Lethal Velocity

by Lincoln Child

  Besides, he was preoccupied. His wrist still throbbed where Hard Place had gripped it. He found he had been rubbing it unconsciously.

  Georgia looked at him. “You okay, Dad?”

  “Just a little banged up. I’m sorry, that must have been pretty frightening.”

  Georgia shook her head. “I wasn’t frightened.”

  This surprised Warne. “No? I was.”

  “Get real.” She looked at him, as if disbelieving such profound ignorance. “You built him, remember? He couldn’t do anything bad. He wouldn’t let himself.”

  Warne shook his head. Georgia hadn’t been at the meeting, hadn’t heard what he’d heard. If she wasn’t asking questions, so much the better. But he sure as hell had some questions to put to Teresa Bonifacio—if they ever found her office, that was.

  His eye caught a sign he hadn’t remembered seeing before. New Technology. Now, that was more like it. He glanced over his shoulder again to make sure they weren’t about to be run down by another maintenance cart, then led Georgia in the direction of the sign.

  Another minute and, maddeningly, he had managed to get them lost again. This new section of B Level they’d stumbled into seemed reserved for management: there was thick carpeting underfoot, and subdued wallpaper covered the concrete walls. Just as he was about to give up and turn back, he saw a familiar figure ahead. He stopped abruptly.

  Sarah Boatwright was standing in the doorway of an office, her back to them, speaking briskly to two men in dark suits. They were listening intently, nodding. Her straight coppery hair shook slightly as she motioned with her arms.

  Seeing her like that, facing away from him, brought back a sudden memory: the first morning they’d risen together from the same bed. Before leaving for work, the last thing Sarah had done was stand before a mirror for several minutes, turning, observing all angles of her person. At first, Warne thought this to be mere vanity. But he’d later realized that she was simply scrutinizing herself for anything out of place, any imperfect crease. Sarah liked order in all things. But once she got to work, she would grow so completely absorbed she tended to forget such details as appearance. And so she made this conscious, prearranged effort. Warne had been inclined to laugh—until he realized how, from Sarah’s point of view, it was clearly the most logical solution.

  Sarah turned and caught sight of them. She smiled briefly and waved them forward, then turned back and said some final words to the waiting men. They nodded again and walked away.

  “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Warne said as they approached.

  “You’re not. Those are just the VPs of Transportation and Concepts. Half a dozen new snags on the Atlantis fabrication. Business as usual.” Sarah’s green eyes went from Warne to Georgia and back again. “You’re late for your meeting with Terri. Are you lost?”

  “Yes,” Warne said.

  “No,” said Georgia simultaneously.

  “Actually, you’re not that far afield. Terri’s lab is just around the corner.” Sarah looked at Georgia again, hesitated. “Why don’t you come in for a moment?” she said.

  The office was large, well appointed, and unusually chilly, even for the Utopia Underground. After the brightly lit corridors, it seemed subdued, almost dark. Sarah’s desk was bare save for a few folders, a computer terminal, and an oversize teacup. As usual, nothing was out of place. Even the pictures on the walls—a photograph of Eric Nightingale with his arm around Sarah; a picture of the Swope, the sixty-foot boat she’d helped crew in a Newport–Bermuda race—were carefully aligned.

  “Very nice,” Warne said, nodding. “You’ve done well for yourself. I just may have to borrow the key to the executive washroom.”

  “Utopia’s been good to me.”

  “So I see.”

  There was an awkward silence, a sense of unfinished business lying between them. Warne wondered, a little absently, if he should apologize for his outburst after the morning meeting. As quickly as the thought came, he realized that, right or wrong, the last thing he felt like doing was apologizing.

  “I heard about Hard Place,” Sarah said. “I’m glad you weren’t injured.”

  “If you can call it that,” Warne said, rubbing his wrist.

  “I’ll have the logical unit sent over to Terri’s lab for analysis.” She didn’t say it—she didn’t need to—but the implication hung in the air.

