“Then there’s this.” Peccam held up a black plastic object with three buttons: two gray, one red. It looked like an oversize television remote.
“What’s that?”
“It’s an infrared transmitter. Boosted for long-range transmission.” Peccam fell silent, an odd expression on his face.
“Go on, go on.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense. Boosting infrared for long range, I mean.”
Allocco sighed. “Just explain it, please.”
“Well, there’s basically two kinds of remote controls: infrared and radio frequency. Normally, RF is preferable because of its longer range.” He hefted the black cylinder. “But this infrared transmitter has been boosted well beyond any RF range. Half a mile, at least. Very expensive gizmo. But like I said, it doesn’t make sense. Because RF can transmit through walls, around corners. But with an infrared like this, you can go much farther, but you need a clear line of sight. So why bother making such an expensive, powerful transmitter when you have to see what it is you’re aiming at?”
In the silence that followed, Warne caught Poole’s eye. The man looked grave.
“Thanks for the lesson,” Allocco said. “Anything else?”
“No. Oh, yes, one other thing.” Peccam reached into the bag and gingerly pulled out a weapon: a short, low-slung submachine gun, with a wooden stock and a heavy magazine. Its barrel was obscured within a cone-shaped piece of metal.
“Heckler & Koch MP5SD,” Poole said, nodding his approval. “Note the integrated silencer. As long as you use subsonic ammo, it’s so silent there’s practically no bullet report—all you hear is the click of the bolt. If you hear anything.”
For a moment, nobody replied. They sat motionless, staring at the weapon. Finally, Allocco rose from his seat.
“I’d better get back to our friend,” he said. “Though I doubt he’s said anything since I left. Not exactly a talkative kind of fellow.”
“I’d like to come along,” Poole said.
Allocco looked back at him. “Why?”
“Why not?”
Allocco made a scoffing noise. Then he turned to the video tech. “Peccam, put that stuff away. And keep an eye on these civilians for me.”
Poole watched the security director’s retreating back. “Comrade Allocco doesn’t seem to like me very much,” he said mildly as he stood. “I wonder why.”
So do I, Warne thought. He rose automatically to follow. Then he glanced over his shoulder at Terri. She was sitting upright, hands pressed against the white knees of her lab coat.
“You don’t mind waiting here?”
“Are you kidding? I hate jail cells even more than I hate locked closets.”
“We’ll be back soon.” He turned away, leaving her with Peccam, who—very carefully—was replacing the submachine gun in the duffel.
—
UTOPIA HAD ONLY one high-security holding cell, at the end of the lone, utilitarian corridor that led away from the anteroom. Even this was not especially secure: a small room, with a heavy door and a single cot bolted to one of the padded walls. A group of security specialists stood in the open space outside it.
“You searched him again, right?” Allocco asked.
“Yes, sir,” one of the guards—a black-haired youth—replied. A small bronze rectangle with Lindbergh stamped on it was pinned to his left pocket. “No wallet, no money, no ID, nothing. He’s clean.”
“Good. Open up, please.”
Warne, coming up behind, peered curiously and a little cautiously over Poole’s shoulder. The hacker—so he had begun to call him—was lounging on the lone cot. He was still wearing the blue jumpsuit, but the electrician’s pin had been removed from the collar. He was wiry and young, with a dark complexion and long black hair gathered into a ponytail. To Warne, he looked South American. His legs were crossed at the ankles, and his nicotine-stained fingers were laced behind his head. Several ugly bruises were coming up on his face, shiny pink just beginning to give way to mottled yellow and blue. He gazed up at the group without interest.
Allocco stepped forward, planting his feet apart, crossing his arms. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s try it again. What’s your name?”
Silence.
“Where are the rest of your men?”
Silence.
“How many explosive devices have you planted, and what are their locations?”
The man on the bunk closed his eyes, shrugging himself into a more comfortable position.
Allocco rocked back on his heels, exhaling in frustration. “The police are on their way. You’re in deep, deep shit. You cooperate with us, maybe you can climb out of that shit. Now, let’s start again. Where are the rest of the explosive devices?”
This question received the same response as its predecessor.
