They weren’t looking her way. It would be the work of thirty seconds to wheel Georgia out of the bay, down the far end of the corridor, and out the emergency exit. The guards would never know. If she kept close to the right wall, the closed curtains of Georgia’s bay would shield her from view for part of the distance. Chances are, even if the guards looked toward her, she wouldn’t arouse attention: just another nurse, wheeling a wheelchair.
Come on, Terri. Shake a tail feather.
Gripping the handles of the wheelchair tightly, she drew aside the far curtain and pushed Georgia firmly out into the corridor. The wheels wobbled, squeaking as they moved back and forth, and Terri bit down on her lip, reminding herself that, in a minute, she’d be out the door and gone.
And yet it was a longer walk than she’d thought. Pushing the wheelchair took effort, and the emergency exit seemed almost to recede into the distance, as if taunting her. Jaw set, she tried to quicken her pace.
It was then that she heard a new, louder voice behind her.
Something was happening back at the nurses’ station. Was the first of the casualties arriving? Terri didn’t dare look around to see. She felt naked, vulnerable. She was perhaps halfway to the exit—too far to return to the recovery bay. But she didn’t dare go on without knowing what was happening behind her, without knowing if someone was watching her head for the emergency door.Now you’ve gone and done it . She felt her nerve begin to fail. Her eyes darted back and forth.
There: to the right she spotted a door, markedLaundry Closet .
No, no.
But it was the only door nearby. They could hide inside until whatever it was had passed. Then she could ease back out into the hallway and guide the wheelchair through the exit.
Old fears, half-suppressed phobias, roared back.No, please. Not a closet .
The room would be small. It would be dark. It would be so much easier just to keep going, to gamble on not being noticed.But a closet . . .
More voices, louder now, behind her.
Struggling to master the panic that boiled up within her, Terri angled the wheelchair toward the laundry door. She could feel her hands shaking as she opened it and guided the wheelchair through.
Inside, the only light came from a single bank of fluorescent bulbs. Terri looked around, breathing fast. It was a large space—thank God—but it was dark, so dark. Green scrubs, white nurse’s uniforms, and gowns of various sizes hung from rods or lay within countless wooden cubbyholes. The rear section of the room was dominated by a huge tube of metal and PVC plastic that ran horizontally from one opposing wall to the other. Rows of smaller tubes ran across its surface like veins. Two large hatches were riveted to the main tube, bolted in place and fitted with brass handles. This was the HPLR, the high-pressure laundry removal system that threaded its way throughout the underground areas of Utopia. All day—but primarily at the end of the two main shifts—costumes, uniforms, towels, napkins, tablecloths, and bed sheets were whisked by pneumatic pressure from hundreds of hatches to the central laundry service on C Level. Terri could hear the system working now, a faint hollow thrumming that echoed and whistled along the oversize tube.
She was breathing faster, hyperventilating. The dark walls seemed to crowd in on her. Forcing back the panic, Terri bent toward the wheelchair, adjusting the blanket and the pillow. Then she returned to the door, opened it slightly, and peered out.
A man was standing at the nurses’ station. He was of medium height, muscular, and even from her distant vantage point his eyes looked somehow exotic. He was wearing dark-colored coveralls, and as he spoke to the duty nurse he looked around, slowly, as if disinterestedly taking in the surroundings. His gaze seemed to light on the laundry door, and Terri ducked back. Then she leaned forward again, trying to catch the words.
“I’m here to see a patient,” the man was saying. He had an accent almost as exotic as his eyes.
“Name of—?” the nurse asked. Her head was down, staring at a computer terminal behind the desk.
“Georgia Warne.”
Terri felt her grip on the handle stiffen.
“And who might you be?” the nurse asked, still looking at her terminal.
“I’m Mr. Warne. Her father.”
“Of course.” The nurse consulted a chart. “She’s in—no, I take that back, it appears she’s been moved. You’ll find her in recovery bay 34. It’s down the corridor to the left, the last set of closed curtains, Mr. Warne.”
