Lethal Velocity

by Lincoln Child

  The man smiled, revealing a set of white, perfect teeth. “A pleasure,” he said, striding forward to shake Warne’s hand. “Welcome to Utopia. At long last, I might add.”

  “And this is Teresa Bonifacio, who works with Fred in Robotics.”

  Hearing this, Warne looked at the Asian woman with fresh curiosity. He’d spoken with her dozens of times over the phone—enough to have become good friends à la distance—but had never seen her in person. Teresa was around five foot four, with dark eyes and bobbed, jet-black hair. She returned his gaze, looking at him intently. For a moment, he found himself almost shocked by how attractive she was. Over all their many conversations, he’d never thought to attach a face to the deep, laconic voice in the telephone.

  “Teresa,” he said. “We finally meet.”

  The woman responded with a smile and a birdlike duck of the head. “I can’t believe it. I feel like I’ve known you for years.” Her smile was warm, but a little impish; it crinkled her nose and the corners of her eyes.

  “And this is Georgia,” Sarah went on. “Andrew’s daughter.”

  Both Barksdale and Teresa Bonifacio turned curiously toward the girl. Watching them, Warne felt sudden misgiving. Clearly, this wasn’t the informal chat, the nostalgic tête-à-tête with Sarah, that he’d been expecting. He’d made a significant miscalculation.

  There was another moment of silence. Warne felt Georgia edge a little closer to him.

  “Well, we’d better get started.” Sarah squared her papers on the desk. “Georgia, listen. We need to speak to your dad for a few minutes. Would you mind waiting outside?”

  Georgia did not reply; she did not need to. The knitting of her eyebrows, and the sudden, stubborn jut of her lower lip, were response enough.

  “Here,” Barksdale spoke into the silence. “I’ve got an idea. What if Terri takes her to the nearest cast lounge? We’ve got every flavor of soda imaginable, and they’re all free.”

  Now it was Teresa’s turn to look aggrieved, but Warne flashed Barksdale a grateful glance. The man had clearly sensed the awkwardness of the situation and hit upon a tactful solution.

  Warne looked back at Georgia. “How does that sound, sweetheart?” he asked. He watched the wheels go around in her head. She knew that she could not easily refuse such a polite gesture from an adult. And—he hoped—she didn’t want to embarrass her dad.

  The firm line of her lower lip softened. “Cherry Coke?”

  “Oceans of it,” Barksdale said, smiling.

  “Okay.”

  Teresa Bonifacio looked first at Barksdale, then at Georgia, and then at Warne. “Nice to meet you at last, Dr. Warne,” she said in a joking contralto. “Come on, kiddo.” And then, ushering Georgia before her, she walked out into the corridor and closed the door behind her.

  “ANOTHER CHERRY COKE?” Teresa Bonifacio asked as she tried to find a comfortable position in the red plastic chair.

  Across the table, Georgia shook her head. “No,” she said. And then she added, “Thanks.”

  Teresa smiled, then glanced privately at her watch. The meeting would take half an hour, maybe forty minutes. But only ten minutes had gone by, and already she could think of nothing else to say to the girl before her. She heaved an ill-suppressed sigh. I can’t believe I turned down a $120,000 research job at the Rand Institute to baby-sit a bratty kid.

  She stirred again in her chair. As annoying as it was to be playing baby-sitter, she was almost glad she didn’t have to be in that conference room, see Andrew’s face when he heard the news. Over the course of the last year, she’d developed an affection for the man that went beyond intellectual admiration. A robotics lab could be a lonely place. After all, the things didn’t usually talk back to you; and when they did, what they had to say was rarely interesting. She’d found herself looking forward to the telephone chats with Warne. It was nice to talk with somebody who understood, who enjoyed, hearing about the little victories, the offbeat theory. He even seemed to appreciate her quirky sense of humor—and that was saying something. Andrew Warne was a great guy; this was a rotten development. And not just for him.

  Teresa watched as Georgia pulled a media player out of her pocket, put the headphones over her ears, and then—as if realizing this was rude—took them off again. She wondered why Warne had brought the girl along. But as quickly as she thought this, she realized the answer. He couldn’t have known why he was really asked here. They’ve been so secretive about it all. He must have thought it would make a good vacation.

