe himself told me we’d been lucky on that explosion in the Waterdark ride. They’ve killed an innocent man thinking it was you. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  I think you’re telling me that Georgia’s already lost one parent. You need my help. But you don’t want to be the one responsible for sacrificing me. Aloud, he said, “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And if somebody’s going to do this, it might as well be me.”

  Allocco sighed deeply. “Christ. Well, I’ll send a security detachment with you.”

  Warne shook his head. “No. I’d rather you send them to watch my daughter instead.”

  “Good,” Poole said from the coffee machine. “A security detachment would just attract attention. We need a small team for this job.”

  “Did I ask your opinion?” Allocco said, his voice tight with irritation.

  “These individuals you’re dealing with are clearly well prepared,” Poole went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “We can assume they’re well armed, too. They see a phalanx of security drones, in protective formation around a single civilian . . .” He shrugged, took a sip of coffee. “All it would take is one low-pressure grenade. The M433A1 Dual Purpose would be my choice: forty-five grams of composition A5, with a base-detonating fuse. Toss one of those into the group, andboom! Their whole day is ruined.”

  Allocco scowled, not answering.

  “This is a recon job. You’ll want a small team. Get the right man, have him ride shotgun.”

  “The right man,” Allocco echoed dryly. “Right. Who would that be?”

  Poole smiled demurely, tugged on his tweed cap.

  Allocco scoffed. “You trust this guy?” he said to Warne.

  “At least we know he’s not a mole. He’s a guest, not a Utopia employee. A random element.”

  “Random, you say.” Allocco drew Sarah and Warne to one side.

  “And how do youknow he’s not one of them?” he asked Warne.

  “Because if he wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead.” Warne hesitated. “Look, I’m no hero. But I’m the best qualified to check this thing out.”

  Allocco seemed to consider this a moment. Then he let his hands drop to his sides and stepped back.

  “I want you to take my man, Ralph Peccam,” he said. “He’s my top video tech, and he’s trustworthy. He’s also the only guy in Security who really knows what’s going on. If this device is messing with our feeds, I want him to see it.”

  Warne nodded.

  “I’ll call Fred Barksdale,” Sarah said. “Get a network tech to accompany you, as well.”

  “Okay,” Warne said. “No, wait a minute. That’ll take too long. Terri here knows the network inside and out.” He turned to her. “You willing to come along?”

  She shrugged with attempted nonchalance. “Probably safer than sitting around in my lab.”

  Warne watched as Sarah looked at each of them in turn. Then she unfastened the turquoise imagetag from her own lapel and fixed it to Warne’s jacket.

  “This is a management tag,” she said. “You shouldn’t be stopped or questioned while you wear it.”

  She turned away from Warne, toward the man in the chair. “Mr. Smythe, why don’t you just rest here for the time being. Take it easy, lie down if you’d feel better. All right?”

  The man named Smythe nodded silently.

  Warne glanced at the robot by his feet. “Wingnut,stay, ” he commanded sternly. The robot swiveled its stereo cameras at him, as if begging for a repeal of the order. When none was forthcoming, he emitted a bray of dissatisfaction and rolled backward slowly, reluctantly, toward a nearby corner.

  Sarah turned back to Warne. “I’ve got to deliver the second disc to John Doe at four o’clock, at the Holo Mirrors. After that, I’ll stay with Georgia, supervise things from Medical until you return. Be careful, don’t do anything that might provoke retaliation. But let me know what you find, and if there’s some way we can—”

  “Wait a minute,” Warne interrupted. “Youhave to deliver the disc?”

  Sarah nodded. “He specifically requested it. To ensure there were no tricks this time.”

  “Jesus.” Warne lapsed briefly into silence. Then, impulsively, he embraced her. “Be careful.”

  “I could say the same to you,” she replied. She kissed his cheek and pulled away. From over her shoulder, Warne saw Terri’s dark eyes regarding them intently.

  3:30P.M.