Allocco turned away.
“Mind if I have a try?” Poole asked.
Allocco glanced at him. “What are you planning? Matches under the fingernails? Cattle prod?”
“Just want to talk to him, that’s all.”
Allocco sighed again. Then he motioned Poole forward.
Warne watched as Poole smoothed his jacket, adjusted his tweed cap. But he didn’t step forward. He stayed where he was, speaking across the cell to the man on the bed.
“Sorry about that little dustup back there,” he began. “But you know how it is. I just couldn’t let you go around breaking things, spoiling everybody’s fun. What kind of an Eagle Scout would I be then?”
The man was silent, eyes still shut.
To Warne, the surreal atmosphere had suddenly increased dramatically. A few minutes before, these two had been attacking each other with murderous ferocity. Now one was lying motionless on a cot while the other was speaking in mild, almost understanding tones.
“Shy about your name, I take it?” Poole went on. “Then I’ll call you Rogue Twelve.”
The man’s eyes flitted open, focusing on the ceiling.
“It’s just a name. But you’re clearly not Rogue One, or even Rogue Two. In fact, I’d guess you’re low man on the totem pole. So how many of you are there? Twelve?”
The eyes slid away, then closed again.
“No, I don’t think so. Your leader seems smart, I’ll bet he’d use a small force. Five operatives, maybe half a dozen. Utopia’s so big, people wouldn’t be expecting that. A small, experienced group: you’d have your script in place and you’d walk it through. But it would have to be a very good script, carefully planned. You’d get all your placements in advance. But not too far in advance: couldn’t take the chance of anybody stumbling accidentally over one of your little presents, could we?”
The eyes opened again, slid toward Poole.
Poole laughed. “How am I doing?”
The eyes slid away again, but remained open, staring at the wall.
“Of course, you wouldn’t be expected to work the system alone. You’d have somebody on the inside. No—on second thought, if I were doing it, I’d have two. There’d be a grunt, somebody you’d bought and turned, to do the running and fetching. And then there’d be somebody highly placed, I think.” Poole nodded to himself, one hand stroking the collar of his turtleneck as he spoke. “Yes. That would be your knight in shining armor. He’d know how everything ticks, how to circumvent intrusion systems, bypass the Park’s natural defenses. But he—or she—wouldn’t need to get their hands dirty. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, all that kind of thing.”
The man stared back at the wall, his mouth set in an unmoving line.
Poole shook his head. “It’s too bad, really. Because, at the end of the day, it’s always Rogue One who walks away clean. And Rogue Twelve who gets the shaft. You feeling it yet?”
The room fell silent. Poole glanced over at Warne, winked. The silence dragged on.
“Well, well,” Allocco said at last, a touch of sarcasm lacing his impatient tone. “Everybody else has weighed in. You got any questions, Lindbergh? Or you, Dr. Warne?”
At this, the man on the cot underwent a remarkable transformation. He had been lying, seemingly at ease, oblivious to the questions. Suddenly, he sat up on the cot. His eyes traveled around the group in the doorway, lighting on Warne.
“Warne!” he barked. “You! You’re the one who fucked this up. Meddling prick!” And he leaped to his feet.
Immediately, Poole shot forward, pushing the hacker brutally back with his shoulder, slamming him against the wall of the cell, one elbow across his throat. The man uttered a strangling sound and Poole released his hold, letting him slide back down to the cot.
For a moment, the man sat there, hand at his throat, coughing. Poole took a step away, motioning Warne to stay behind him.
The hacker glanced over at Warne. The fit of anger passed as quickly as it had come, and now his lips parted in a disdainful smile. The teeth were shockingly yellow.
“I know all about you,” the man said. “I watched you, tapping away, trying to figure out what happened to your little shit program.” He laughed dryly. “Which, by the way, was pathetically coded. Whoever taught you to write in-line assembler did a piss-poor job.”
As he listened, Warne was remotely aware that, though the man’s features looked Mayan, his accent was distinctly American.
“You don’t have a clue to what’s going on. But there you were, tapping away. As if you could make a difference.” He laughed again: cold, mirthless. “Well, guess what? You’re fucked. Every last one of you is fucked.”