  She decided to try a different tack. “What’s that you’re listening to?” she asked, nodding toward the player.

  “Benny Goodman. At Carnegie Hall.”

  “Not bad. Although old Benny is a little bit too white-bread for me, if you know what I mean. You like Duke Ellington?”

  Georgia shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know? The guy’s only the foundation of all modern music. I don’t just mean jazz, either. That guy could swing. His concert at Newport, in 1956? Check out ‘Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue.’ The sax player, Paul Gonsalves, takes a solo for twenty-seven choruses. Twenty-seven freakin’ choruses. Unbelievable.”

  This was greeted by silence. Teresa sighed again. She realized she was talking to Georgia like she was an adult. But she had no idea how to talk to a kid. Even as a kid, she hadn’t known how to talk to other kids. Hell, she barely felt comfortable talking to other adults sometimes. One thing she knew, though: if she had to sit here for another half hour, she’d go stir-crazy.

  Abruptly, she stood up. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Georgia glanced at her in mute inquiry.

  “Well, you look about as bored as I feel. Come on, there’s something I want to show you.”

  With Georgia in tow, Teresa threaded her way through the complex passageways of B Level, arriving at last at a small, unmarked door. She opened it, revealing a narrow metal staircase. She ushered Georgia ahead of her, and they began to climb.

  The stairs seemed to ascend forever. At last, they reached a small landing of corrugated metal, ringed by waist-high retaining bars. On the far side, a narrower staircase rose again, disappearing into an enclosed passage. With unspoken mutual consent, they stopped on the landing for a breather.

  “Isn’t there an elevator?” Georgia panted.

  “Yup. But I hate elevators.”

  “Why?”

  “Claustrophobic.”

  Silence descended as they caught their breath. Then Teresa turned to Georgia. “So, what’s it like to have such a brilliant dad?”

  Georgia looked over in surprise, as if she’d never considered the question. “It’s okay, I guess.”

  “Okay? I’d have killed to have a dad like yours. My father’s idea of advanced math was counting the beads on his rosary.”

  Georgia seemed to think a moment. “He’s just like any other dad. We have fun.”

  “You interested in robotics?”

  Georgia nodded. “Sure. I was, anyway.”

  Teresa considered this. It was still hard to believe that she was standing here, talking with the daughter of Andrew Warne: father of the Metanet, controversial pioneer in robotics and machine intelligence, lately departed from Carnegie-Mellon. In the course of managing the Metanet, she’d had so many one-on-one phone conversations with him that it was somehow hard to imagine him with a family. But of course, she knew the history: how his wife, a naval architect, had drowned four years before while testing out a new sailboat design in Chesapeake Bay. How he’d been closely involved with Eric Nightingale in the Park’s early vision, but after Nightingale’s death had been alienated by the corporate types who’d moved in to finish Utopia. She even knew the gossip: How he and Sarah Boatwright had been seeing each other back at Carnegie-Mellon. How his controversial theories on machine learning weren’t bearing their promised fruit. How the start-up company he’d founded after leaving Carnegie-Mellon had recently gone belly-up, victim of the dot-com implosion. Not al
l Utopia rumors were accurate, of course. But if that last one was, she felt doubly bad for him today.

  She pushed herself away from the bars. “Come on,” she said. “Only seventy-one more steps. I counted them once.”

  The staircase beyond led steeply upward, through an enclosure formed by two long, slender beams that arched away overhead, out of sight. There were no windows, and the tubelike passage was lit by long fluorescent lights set into the walls.

  “We’re almost there now,” Teresa panted as she pulled herself up with the handrail.

  Gradually, the angle of the staircase lessened. Teresa led the way around a sharp curve, then stepped onto another metal platform and stood aside, gesturing for Georgia to come and stand beside her. She watched the girl step forward, then stop suddenly in astonishment.

  “Take a good grip on that handrail, there,” Teresa said, grinning at the slack-jawed expression. “It can take a minute to adjust. Close your eyes for a moment, if that helps.”

