Lethal Velocity

by Lincoln Child

  As if on cue, Sonya turned toward him. Three cameras slanted across her ample midriff, and atop her head the archmage’s cap had gone slightly askew. “What did you say the name of this ride was, Angus?”

  “Escape from Waterdark.” Never mind that a hologram of the damn name was hovering right above their heads; she had to ask anyway.

  “And where do we go next?”

  “Well, there are five other great rides you can catch from this spot. See? It’s sort of like a huge airport, except each gate leads to a different attraction. You should ride them all.” Please, ride them all.

  “How about you?” Sonya asked.

  “After Waterdark, I think I’ll go grab a beer at the Sea of Tranquility. It’s that bar outside the casino—I pointed it out from the concourse, remember? You can meet up with me there.”

  At the mention of beer, Sonya’s husband, the insurance readjuster, came out of his daze and glanced over at Poole: a brief, hunted look.

  Sonya and Martin Klemm of Lardoon, Iowa, and their three charming boys. Until he’d knocked on the door of their motel room this morning, Poole hadn’t seen his cousin Sonya in at least a dozen years. But then, it had been the same with his sister, Vicki, and his nephew Paul, or any of the other relatives, near or distant, who’d come out of the woodwork over the last six months. It was as if, in their minds, Utopia had finally given him purpose in life. Strange Uncle Angus, who had moved to Las Vegas after leaving the Corps and never gotten married. Odd cousin Angus—or half-nephew Angus, or quarter-sister Angus, or whatever—who professed to work for a living, but doing what, no one seemed to have asked. And Poole had never offered details.

  But now, by some unspoken agreement of the extended family, he had been appointed tour guide to Utopia.

  In a way, he didn’t mind. It wasn’t that he enjoyed the reunions—he could have done without those—but, to his surprise, he became fascinated with the Park. In earlier years and earlier lives, he’d been to Disneyland, Universal Studios, Busch Gardens. By and large, they had left him cold. But Utopia was different somehow. And it wasn’t just because it was slicker, and newer, and had cooler toys. It was the immersiveness, he guessed: somehow, you almost found yourself believing you’d been transported back to nineteenth-century London or medieval Camelot. Of course, you knew you were in the middle of the Nevada desert. But they’d done such a great job of integrating the rides and attractions into each separate World that you enjoyed taking part in the fantasy. And for someone as unimaginative as himself, that was saying something.

  But every fascination has its limits. And, as of 2:26 P.M., Poole had officially achieved Klemm family saturation.

  “This low-gravity stuff is a crock.” Now it was the oldest Klemm kid talking. “It’s a trick. The acceleration due to gravity is 9.8 meters per second per second toward the center of the earth. To create a weightless condition, you’d need to create a force opposite the force exerted by gravity, and…”

  Poole stared at the kid: buckteeth, gangling, adenoidal. All that was missing was a plastic protector in his shirt pocket. A walking, talking argument for infanticide if there ever was one. Besides, the kid didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. He’d shut up once he got inside the air lock.

  With a yawn, Poole gazed around the Skyport again. It was crowded, of course, but not nearly as bad as usual. There was the normal sea of happy faces, peppered with an occasional harassed-looking parent or impatient child. Characters in space outfits wandered about, working the queue lines or posing for pictures.

  One distant figure stood out to Poole’s practiced eye. Unlike everyone else, standing in line or moving deliberately from one destination to another, a lone man was rushing about, helter-skelter. Poole looked on in mild curiosity as the man darted between the throngs on the concourse beyond: now rushing up to a concession stand, now approaching a queuing line, looking here and there, craning his neck around as if searching for something.

  The man trotted off again, disappearing into the milling crowds, and Poole turned away. His own line had moved forward steadily and they were almost at the embarkation air lock. Escape from Waterdark was the only reason Poole wasn’t already enjoying a beer in the Sea of Tranquility. It was his favorite ride in the Park. If the low-gravity environment was faked, it was done so cleverly that it didn’t matter to him.

  He wondered, a little idly, what it was he found so appealing about the ride. You couldn’t call it a thrill ride, like Moon Shot over there to the left, or Station Omega, at the top of that futuristic-looking escalator. In fact—outside of the first few jolts as the pods “escaped” from Waterdark Prison and made their way up to the orbiting mothership—you couldn’t call it thrilling at all. It was the utter realism of the ride, probably, that did it: you really felt you were scrambling up through the rain-drenched sky toward outer space. He’d have to pay closer attention, this time, to exactly what subliminal buttons they were pushing; how they made it seem so realistic. One thing he could remember vividly was the way, as they climbed higher and higher into the atmosphere, the fat drops of rain that poured down around the pod seemed to slow, and then—as gravity’s hold grew fainter—practically stood still outside the capsule, floating and dancing in the darkness of space. He remembered how his gut had pressed against the lap bar as the mothership came into view, how his soft-drink cup had seemed to rise out of its holder. Wait until the Klemm kid got a load of that.