Then he tented his fingers behind his head, closed his eyes, and would not speak again.
THE CALL CAME as Sarah Boatwright was dismissing the line managers from a hastily called impromptu meeting. They’d filed in barely three minutes before: some impatient and preoccupied, others flustered and uncertain. Sarah had canceled the normal lunchtime State of the Park meeting, and rumors had been flying rapidly among the upper administrative echelons ever since. What had happened at Griffin Tower during the 1:20 show? What went wrong with the Waterdark ride? And what was this about some kind of security alert? She had brushed aside all questions with what she hoped looked like distracted lack of concern: the usual crises, nothing too far out of the ordinary. Then she’d asked for any new action items, holding her breath, expecting ominous harbingers of new mischief by John Doe. But all reports were benign and reassuringly commonplace. Unsanitary conditions in the ladies’ room at Poor Richard’s, the Camelot nightclub. Complaints about an overzealous ride operator on the Steeplechase coaster. And parking attendants had, once again, spotted a particularly bothersome lawyer, trolling for potential plaintiffs at the monorail unloading zone.
Sarah listened, then politely shooed the group away, pleading an unscheduled meeting. She watched as they gathered up their folders and clipboards and left her office. It had been pathetically easy to reassure them. They’d wanted to believe, because the alternative was almost unthinkable. For Utopia’s supervisors, a smoothly running park was nearly as important as life itself. She wondered how she’d ever find a way to tell them the truth, if and when this nightmare ever ended.
Grace, her administrative assistant, stuck her head in the doorway. “Mr. Emory’s on the line, Ms. Boatwright. And I have your ticket at my desk.”
Emory, Sarah thought. She had just updated him half an hour before, what could he want now, when the exchange hadn’t yet…She realized her assistant was still standing in the doorway.
“I’m sorry? What about tickets?”
“Your plane ticket. For San Francisco.”
“Of course. Thank you, Grace.” She smiled, waiting for the door to close. She’d forgotten all about the entertainment convention.
Her smile vanished as the door clicked shut. She picked up the phone. “Mr. Emory?”
“I’m here, Sarah,” came the CEO’s voice. “There’s something you need to know. These new developments you informed me of—well, the board is beside itself.”
“The board, Mr. Emory?”
“After our last conversation, I had the board convene in emergency session.”
She waited, listening. It was just like Emory. Unable to make a crisis decision himself, he’d called in the board to back him up. Now, instead of just Emory, there would be twelve of them, all running around frantically, making long-distance judgments, issuing contradictory orders, inflaming the situation.
“They had to know, Sarah. You may be the one in the trenches—and I’m sorry as hell it has to be you—but ultimately the board is going to be held responsible for what happens. For what has happened. Frankly, I’m surprised at Bob Allocco. Are you still absolutely positive he isn’t—”
“Yes. Mr. Emory, it was my call, and—”
“No need to explain, Sarah. What’s done is done. I know you were acting in the Park’s best interests. But with this delay, those injuries—and especially, the two deaths—they’re demanding action. They can’t be seen as just sitting around, letting this go down.”
“But, Mr. Emory, I explained it to you. We’re not just sitting around. The exchange is set for four o’clock. We’re so close to resolving this situation. John Doe said—”
“I know. But this John Doe seems erratic, maybe unstable. With the loss of surveillance, security and public safety are seriously compromised. We can’t take any more chances.”
Sarah opened her mouth to protest. But it was partly due to her that Emory had taken this step. She remained silent.
“There’s no unanimous position of the board, I’m afraid. But this is the majority decision. We’ll go ahead, use our backup access codes to burn a second disc. But we can’t wait more than another half hour. If Park integrity isn’t fully restored by then, we’re calling the feds.”
“The feds?”
“The longer this goes on, the more dangerous it becomes. It’s the board’s feeling that, unless the situation is resolved immediately, Utopia will pass a point of no return. And there will be no way to contain bad press. If there’s a calamity, better to let the cops share the rap. Am I clear?”
Sarah bit down on her lower lip. “All too clear, sir.”
“Half an hour, Sarah. Be careful. And may God protect you all.”