  Warne glanced over at Georgia. She had taken a seat at Sarah’s conference table and was leafing through a coffee-table book titled Utopia Portraits.

  “Sarah,” he said, lowering his voice and moving a little closer. “The Metanet isn’t responsible for this. It can’t be. You were at Carnegie-Mellon during the development, you know what it’s capable of. Reprogramming bots just isn’t part of its behavior pattern.”

  “How can you say precisely what it’s capable of? It’s a learning-capable expert system. You designed it to improve itself as well as the bots; to adapt to change.”

  “But you’re acting like it’s some piece of rogue software. The Holding Company wouldn’t have authorized its installation if it hadn’t proved itself in beta. It ran pre-production for six months without glitches. Right?”

  “And now it’s run another six months in an environment of constant change. Perhaps it’s done self-modification in ways we’re not prepared to monitor. That’s Fred Barksdale’s theory, anyway. And he’s in a position to know.”

  “But—” Warne stopped himself with an effort. There was no point in arguing; he’d save that particular discussion for Teresa Bonifacio. He sighed, shook his head. “Fred Barksdale,” he repeated. “So are you two serious, or is it just sort of a spring thing?”

  Sarah looked at him sharply. But Warne was careful to smile.

  “Is it that obvious?” she said after a moment.

  “Stands out like a neon sign.”

  She smiled wryly. “Fred’s a nice guy.”

  “Wouldn’t have taken him for your type. An upper-crust Brit, I mean. He seems so…I don’t know. Hunt club, pink gins, ironed copies of the Times, that sort of thing.”

  “He’s the most sophisticated man I’ve ever met. I think I’ve been dating scientists for too many years. No offense meant.”

  “None taken.” But Warne felt the smile on his face freeze just a little.

  He could see Sarah looking past him, and he glanced over his shoulder. Georgia had lowered the book and was watching their tête-à-tête with an expression of disapproval.

  Sarah took a casual step back. “Georgia, I’ve got something for you.” She walked behind her immaculate desk, knelt down. There was the audible rasp of a key being turned, a low whine of fans coming up to speed. Then she stepped away.

  “Come on out,” she said in a coaxing tone.

  For a moment, it seemed to Warne as if the desk itself suddenly moved. Then something emerged from behind it: a portly, ungainly-looking thing like a beer keg laid on end, mounted on large knobby tires. It stopped, head assembly atop the metal cabinet swiveling. It seemed to catch sight of them, emitted a strange low noise somewhere between a bark and a belch, and came abruptly forward.

  Immediately, Georgia scrambled out of the chair and held open her arms. “Wingnut!” she said. “Come here, boy.”

  Warne watched the large thing roll eagerly across the floor toward Georgia. It didn’t manage to stop quite in time, and Georgia was sent sprawling.

  He had forgotten just how much the stereo cameras on the head assembly resembled eyes; how well the yaw-rate gyro he’d installed in the robot base imitated the jerky, impatient motions of an oversize puppy. Even the thing’s clumsiness was in character. He’d originally built Wingnut as a demonstration tool, a simple vehicle for explaining robotic concepts like path planning and collision avoidance. Warne was a strong proponent of ethology—using animal behaviors as models for robust AI architectures—and Wingnut had served as the perfect paradigm. It was one of the earliest examples he’d built to implement his theories on machine learning.
And it had seemed an ideal pet for Georgia, who was allergic to dogs. But when her interest waned, Wingnut had taken up residence at the institute, where he quickly became something of a curiosity piece. The robot sported dual processors, an extravagant amount of memory, and some expensive—if aging—hardware. By the time Warne was done tinkering, its fifty thousand lines of scheme code included low-level behaviors for fetching, begging, intruder detection, and a score of other doggy tasks. And yet, either Wingnut had been given one software patch too many or one of Warne’s graduate students had played a practical joke, because the robot behaved unpredictably, in a way Warne’s other creations never did. That is, until this morning.