  WHAT IS THISHub, exactly?” Warne asked. They were walking along a wide corridor on B Level, past the complex of offices that made up the Casino Operations Division.

  “It’s Utopia’s central routing station,” Ralph Peccam answered. “You do robotics at, where, Carnegie-Mellon?”

  “I did.”

  “The network guys have a wiring closet there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, think of the Hub as a wiring closet. Only several orders of magnitude larger.”

  The man sneezed, burying his face in the elbow of his busy-looking sports jacket. “Man” was a bit of exaggeration, Warne thought: with his big shock of red hair and generous scattering of freckles, Peccam looked more like a kid on his way to algebra class than Utopia’s top video tech. Just looking at him made Warne feel old.

  His thoughts returned to the VIP suite and the expression on Allocco’s face as he’d looked at him. It hadn’t been that far removed from scorn.We just told you these people are trying to kill you, he’d said.And you want to go out there and take them on?

  Warne knew, from the tightness in his chest and from the quick thud of his heart, that was the last thing he wanted to do. But he also knew he couldn’t just sit in the VIP suite, eating coffee cake and watchingAtmosfear reruns. And he couldn’t stay in Medical, pacing, waiting for Georgia to wake up, waiting for the next flood of casualties to pour in. The scene within Waterdark replayed itself again in his head: the sudden, wrenching jolt; the agonized screams tumbling out of the darkness above; and, most of all, the look in Georgia’s eyes.

  He felt an upwelling of anger at the people who were causing all this suffering. If he could discover anything, learn anything, that might help save Sarah’s Park, he’d do it. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

  “What can we expect to find inside?” Poole was asking.

  “Network switches,” Peccam replied. They had come to an intersection, and he led them around a corner and down a narrower, utilitarian hallway. “T-1 and T-3 connectors. Electrical junctions. Lots and lots and lots of wires. It’s basically a big, narrow wrapper around an underground dip in the Scream Machine coaster. A box outside of a box. Nobody ever goes in there except for Maintenance. I even had trouble finding somebody with an access card.” He brandished the plastic rectangle that hung from a cord around his neck. “And dark, too, I hear. I hope somebody brought a flashlight.”

  Poole’s eyes darted from Peccam, to Warne, to Terri. “Damn,” he muttered. “And what are we looking for, exactly?”

  “A router,” Terri said. “A gray box, probably about a foot long and four inches tall. Installed there illicitly at some point.” She waved a folded set of papers. “I’ve got the network architecture here, so I know the approximate location. Once we’re inside, we can run a trace on it.”

  “There’s probably a hundred routers in the Hub,” Peccam said. “What makes you think this particular one is unauthorized?”

  “I did an internal sweep across your net,” Warne replied. “Its banner didn’t match the rest.”

  Now it was P
eccam’s turn to look stumped. “How do you mean?”

  “Every piece of network hardware has an identification banner it’ll announce if you ping it right. I stumbled on one banner that didn’t match the standard configurations. According to Terri’s schematics, it’s a router in the Hub.”

  “Mmm,” said Peccam, his tone laced with professional skepticism.

  Warne glanced at him, his tension falling away beneath an upswell of uncertainty. He was probably leading them all on a wild-goose chase. What had seemed such a clever idea in Terri’s lab now seemed foolish. They’d probably search for an hour and find some malfunctioning circuit board. They should be back in the lab, working that code, trying to track down and disconnect the errant bots.

  The corridor ended in a small door with no sign except a red label that readWarning: High Voltage. Unauthorized Entry Forbidden .

  “This is it,” Peccam said, lifting the cord over his head and raising the passcard toward the access reader.

  Abruptly, Poole grabbed his wrist.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We haven’t set the rules of engagement.”

  “Rules of engagement?” Peccam sniffed. “It’s just a cable room.”

  “I don’t care if it’s a charity tea at the Ladies’ Luncheon Society. To fail to plan is to plan to fail.” Poole waved at the locked door. “Listen to a trained professional here. We have to treat this as an infiltration. Once inside, we’ll do a quick recon. If it’s safe, you can proceed with locating this . . . this router.”