  Now, this was interesting: the man he’d seen running around the concourse had blundered into the Skyport and was standing dead center, staring around. Beside him was a young Asian woman. They exchanged a few quick words. Then they separated, running in different directions. No doubt about it, they were looking for somebody, and in a big hurry, too. Good luck finding anyone in this place, Poole thought to himself. The rides in the Skyport had no pre-show areas. Everybody was made to queue up in the Skyport itself—maybe to enhance the illusion of a bustling transit center—and there had to be at least a thousand people milling around. That didn’t seem to deter this guy, though: he broke away from the woman and headed toward Afterburn, trotting along the ride’s entrance line, oblivious to the looks he was getting.

  Poole looked at the man more carefully, trying to type him. He didn’t seem to fit any obvious profiles: dark hair, light complexion, tall, medium build, early forties. No red flags, other than the obvious agitation. Odd, though: this was the second time today he’d gone through this exercise. Dismissing this from his mind, Poole turned his attention back to his own queue.

  There were no more than four, maybe five groups waiting ahead of them now, and even his cousin’s kids had shut up in anticipation. They’d definitely come at the right time—the lines behind them were at least twice as long as they’d been when he first arrived. If the brats rode all six rides here, he’d have at least two hours of blessed solitude in Sea of Tranquility: just him, Sam Adams, and the crossword of the Las Vegas Journal-Review. It would be…

  His thoughts were interrupted by a series of faint shouts. He glanced back. It was that man again. He was standing at the head of the Afterburn queue, calling out what sounded like a name, looking directly at him. No, Poole realized instantly: not at him, but at somebody at the head of the line. Maybe it was that girl, the pretty one, who was just being shown through the air lock into the ride. Now the man was racing across the Skyport toward them, dodging guests as he approached. Instinctively, Poole let his arms drop loosely to his sides, placed his feet apart. But the man’s eyes were fixed on the air lock. He raced up the line, elbowing his way past the guests ahead of Poole. He began speaking to one of the loading attendants, gesturing quickly, pointing toward the air lock. The other attendant, a tall figure in a quicksilver space suit, came over, placing his hand solicitously on the man’s arm. The man shook it away.

  “What do you suppose he wants?” Sonya asked.

  Poole didn’t answer. For the briefest of moments, he considered intervention. Then he relaxed. Hell with
it. This was vacation. The man had paid his seventy-five bucks like everyone else; let him have his little scene.

  ANDREW WARNE PAUSED on the reflective pavers of the concourse, breathing hard, looking around. It was a useless effort, trying to find his daughter among the countless guests. The chances of something happening to her were minimal. And yet the thought of spending the time until their planned meeting, waiting, not knowing, seemed unthinkable. They had been searching the queues and souvenir emporiums for twenty minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of Georgia’s slim figure and chestnut-colored hair. So far, nothing. And it seemed that the more time that went by without finding her, the more anxious he became.

  The look in Georgia’s face, just before she had left Terri’s lab, was burned into his memory. I don’t want to go by myself, she’d said. She was all he had left. And he’d sent her out here, into a theme park mined with high explosive. It had been unwitting, it had been well intentioned, but he had done it just the same.

  Terri trotted up beside him.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I checked the entrance and exit lines to Ecliptic and Atmosfear,” she panted. “No sign of her.”

  “She could be anywhere.”

  “I think we’ve just about searched everywhere.”

  Impatience and frustration filled him. Could she have left Callisto already, gone to one of the other Worlds? They had reached the end of the concourse, and only the Skyport lay ahead.

  He glanced at Terri. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” She paused. “But if it was my kid, I’d be doing the same thing.”

  He gestured toward the Skyport. “What’s in there?”

  “Those are all thrill rides. She promised you she’d stay off those.”

  “We’d better check them out, anyway. You don’t know Georgia.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll take the rides on the far side of the departures board, meet you back here.” And she took off.

  Warne watched gratefully as she jogged away. Most people would have brushed off his distress, tried to talk him out of searching for Georgia. Not Terri. Perhaps she couldn’t identify with a widowed father’s concern for his only daughter. But she’d volunteered to help, searched as hard as he had.

  Turning, he trotted into the Skyport, glancing over the queue line for Afterburn, the first ride he came to. As expected, nothing but the same curious or amused glances from the tourists he’d seen everywhere else. He turned away. There were two other rides on this side of the departures board. He’d try their lines next. Then he’d meet up with Terri, and…

  Abruptly, he caught sight of Georgia.

  Relief coursed through him. She was at the head of the line for—what was it?—Escape from Waterdark. Thank God, he thought as he shouted her name. If he’d looked over a moment later, she’d have already vanished through the embarkation portal…

  And then, almost before he realized what was happening, one of the loading attendants helped Georgia through. As he watched, the pearlescent hatch slid closed behind her.

  Relief fled instantly. Seeing her like this—knowing she was about to enter one of the rides—galvanized him.

  He broke away from Afterburn and raced across the Skyport, heading directly for the portal. He elbowed his way toward the front of the line. A woman caught her breath in surprise, and he heard a man’s voice behind him, calling out, “Hey, buddy, what the hell?”

  As he ran up, the loading attendant was ushering a woman in a red dress and two children inside. Warne caught a brief glimpse of what lay beyond—some kind of heavy pressure hatch bearing a sign that read Warning: Low-Gravity Area—before the portal closed again.