  Now Wingnut had acquired Warne with its sensor array and rushed toward him, butting its head assembly none too gently against his hip, as if asking for a treat. “Hi, there,” Warne said. He was fond of the creature and even now felt an irrational impulse to give a gentle box to its nonexistent ears. As he bent closer, however, he was surprised to see that a layer of dust had settled around the microphone input, servos, and actuators. It was almost as if the thing had just been dragged out of a closet—not at all in keeping with the rest of Sarah’s office.

  He blew carefully at a few areas, then rose to his feet. “Go play with Georgia,” he said.

  During his brainstorming meetings with Nightingale, the magician had been entranced with the robot. Ultimately, Warne had given it to him as an early promise of more technological goodies to come. He’d always assumed the Park designers would fit Wingnut into some kind of attraction, most likely in Callisto somewhere.

  “How come you’re not using him in the Park?” he asked.

  “We’d always planned to. But we’ve been evolving more toward sensory environments—holograms, laser displays, computer-controlled rides. Guest surveys, all that.”

  “Guest surveys. Chuck Emory and his bean counters.”

  “There was also a feeling that he might be a little, ah, intimidating for the guests.”

  “Intimidating? Little old Wingnut?”

  “He’s not that little.”

  A man appeared in Sarah’s doorway, a sheaf of blueprints and mechanical drawings beneath one arm. “Excuse me,” Sarah said, walking over to speak to the new arrival.

  Warne watched her for a moment. Then he glanced toward his daughter, who was on her knees murmuring to the robot. He looked around the office once again, his eye coming to rest on the photograph of the Swope. At the time, it had seemed a good omen. Charlotte Warne had built sailboats; Sarah had raced them. He hadn’t realized this synchronicity would get the opposite reaction from Georgia than he’d expected. And there was something else. His wife had loved boats with a pure and simple passion. As he grew to know Sarah better, he realized her interest in sailing had been primarily the interest of overcoming a challenge.

  He glanced back at his daughter. Georgia had been the one challenge Sarah was unable to surmount. He thought back on the awkward interplay in the conference room, when Sarah first saw Georgia. There was no spontaneous hug; just obvious affection, rather awkwardly, formally presented. It was almost as if Sarah just didn’t “get” children. She’d tried—in a way she was still trying even now, with Wingnut. But Warne knew it would never succeed. Sarah was a supremely logical person. But relentless application of logic never worked with a child; they would always confound your plans, do the opposite of what you expected.

  Abruptly, the phone on Sarah’s desk began to ring. Warne glanced toward it, then at his watch. “We’d better be going,” he said. “I’m sorry, Teresa’s lab is…?”

  “Take your second right, third door on the left.” Sarah dismissed the man in the doorway, stepped toward her desk. “Andrew, one word about Teresa. She’s not a typical Park employee.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s brilliant, of course—you can’t touch her skill at robotics programming—but she’s unconventional. We’ve had some difficulty getting her into the Utopia spirit.”

  “You mean, moody? Rebellious?”

  “Let’s say she swims against the current. For example, a few months ago she programmed a mail-server bot to pinch the rear ends of a dataset of cute mail room guys.”

  She’d been speaking in a low voice, but from across the room Georgia snorted with laughter.

  “You don’t say,” Warne replied.

  “And she’s suspected of posting a nude photo of Margaret Thatcher, with Fred Barksdale’s head superimposed on the shoulders, in the Systems ladies’ room. She’s received three disciplinary notices since the Park opened.” The line of Sarah’s mouth tightened disapprovingly.

  “Won’t be brainwashed into the feel-good ethic, eh? Sounds like a troublemaker to me.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to answer, but paused when a white-blazered woman leaned her head into the office.

  “Grand Central around here today,” Warne murmured.

  “Every day.” Sarah turned toward the woman. “Yes, Grace?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Ms. Boatwright, but you weren’t picking up. There’s a gentleman here to see you…”

  “A gentleman?”

  “An external specialist. Says you had asked to speak with him.”

  “I don’t remember any appointment.” Sarah walked back to her desk, tapped at her keyboard, glanced at the monitor. “Very well. Ask him to wait just a moment.”