  “Damn,” Peccam said. “If I knew I’d be playing G.I. Joe, I’d have worn my cammos.”

  Poole looked him up and down. “It might have helped,” he said disdainfully.

  Peccam swiped the passcard through the reader.

  There was a click and the door sprang ajar. Poole motioned them to wait. He looked over his shoulder once. Then, keeping himself pressed against the door frame, he nudged the door open with a finger. Warne noticed the door was unusually thick, padded on the inside with what appeared to be soundproofing.

  With a quick, snakelike movement, Poole twisted his head around the doorway. For a moment, he remained motionless. Then he ducked his head back out, nodding for the rest to follow.

  Inside, it was poorly lit. Cables and wires of all thicknesses, colors, and descriptions crawled up the walls on both sides of a narrow corridor. Warne felt like he was within the walls of some monstrous, nightmarish house. He looked up, squinting in the gloom, trying to make out the ceiling. Communities of tiny lights blinked and flickered everywhere. Twenty feet down the cramped passageway, a metal ladder rose to a catwalk running along the outer wall. Circuits and relays rustled and clicked in the darkness like mechanical insects, and underlying everything was a low, trembling sound, almost beneath the threshold of hearing.

  Gazing around at the endless electronics, Warne’s heart sank. The conviction already growing within him intensified. This was a pointless exercise, they’d never find the router in all this . . .

  The low trembling suddenly grew louder, rising in pitch as well as volume until it filled the Hub with a bansheelike keening. The walls seemed to dance around him.

  “Sweet sister Sadie!” Poole shouted against the noise. “What’s that?”

  “The Scream Machine,” Peccam called back. He pulled a tissue from his pocket, blew his nose, replaced the tissue. “Its tracks dip beneath the Park, just on the far side ofthat. ” He jerked his thumb toward the inner wall. “This Hub is like a skinny box wrapped around that dip. Why do you think they put all this wiring in here? No other use you could put this space to.”

  Warne winced, turning his face away from the noise. Above the din, he thought he could hear shouting, delighted screams.

  The group waited, motionless, as the sound eased, then died away completely. In the wake of the terrible roar, the returning quiet seemed all the more pronounced.

  Warne glanced back at Terri. Her eyes were wide and pale, her lips compressed. Her white lab coat seemed to gleam in the dim light.

  “Didn’t you say you were claustrophobic?” he whispered.

  She nodded. “Subways. Tunnels. I won’t even go on any of the rides.”

  “So how can you stand it in here?”

  “It’s dark. Somebody’s got to hold your hand.”

  They made their way down the walkway, single file.

  The Hub was laid out in the shape of a square: four long, narrow corridors, each meeting at a ninety-degree angle. At the first bend, Poole stopped. Slowly, he peered around the corner.

  In the stillness, Peccam sneezed explosively.

  Poole lunged back from the corner, glaring at the technician and putting a reproving finger to his lips.

  Warne felt his breathing quicken. He reminded himself the place was empty. At most, they’d find some uninvited metal box full of circuit boards and ribbon cables—and they’d be lucky to find even that. Yet somehow, tension within the group was rising so quickly it was almost palpable. Part of it was Poole’s doing: Poole with his habitual caution, his absurd paramilitary posturing. Part of it was the silence, which in this darkness was almost a presence: watchful, hostile. And the sudden roar of the coaster had set his nerves on edge. Whatever the reason, the group that followed Poole around the corner and deeper into the electronic thicket had begun moving as stealthily as possible.

  They encountered a sanitation bot, moving slowly along the outer wall. A miniature vacuum brush, mounted beneath a long eyestalk, moved gently over the numberless couplings. Warne slid past, making a mental note to check its programming with Terri later.

  Halfway down this second leg of the square, the faraway rumble returned: another coaster was hurtling down toward them from above. This time, Warne didn’t wait. He turned away from the inner wall, ducked his right ear toward his shoulder, covered his left with one palm. He watched as Terri did the same. The rumble transformed into a roar; the trembling grew, then eventually receded; and again the group moved forward.