It’sDoctorWarne! Terri wanted to cry out.Doctor, not Mister! But the nurse had already trotted away, headed in the opposite direction, and the man had rounded the station and was walking along the corridor. As he came fully into view, she could see, through the crack in the door, that he was holding a bulky duffel bag. It shimmered silver in the fluorescent light.
Common sense screamed at her to shrink away. And yet Terri found herself unable to move from the doorway and its vertical crack of light, to creep back into the darkened, enfolding, stifling laundry closet.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, protect me from all harm. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, protect me from all harm. Terri had not prayed since convent school. But now she found herself saying, under her breath, the once-familiar, once-comforting words:I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and earth . . .
Behind her, in the wheelchair, Georgia stirred. The man came closer.
O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee . . .
The man came closer.
4:00P.M.
OUTSIDE PROFESSOR CRIPPLEWOOD’SChamber of Fantastic Illusion, gaslights reflected fitfully off the damp cobblestones. The waiting guests had dispersed, carrying ticket vouchers guaranteeing their entry starting promptly at 4:30. A thick purple rope, brocaded and tasseled, had been stretched across the ornate brick-front entrance. For the next half hour, the Holo Mirrors would be off-limits.
Twelve feet below the street, in the low-ceilinged spaces of Imaging Fabrication, Sarah Boatwright rubbed her arms against the chill. It was, incredibly, even colder here than in her office. She glanced around at the forest of outsize display systems and control housings, each branded with its own red identification label:acousto-optic modulating array no. 10, superposition stream processor, fringe encoder A . A small city of proprietary hardware, ensuring that the holographic hall of mirrors above worked its magic without hitch. Normally, five hundred people passed through the Hall every half hour. But right now, it was empty. And she was to be the sole visitor.
No—that wasn’t quite right. John Doe would be there, too.
She turned to glance at Bob Allocco. The security chief’s bulky form occupied a narrow space between two high-resolution modulators. Well behind him stood Rod Allenby, the Gaslight line manager, and Carmen Florez, attraction supervisor for the Holo Mirrors. Anxious looks were on both faces.
“Think he’s already inside?” Sarah asked.
Allocco shrugged. “No way of knowing, with the cameras all out. He’s a sneaky bastard. There’s at least four service entrances to the Hall from down here, and Imaging Fabrication has access to both A Level and the Park.” He glanced sidelong in her direction. “You specifically said no guards were to be posted. Inside the Hall or out.”
“Look what happened last time. This time, we’ve got to do it his way. I give him the disc. No tricks. And then he leaves. And we start to pick up the pieces.”
“Pick up the pieces. Nice image.”
“Come on, Bob. It’s John Doe’s game now. And we’ve only got a few minutes left to play.” In the back of her mind, Sarah could hear Chuck Emory’s voice, mournful, resigned.We can’t wait more than another half hour. If park integrity isn’t fully restored by then, we’re calling the feds .
“It may be John Doe’s game, but that doesn’t mean he’s holding every last card.” Allocco plucked something out of his pocket and handed it to h
er: a pair of glasses, the frames dark blue, the eyepieces thick as ski goggles.
“What’s this?”
“Modified night-vision goggles. They sense heat, and they also filter out holographic images. The ride engineers use them for troubleshooting the Holo Mirrors. Once you’re inside, put them on. The power switch is here.” Allocco paused, looking at her. “We’ve got the technology, for God’s sake. We might as well use it. You know how confusing that place is. With these, at least you have an edge.”
“Very well.” She looped the glasses around her neck, glanced at her watch. “It’s time. I’ve got to go.”
“One more minute, please.” Allocco held out a radio. “Keep this on the open channel. I’ll be monitoring it the entire time you’re inside. You’re familiar with the layout?”
Sarah took the radio. “More or less.”
“Glasses or no, it’ll be disorienting in there, so don’t dawdle. Give him the disc and get out. One word from you will bring the cavalry.”