  She took something out of a drawer, came around the desk, and handed it to Warne. “Here’s Wingnut’s echolocator. I’d better see what this specialist wants.”

  “Thanks,” Warne replied, fastening the locator around his wrist.

  “I’m leaving first thing tomorrow morning. If I don’t see you again this afternoon, good luck. I hope it all works out.”

  Warne gave a wintry smile.

  “Fred will do all he can to help. Remember, nothing’s permanent. With any luck, you’ll correct what’s wrong, and we can submit a restart request to New York.” She turned. “Good-bye, Georgia. Good to see you again. Have a nice visit.”

  “Thanks,” Georgia said, rising from her knees.

  Warne nodded to Sarah, then ushered Georgia out the door. In the corridor beyond, the white-blazered woman waited, along with a tall, slender man with a closely trimmed beard. His gaze met Warne’s at a distance, and he smiled.

  There was a frantic, klaxonlike yipping from behind, and Warne turned to see Wingnut, moving alternately forward and backward across the carpet in jerky motions, his sensors panning wildly.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Warne asked. “Let’s go.” And as they made their way down the corridor, passersby gave the threesome—a man, a girl, and a hulking robot that weaved erratically behind them—a wide berth.

  ALTHOUGH WARNE HAD disappeared from view around the corner, Sarah paused a moment, staring at the spot where he had stood. The sense of wariness she’d felt during the Pre-Game Show had not dissipated. Yet it wasn’t wariness, really, so much as a consciousness of something unresolved within her. She’d never been one for lengthy self-analysis, preferring action over introspection. Nevertheless, she knew it had something to do with the timing of Andrew Warne’s visit. It had been Chuck Emory’s idea, of course. “Move it up, get him here now,” the CEO had told her from New York. “I want the Metanet offline before anything worse goes wrong. But not a word about why he’s coming until he’s on-site. We can’t afford to let this leak. Say what you need to get him there, but get him there.” She had disliked the deception, of course. But there was something more: she’d felt relieved, knowing this meant she’d be away in San Francisco through most of Warne’s visit. And that was a sign of weakness—something she detested. What was she worried about? She had never feared anyone’s disapproval, including Warne’s. Perhaps it was sympathy she felt; the days to come would be unpleasant ones for him. They would be difficult to watch, much less participate in.

  All these thoughts flashed through her mind in a second. Then she turned to the man waiting outside. “I
’m sorry. Won’t you come in?”

  The man stepped into the office, smiling broadly.

  “I don’t remember asking to speak with you, sir,” Sarah said, taking a seat behind her desk.

  The man nodded, folding his arms gracefully in front of him. She noticed, almost unconsciously, that the linen suit he wore was impeccably tailored, clearly expensive. There was something unusual about him, but she was not quite able to put a finger on it.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your memory, Ms. Boatwright,” he said. “You didn’t ask to see me. A small deception on my part, I’m afraid.”

  He came forward, and now Sarah realized what it was. The man’s eyes were different colors. The left was hazel; the right, an intense blue.

  She felt no alarm. It was a common occurrence. Some of the Utopia groupies were a little too zealous. They were the ones who visited the Park dozens of times; who dressed in the formal garb of Eric Nightingale; who constantly applied for jobs, even menial tasks like “honeycart” driver, in order to get backstage. Occasionally, they found their way behind the scenes and had to be escorted out, graciously but firmly. True, none of them had ever sought her out by name before. But despite the unusual eyes, this man looked neither crazy nor dangerous. His face was handsome and dignified, the smile frank and straightforward. He seemed to radiate a kind of calm composure. For a moment, Sarah was reminded of Fred Barksdale.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Of course you may, Sarah—is it all right if I call you Sarah?” The voice was low and melodious, with a faint accent that might have been Australian. “First names are so useful in establishing trust. My name is Mr. Doe, Sarah. But you can call me John.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “I see.” Sarah turned to her computer, tapped some keys. “There’s no record of any external specialist named…ah…John Doe scheduled at Utopia today.”