And the line went dead.
JOHN DOE SAT beneath an awning at Chumley’s, Gaslight’s outdoor café, his slender hands turning the pages of a freshly printed 1891 edition of the London Times. He was in high good humor; so much so that he found himself unable to keep from greeting the guests that passed by along the cobbles. Most of these were moving between Soho Square, the upscale shopping district up the lane, and Mayfair Follies, the live show playing just a few doors down. “Hello!” he would say, smiling at them from behind his sunglasses. “Hello!” A few merely gave him blank looks and moved on more quickly. But the majority smiled and returned the greeting. It was remarkable, really, the transforming power of Utopia. It was almost like a drug.
Yes, it was a delightful spot, this outdoor terrace; just the place to relax with a soothing cup before an appointment. Chumley’s tea proved disappointing, so he’d switched to coffee, which was better. He would have to ask Sarah Boatwright which restaurant served that delightful jasmine tea. Shortly, he’d have the chance.
His waiter, a tall fellow in tweeds and oversize four-in-hand, approached the table. “Another cuppa, then?”
“Gladly,” John Doe said, sighing contentedly as he turned a page.
The waiter regarded him, an amused smile on his face. “You look chipper, mate.”
“Oh, I’m just a man who loves his job.”
John Doe watched the waiter thread his way back among the white tablecloths. The fellow’s accent was quite good, though a true Cockney, born within earshot of Bow Bells, would probably object to some of the phrasings. Still, it was more than acceptable. The fact was, Gaslight suited John Doe more than any of the other Worlds. Camelot was all gaudy costumes and martial clamor, while Callisto had a burnished postmodern sheen that grated on him. Except, of course, for the distastefu
l Piccadilly, with its T-shirt shops and trinket emporiums, Gaslight seemed more civilized. And this little café was a real find. Unpretentious, cozy, and just a short walk from the Holo Mirrors. As he glanced around, he spotted first one, then two, well-concealed surveillance cameras. Both currently inactive, alas. John Doe’s good humor increased.
The waiter was already returning with a fresh cup of coffee. “Right,” the man said, placing it on the tablecloth with a flourish. “Get that down your gregory.”
“Thank you,” John Doe said, looking up from his paper. “And a right nice caff you have here,” he said, slipping into a similar accent. “Not like some of the chippies down the way.”
The man smiled. “Oh, ek, we do all right.”
John Doe took the cup in both hands. “Little bit taters, though, with the rain and all.”
“You fancy a table inside, then?”
“Nah, it’s Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all in there. Wouldn’t half mind a peek at your menu, though.”
“Right you are. Fancy a Jim Skinner? Or just some afters, p’raps?” The man’s smile widened, enjoying the challenge. “Unless you’re totally boracic? No pictures of the queen about you?”
“No, I’m holding the folding. Just give us a butchers, that’s a good lad.”
“Good as done.” And the man went off for a menu.
John Doe took another sip, greeted a few more passersby, replaced the cup in its saucer. Beyond the awning, the rain was starting again. Actually, it wasn’t rain so much as a fine mist, barely enough to dampen the streets, give the surroundings a mellow sheen. John Doe knew that the rains in Gaslight were not timed, but rather set off by a complex set of conditions: crowd flow; ambient temperature of the air; the quality of light in the “real” sky above Utopia’s dome, now obscured by the thick London fog. He watched as people rushed under curtains or doorways, waiting for it to pass. It never seemed to last more than ninety seconds. Already, in fact, the gentle patter was ceasing, and people were easing back into the lane, shaking the damp from their shoulders, chattering and laughing.
The truth was, this had all been disappointingly easy. Even this hiccup he’d just learned of was not an important failure. Contingencies were in place. He sighed, feeling a trace of regret. This was his last job; he’d hoped that it would have proved more challenging, offered some real surprises. At least, that would have given him a chance to exercise his intellect. Something interesting to contemplate in his retirement. But no; that particular delight had been denied him. He watched the people moving by, chattering, oblivious. Like cattle. If he had not been in such a fine mood, he would have felt contempt for them all: contempt for human mores, human frailties, human suffering, human goodness. Especially human goodness.
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