  They were standing on an observation platform, tucked high up under the domed glass roof of Utopia. Below them, beyond a panel of one-way glass, stretched the entire Park. The cool ribbon of the Nexus could be seen arrowing down its center. Spreading out from it, like the sections of a halved grapefruit, were the Worlds themselves: each a riot of color and shape, each utterly different from the others. Callisto, the futuristic spaceport, had from this height the kind of dark, burnished sheen of a black-light photograph; Gaslight lay enshrouded in veils of fog; Boardwalk was all brilliant light and bright pastel shades. People were everywhere: walking along the boulevards and sidewalks, waiting in lines, snapping photographs, studying maps, talking with cast members, eating, drinking, laughing, shouting. It was like viewing a map of the Park, brought magically to life. And yet it was much more than that; because from this height, all the complex secret machinery that no tourist ever saw was laid bare: the hidden entrances and exits, the false backs of the buildings, the electric carts and props and equipment and access corridors that filled the spaces between the walls and behind the facades.

  Teresa pointed to a workman who was trotting, radio in hand, along a narrow corridor almost directly beneath their feet. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” she said with a laugh. “So, what do you think?”

  “It’s awesome,” Georgia said, eyes shining as she stared out at the spectacle that lay spread out beneath them. Suddenly, she pointed. “Look! There’s Brighton Beach Express. We were on that this morning. And there’s the Scream Machine. I didn’t know they were that close together.”

  “That’s part of park design,” Teresa replied. “You put the exit of one attraction near the entrance of another.”

  She stood back, still smiling, watching Georgia look around in fascination. Unlike most competing parks, Utopia did not allow backstage tours. No guest except for VIPs ever got to see the Underground. And sure as hell no guest ever got to see this. It was too bad, in a way, because it was one sight guaranteed to amaze anybody—even precocious fourteen-year-olds who think they’ve seen everything.

  “Take a look at this,” Teresa said. And she pointed to a small placard set into the railing before them: Eric Nightingale, 1956–2002. “We call this Nightingale’s Nest. It’s dedicated to his vision for Utopia.” She glanced again at Georgia. “You ever meet him?”

  “He used to come over to our house, talk with my dad, about robotics, I think. He played backgammon with me a couple of times. He let me win more than Dad does.”

  Teresa shook her head, privately amused at the image of the great Eric Nightingale playing backgammon with a kid in junior high. Then she, too, turned her gaze out over the Park. “Everybody who works at Utopia comes here once,” she said. “Usually on their first day. It’s kind of an initiation. Other than that, though, it’s pretty quiet. All those stairs, you know. But I like coming here. God knows I can use the exercise. It’s peaceful. And if I’m feeling down—you know, about my job or something—I know that coming up here will remind me of what I’m working for. That makes it kind of appropriate today.”

  She shut up abruptly, aware that she’d said more than she planned. She looked over to see Georgia regarding her with a strange, intent look. She’s thinking something about me, Teresa thought. I wonder what it is. Then again, maybe I don’t want to know.

  “What?” she said aloud.

  Georgia looked away for a moment. Then she looked back. “I was just wondering. You like Fats Waller?”

  “Like? What’s not to like? I think I wore out my copy of ‘Handful of Keys.’ And piano playing just doesn’t get any better than ‘Carolina Shout.’ ” Now it was her turn to stare quizzically at Georgia. “Why?”

  Georgia’s eyes held hers briefly, and then the girl looked quickly away. “Oh, nothing,” she said. It was as if she had suddenly grown shy.

  Teresa glanced at her watch. “Well, we’ve managed to kill half an hour. Let’s get you back to your dad.” And she led the way down the staircase.

  ANDREW WARNE LOOKED from Sarah to Fred Barksdale, then back again.

  Sarah motioned toward the table. “Andrew, please,” she said. “Take a seat.” She placed her cup and saucer directly across from him, then sat down herself. Reaching for the sheaf of papers, she squared them once again on the table, then passed them to Warne. “Sign these before we continue.”

  Warne took the papers, scanned them quickly. He looked up. “This is a nondisclosure agreement.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “I don’t understand. I already signed one of these, during development phase.”