“I don’twant the cavalry. I want a hands-off operation. If we’re going to save my Park, we have to get him the hell off the grounds as quickly as possible.”
Allocco sighed. “Yes, ma’am. But this one goes on your rap sheet, not mine.”
Sarah nodded, turned away.
“Watch your ass all the same.”
She waved the radio in acknowledgment, then began threading her way through banks of renderers and holovideo display units, making for a staircase in the far wall.
Imaging Fabrication filled the entire space beneath the Holo Mirrors. Each display unit here drove precisely one hologram in the Hall above. By Sarah’s orders, the complex had been cleared of all but a skeleton staff, and, as she followed the twisting route to the staircase, she already found herself feeling more and more alone.
She reached the stairs, put her hand on the frigid railing. Then she paused. She placed her other hand against the breast of her jacket, assuring herself the disc was still there. Glanced at her watch again.
These were needless, delaying actions. Why had he asked for her, specifically? She realized, with a sense of dull surprise, that she really,really did not want to climb those stairs. She did not want to lose herself in the Hall’s confusing maze of displays and reflections. But most of all, she did not want to see John Doe again; see those bicolored eyes staring back at her, that strangely intimate smile framing the closely trimmed beard. Not here. Not alone.
Then her grip tightened on the railing.Look what happened last time, she’d told Allocco. They’d been aggressive, reactive. It cost them a dead security specialist and a whole lot of injured guests. And it had beenher call . Perhaps John Doe was telling the truth when he said he wanted her to deliver the disc to ensure no more snags. Probably he was. But it didn’t matter. Because—after what went wrong at Galactic Voyage—this was her responsibility. Hers; no one else’s.
Squaring her shoulders, setting her jaw, Sarah climbed resolutely up the staircase, grasped the door handle, and pulled it open.
Beyond was a large room, richly appointed in Edwardian excess. Textured paper lined the walls, vast swirls of crimson paisley rising toward the ceiling. Ornate gas jets in cut-glass bowls sprouted between gilt-framed oils, bathing the space in a rich, mellow light. The floor was decorated in a parquet mosaic of many-colored woods that formed a complex, spiral labyrinth. This was the pre-show area of the Holo Mirrors. Normally, it would be full of eager, chattering guests, waiting for the costumed attendants to let the next group enter single file into the Hall. Now it was still and empty. Long, gaunt shadows stretched across the floor. The corners of the room were consumed by darkness.
Sarah took a step out into the room, letting the door to Fabrication close quietly behind. Her step resonated against the wooden floor, and she halted, listening. She could hear the hiss of the gas lamps, the tick of the half dozen grandfather clocks lining the walls of the antechamber. To her left, faintly, she could make out the sounds of the Park beyond the closed double doors: laughter, snatches of song. To her right—where the entrance to the maze itself yawned wide—there was nothing but silence. Somewhere inside, John Doe waited.
She knew she should head for that entrance, walk in with businesslike stride, announce her presence. And yet something in the listening silence seemed to defeat her best intentions, paralyze her will. Throughout her adult life, Sarah had never allowed herself to fear anything or anyone. But now, standing alone in the watchful hallway, the metallic taste in her mouth was unmistakable.
She took a deep breath, then another. And then, quietly, she stepped toward the open doorway, radio gripped tightly in one hand. She had accepted it in passing, without thought: now, it seemed almost like a kind of lifeline.
No more stalling. She crossed the threshold, went through the doorway, and passed into the Hall.
It was subtly lit, but not dark. The gaslights of the antechamber gave way to hidden, indirect lighting that threw the passage ahead of her into soft focus. The walls were lined with large mirrored panels, framed in dark wood. As she stepped forward, Sarah watched her reflection follow on both sides.