  In less than a minute, they reached the next corner. Once again, Poole snuck a look around.Why bother, Warne thought to himself: the light was so dim one couldn’t see more than twenty feet ahead. He followed Poole around the corner and down the third leg of the square, shivering. Christ, it was cold in here. Just one more corner, one more corridor, and they’d be back where they started. Then maybe this pointless reconnaissance would end and they could get on with the business of finding the router. Assuming, of course, that . . .

  Engrossed in his thoughts, Warne walked directly into Poole’s back.

  The man had stopped dead in his tracks, motionless in the darkness. Slowly, Poole extended his right hand, palm forward. Warne could hear Ralph Peccam’s labored breathing behind them. He strained to see through the thick murk.

  There seemed to be a form ahead, vague and dreamlike, at the point where vision failed. Warne squinted, leaning forward. Poole’s caution was infectious, and he felt his nerves tighten. He was sure of it now: a figure, squatting near the floor, crouched over something.

  Poole took a cautious, catlike step forward, arm still raised in warning. Warne followed. The figure became more distinct: a slender man in a blue jumpsuit, seated on a stool, his back against some kind of cart. Headphones covered his ears, and his head was angled away from them. He seemed to be typing, staring at a small screen between his knees.

  The low tremor of another approaching coaster began to vibrate through the Hub.

  Very slowly now, Poole gestured to Warne, indicating he should fall back. The rumble of the train grew, the shriek of wheels against metal clear through the soundproof walls.

  At the end of the corridor, the man looked up.

  Immediately, Poole froze. Warne saw the man scan the dim hallway, saw the sheen of his eyes as his gaze locked upon them. As he stared, the man began to type again: slowly at first, then more quickly.

  Poole took a step forward.

  The man in the jumpsuit continued to sta
re at them. He typed, hit the return key, typed again. Then, quite casually, he moved one hand toward a nearby utility case, fingering something within. The roar of the passing train filled the chimneylike space with an almost physical presence.

  Poole took another step forward.

  Instantly—with unexpected, terrifying speed—the man was on his feet, keyboard spinning away behind him. Poole was yelling but Warne couldn’t hear him over the clamor. The man looked around for a moment, as if searching for something. Then he dipped his hand into his jumpsuit, withdrew it.

  Poole spun around, pushing Warne roughly to the floor. As he fell, Warne saw a sudden flash brighten the vague outlines of the corridor. Immediately, Poole shot down the walkway in a scuttling, crablike motion. The man in the jumpsuit pointed something, and again the flash came. There was a whining sound above Warne’s ear, and as the sound of the coaster receded, he heard the echoing crack of gunfire. He shrank back instinctively, shoulders pressing into the sharp edges of circuit boards. He turned toward Terri, pulled her head down protectively.

  Poole and the man in the jumpsuit were now locked in a desperate struggle. As Warne looked back, Poole raised a fist, elbow cocked high, and drove it against the man’s face, once, twice. The man staggered, shaking his head as if to clear it. Then he lunged forward suddenly, raising his gun hand: Poole chopped at the man’s wrist with the edge of one palm and the gun went clattering to the floor. The man reared back into a martial arts stance, then swung around with great rapidity, aiming a roundhouse kick at Poole’s stomach. Poole tumbled backward, the man following, aiming vicious kicks at his head. Poole rolled into a crouch and the man broke away, racing around the corner, vanishing abruptly.

  “Jesus!” Terri cried.

  Warne continued to stare, hugging Terri tightly against his chest, dumbstruck, ears ringing. The fight had been so brief, so unexpected, he wondered if he had really seen it at all. Though it had lasted less than ten seconds, it had been brutal, horrifyingly deliberate. This was a professional confrontation, each man working as fast as he could to incapacitate the other. For all his military airs, Poole had always seemed an unthreatening, even faintly ludicrous, figure to Warne. But in less than a minute, his opinion had changed utterly.