  He wheeled toward the attendant. “Stop it!” he cried.

  The woman blinked at him through her helmet. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, stop it! Stop the ride!”

  The other dispatcher came toward them. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, placing a hand on Warne’s arm, “everyone here’s in a hurry to escape from the prison, and I’m afraid you’ll have to wait your turn like—”

  Warne yanked his arm away. “My daughter just went in there. I’m getting her out.”

  The second dispatcher—a tall, thin man—blinked back at him through his helmet. Warne knew he was mentally reviewing his Guest Relations Handbook, deciding which strategy to use with this difficult visitor.

  “It’s impossible for me to stop the attraction, sir,” he said in a lower voice, dropping out of character. “I’m sure your daughter is having a wonderful time. Everybody loves Escape from Waterdark. If you’d like to wait for her, the best place is the debarkation area, over there.” He pointed a silvery glove. “The attraction lasts only twelve minutes, she’ll be out in no time. Now, if you’d kindly step away, we can continue accommodating other guests.”

  Warne stared at him a moment. He’s right, he thought. This isn’t rational.

  Mutely, he stepped back.

  “Thank you, sir,” the attendant said. He turned to the group at the front of the line, ushering them forward: an overweight couple with a single child. The father glared balefully at Warne.

  The loading attendant turned to his console, pressed a button. The portal glided open with a hiss of escaping air.

  Warne stared at the opening. Then, abruptly, he thrust his way past the attendant and darted through.

  Inside, the airlock felt cool and dry. The bluish light was faint. He was surrounded by a low rumbling noise, like the murmur of giant turbines. An empty escape pod was waiting here, low and smoothly contoured, hovering at his feet without any obvious supports. It had windows of clear plastic, but no roof. Beyond it lay the far wall of the airlock. A ponderous circular door had been cut into it, secured by massive metal bolts, a single small window of thick glass in its center. Through the glass, Warne could see the woman with the two children, ascending inside their own pod. They were smiling. Faintly, he could hear a voice crackling over their pod’s comm system: Please remain as still and quiet as possible. The less you move, the less chance there is of alerting the Waterdark guards. Once we’ve cleared the prison, we’ll begin to ascend toward the mothership. As gravity decreases, you’ll begin to feel some effects of weightlessness. This is normal. Full gravity will be automatically restored as we dock with the mothership…

  With a muttered curse, he realized there was no way he could reach Georgia. Even if he somehow managed to commandeer this waiting pod, it wouldn’t do him any good.

  He whirled around, exiting the portal as quickly as he had entered it. There was a scattering of excited voices. The male attendant was speaking into a radio: “Tower, this is Load Two. We’ve got a Five One One, say again, a Five One One at the loading area.”

  Warne paid no attention. He ducked past them, left the platform, and headed in the direction the attendant had pointed to earlier. He threaded his way through the Skyport’s milling crowds, heading for the small hologram that read Mothership Debarkation, Exit Only. Terri was nowhere to be seen.

  The off-loading ramp was a spare, neutral corridor, carpeted gray-blue on walls, floor, and ceiling. He passed a small group of exiting riders, smiling and chattering, and followed the corridor as it curved gently up to a brushed-metal access port. The port whispered open to allow another group out onto the debarkation ramp, and he ducked inside.

  This was the mothership: a large, low-ceilinged control room ablaze with blinking lights. Along the lower half of one wall ran a large, smoked-glass tube. Almost every other vertical space was arrayed with a riotous variety of futuristic-looking electronics.

  With a sudden whoosh of air, a pod slid into view within the smoked-glass tube, coming to a stop at a short platform. Water ran down its windows and engine cowling. The lone attendant working unload approached it, lifting the visor of her helmet. “Welcome to the Callistan mothership,” she said, unfastening an access panel in the side of the pod and swinging it open. “Congratulations on your escape
from Waterdark.”

  “Cool ride!” said a youth of about twelve, scrambling out of the pod and staring around. His hands and arms were damp, and his eyes were shining. “Can we go again?”

  “That low-gravity part was amazing,” said the boy’s father. “How did you do that?”

  “There was nothing to do,” the woman said, remaining steadfastly in character. “Weightlessness is part of space travel. But the mothership’s docking at the Skyport now, and you’ll find it maintains a gravity equal to 100 percent of Earth.”

  “I heard they licensed the technology from NASA,” said the boy.

  The unload operator turned to open the access port and usher the family out of the ride. As she did so, she caught sight of Warne.

  “You can’t enter this way, sir,” she said.

  “Where’s the maintenance access?” he demanded.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand,” she said. But as she spoke, her eyes made a betraying shift toward the wall beyond Warne’s shoulder.

  Immediately, he turned, running across the control room in the direction of her glance. The wall was a solid mass of ersatz technology: telemetry machines, environmental controls, cryogenic monitors. He swept his hands over it all in frustration.

  The unloader approached him. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she said.

  As she spoke, Warne made out a faint rectangular outline among the instrumentation. He placed his hands along its edges and pushed. A door-sized bulkhead swung back, revealing a dark walkway beyond. He ducked inside, closing the door behind him and shutting out the protests of the operator.