The first section of the Hall, she knew, was comprised entirely of mirrors. But she also knew that, hidden within the moldings and behind one-way glass, cameras were scanning her image—sending it to the computers in Fabrication—which would in turn process it, perform a series of complex digital conversions, and send the result to the holographic renderers for display in other parts of the Hall. Sensors in the ceiling would take note of her approach, determine which direction to display the newly created holograms, even render their motion in real time as she came closer to them. The deeper you penetrated the Hall, the less clear it became what you were seeing: an image in a mirror or a hologram of yourself or another guest. It was a classic hall of mirrors, with a twenty-first-century twist. She wondered again why John Doe had chosen this, of all places, to make the transfer.
As she moved forward, Sarah could now make out an image of herself, approaching: the corridor clearly took a sharp bend up ahead, so she must be looking at a mirror, blocking her path. She came closer, staring at the image that stared back. A woman, radio in one hand, mouth set. She raised her arm, the doppelgänger’s arm rising in slavish imitation. She pressed her fingers against the hard cold glass.
The mirror image of herself was carefully detuned, fuzzy. Mirrors in the Hall were intentionally blurred, to more closely resemble holograms and thus heighten the illusion. Dropping her hand, Sarah turned away, heading down the new corridor. Once again, she felt images of herself following on both sides. In her hand, the radio made a faint squawk, then settled back into silence.
Abruptly, the corridor opened into a small, six-sided room. All around her, other Sarah Boatwrights returned her gaze. She thought back, trying to re-create in her mind the plan of the Hall. Three of the six walls were mirrors, she remembered; one was the corridor she had just passed through; the other two were holograms, concealing other corridors.
She looked more carefully at the surrounding images. All of them were holding a radio, arms at the sides of her tan-colored suit. She raised her arms, and three of the images followed her lead. That meant the other two were holograms. She could pass through those images, down one of two new hallways. But which one?
She considered stopping here, waiting, letting John Doe make the next move. Perhaps he was there, in the next corridor. Or perhaps this was all a ruse, and he and his cronies were already miles away, speeding down Highway 95. Whatever the case, it was easier to keep moving than to stay here, listening, waiting.
Sarah took a step toward the closest hologram of herself. It stared back at her. Abruptly, it raised one arm. She stopped instinctively at the movement. Now she understood: a camera had been hidden behind the mirror at the end of the earlier hall, recording her own act of lifting fingers to the glass.
Gingerly, she stepped through the hologram. It warped and distorted around her as she passed. On the far side, a
nother mirror-lined hallway marched away into the distance. She paused, waiting for a sound, a sign of movement. There was none, and after a few seconds she moved forward once again.
She was deeper into the maze now, and it was increasingly possible that the walls to her left and right were no longer mere glass, reflecting her image. Some would be holograms, re-creations of herself passing by earlier mirrors. Beyond the first junction, her memory of the layout grew fuzzy. It was easier in some ways, being the only person inside the Hall: normally, the mirrors would be capturing images from groups of twenty different people, not just a single person. That made it even more difficult to tell what was a projected hologram, what was a mirror image, and what was a living body. Even so, her sense of disorientation was growing.
Then she remembered the glasses hanging around her neck. She switched on the battery, raised them to her eyes. The view of the corridor suddenly shifted: ahead of her, the holograms became dim, ghostlike. Now, she could tell illusion from reflection. A surge of renewed confidence passed through her.
The corridor took a sharp jog, then opened into a “Y.” Sarah looked down the two hallways angling ahead of her, their mirrored surfaces winking. She hesitated, then on impulse chose the left-hand bend. As she started down it, her radio crackled into life.
“Sarah, do you read?” Allocco’s amplified voice seemed unbearably loud in the hushed passage.
She quickly turned down the gain. “Yes.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. No sign of him. Why the transmission? We should maintain—”
“Listen, Sarah. There’s been some kind of accident over in Callisto.”
“Accident?What kind of accident?”
“I don’t know. With our video links down, we’re slow getting a handle on exactly what happened. But something appears to have gone wrong on Station Omega. I’ve”—the voice disappeared in a brief wash of static—“reports of 904s.”
Utopia Page 34