  “It’s Chuck Emory and the home office. They want to make sure a tight lid is kept on what we discuss here today.”

  Sarah offered nothing more, merely returning his gaze. After a moment, Warne sighed, lowered his eyes, and scribbled his name on the signature line. Bullshit red tape, he thought to himself. The bean counters in New York get worse by the year. And yet it made sense. Expanding the Metanet would require access to new and sensitive Utopia technology.

  Sarah took back the papers. “Thank you.” She placed them neatly beside the teacup. “I’m sorry we couldn’t give you details any earlier, but we just noticed the problems recently and we’ve been trying to determine a pattern.”

  Warne glanced at her. “Problems?”

  Sarah turned toward Barksdale. “Fred, would you provide background?”

  “Right,” Barksdale said. He placed his elbows on the arms of his chair and tented his fingers, staring at Warne from beneath a well-combed mop of blond hair. “Over the last two weeks, we’ve noticed odd things going on with some of the tech at Utopia. Glitches in the universal translation system in Guest Services, for example. The AI that controls diagnostics for Station Omega—the free-fall ride in Callisto—kept reporting failures, wouldn’t let the ride start up. But most of the problems have been with the robotics.” He began ticking off points on well-manicured fingernails. “A janitorial bot on C Level tried to mop an electrical panel; it was deactivated just in time. A mail-delivery bot began dropping mail in trash cans instead of in-boxes. Some of the fire-breathers in Dragonspire forgot their timing and misfired. Almost singed a Japanese tour group.”

  “These problems,” Warne replied. “Are they ongoing?”

  “That’s the most frustrating part. Except for Station Omega, they’ve been intermittent. And even that problem went away just an hour ago, gave the ride engineers a green light. Nobody knows why. We’ve run fault-tolerance tests, engineering evaluations, even gone low-tech with oscilloscopes and trace pens. There’s nothing wrong.”

  “Phantom abnormalities,” Sarah said. “They’re fine one minute, have a psychotic break the next. Then they’re fine again.”

  Warne turned from Barksdale back to Sarah Boatwright. A chill was beginning to form in the pit of his stomach.

  “Voltage irregularities?” he asked.

  Barksdale shook his head. “Every line in Utopia is perfectly clean. The power grid nev
er fluctuates.”

  Warne nodded. “That’s right, I forgot. The nuclear reactor.” When nobody laughed, he asked another question. “Beta-testing artifacts?”

  “No,” Barksdale said. “Everything’s running in production.”

  “Bugs?”

  “After so many processing cycles? And in so many places? And then to have them vanish?”

  “Have you set up a clean room, tried to isolate an event?”

  “With the number of autonomous bots out there, the truth is, we wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  The room fell silent. The chill was spreading quickly. “Intermittent problems like these often mean external intrusion,” he said, choosing his words carefully.

  Barksdale shook his head again. “Absolutely not. There’s a moat around all the production servers. No external connections. The only portal to the outside is the guest information web, and that’s located off-site, firewalled to the hilt.”

  Sarah Boatwright sipped her tea. “Just to be sure, Fred had the white-hats at KIS work it over last month. They said it was the most secure system they’d ever seen.”

  Warne nodded absently. He’d worked with Keyhole Intrusion Systems the year before, when the robotics web server at Carnegie-Mellon had been hit with a denial-of-service attack. “White-hats” were licensed hackers, hired by corporations to break into their computer systems and pinpoint weaknesses. The cowboys over at KIS were the best in the business.

  Warne licked his lips. He had to ask the question. “Okay, so there’s trouble in paradise. I’m sorry to hear about it. But how exactly does this relate to the—what did your assistant call it over the phone—the future development of the Metanet?”

  Barksdale and Sarah Boatwright exchanged glances. “Dr. Warne, I don’t know exactly how to say this,” Barksdale replied. “I was hoping you’d come to the same conclusion we have. The problem seems to lie with the Metanet.”

  Even though he’d already begun to fear just such a reply, Warne was stunned. He felt his mouth go dry. “Don’t you think that’s jumping to conclusions?”