Lethal Velocity

by Lincoln Child

  Terri nodded again.

  “Thank you, Terri. Thank you. Thank you.”

  He embraced her, held her close against him for a moment, then pulled away. Terri’s eyes did not leave his face as he headed for the door.

  A moment later, he was once again in the corridor, running now, heading back toward the public spaces of Utopia.

  CENTRAL WARDROBE WAS a sprawling warren of rooms on B Level. Though its halls were always teeming with cast members, Wardrobe seemed to grow particularly busy as four o’clock approached. Royal dukes and knights errant from Camelot, going off-shift, butted elbows with street vendors in straw skimmers and seersucker suits, bound for Boardwalk and the evening festivities. Courtiers in wimples and flowing dresses chatted with interstellar explorers wearing pressurized flight suits. Dressers, milliners, costume consultants, tailors, and speech trainers wandered through the hallways, adjusting and instructing. It was a bizarre, noisy, disconcerting mix of old and new, past and future.

  The dormitory-size men’s lavatory was sandwiched between Costume Storage and Cosmetic Prep. Inside, a lone male stood before a bank of sinks. He was washing his hands carefully, taking time to remove some caked material from beneath his fingernails. That accomplished, he pulled a paper towel from a nearby dispenser, glancing up at a mirror as he did so. A pair of taciturn, almond-shaped eyes stared back.

  The door opened and a group of jugglers in brightly colored motley entered, laughing and chatting. Tossing away the towel, the man left the lavatory and threaded his way past dressing rooms and the Camelot prop repository—long ranks of swords, lances, mail suits, shields, pennants, and breastplates gleaming under fluorescent lights—to Men’s Changing. Finding his locker, he spun the dial, lifted the latch, opened the gray metal door. He had already replaced his malacca cane—newly cleaned and polished to shiny perfection—on a rack of fifty identical specimens in Gaslight Prop. He’d deposited the Inverness cape and woolen suit into one of the numerous metal hatches of the HPLR, the high-pressure laundry removal system that lined the walls of Central Wardrobe. Now he peered inside his locker, examining the shiny, almost iridescent suit of a Callistan shuttle pilot that hung on a hook, next to a set of dark blue coveralls.

  There was a brief, muffled chirrup. The man glanced around, making sure he was unobserved. Then he plucked a radio from his pocket. He leaned casually against the adjoining lockers, shielding himself with the open door, snapped the radio on, and entered the descrambling code.

  “Hardball,” he said into the microphone.

  “Hardball, this is Prime Factor,” came the voice of John Doe. “Any curious onlookers?”

  “Negatory.”

  “Your work in Gaslight?”

  “We’re all set.”

  “So to speak.” A dry laugh sounded over the radio. “Listen closely, there’s been a change of plans. Once you’ve completed the final assignment in Callisto, you’ll need to make one more stop on the way down to C Level. Remember our evasive friend, Andrew Warne?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Turns out he brought his impedimenta to the Park along with him. His daughter’s down in Medical. Recovering from the late unpleasantness at Waterdark, it appears. Her name is Georgia.”

  “Understood.”

  “You’re to bring her to the regrouping waypoint. She may prove useful.”

  “Understood.”

  “There’s still no word from Cracker Jack. I’ve got the backup transmitter, so that’s not a concern. But I’m troubled by the way this Warne fellow keeps giving us the slip. Still, perhaps you’ll find him with his daughter. That would make things easier. Either way, you can expect company.”

  The man called Hardball glanced down into the locker. A pilot’s flight bag lay there, gleaming faintly silver in the reflected light. “Not a problem.”

  “I knew it wouldn’t be. But time is of the essence. I’ve got an appointment to keep. And you’ve got a few of your own. Ready to light the candle?”

  “Just dressing for it now.”

  “In that case: fire in the hole.” There was a pause. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  John Doe’s chuckle died away as the almond-eyed man dropped the radio back into his pocket. Then he took another look around, removed the pilot’s suit from the hanger, and began shrugging into it.

  THE QUEUE HAD been surprisingly, mercifully short, and the last Supernova was still cold in his belly when Kyle Cochran saw the barrier rope draw away from the base of the escalator. It wasn’t a rope, actually, but some kind of hologram: a slick, high-tech re-creation of those thick velvet cords you saw hanging across old theater lobbies. It brightened briefly, coruscating bands of purple flaring to yellow, then seemed to evaporate into thin air. A nearby shuttle attendant came forward, smiling and gesturing for the head of the line to step onto the escalator. As Kyle waited, he felt himself jostled from the rear by his friend, Tom Walsh.

  “Easy, big fellah,” he said with a laugh.

  Even the escalator was cool: the handrails glowing a subdued blue neon, the moving steps made of some semitransparent substance. It was slow, but silky smooth, affording an ever-expanding view of the Skyport falling away beneath. Kyle turned around to look, drinking it all in. It was the seventh time he’d seen it that day, but it was a view that didn’t get old: lines of guests snaking across the illuminated station floor; lasers and exotic lighting effects throwing the massive architecture into bold relief; the vast dome of stars arching over all. The only ride without a queue line was Escape from Waterdark, mysteriously closed for maintenance during the peak attendance period.

  Seven drops on Station Omega. Goddamn.

  At the top of the escalator, another attendant guided the guests into a hallway labeled Transport Approach. Tom walked along with the crowd, craning his head over the people ahead of him. There it was, doors wide open at the far end of the corridor, pale walls shimmering faintly: the shuttle transport. The so-called shuttle transport. A one-way ticket, straight down. The interior was illuminated a pale crimson, and it reminded him of a vast open mouth. He shuddered pleasantly.

  A third attendant waited at the end of the passage. “Travel time to the shuttle will be approximately five minutes,” she said as she guided people into the waiting transport. “Please have your boarding passes ready. The shuttle is due to leave spacedock in twenty minutes, so please move quickly once exiting the transport.”

  As he allowed himself to be herded into the chamber, Kyle grinned to himself. He loved being one of the insiders, listening to all this carefully practiced deception. It was like watching the skilled misdirection of a master magician. He glanced around at the other occupants. Several of them were also grinning knowingly.

  For veteran riders of Station Omega, the drop itself was only half the fun. The other half was watching the reaction of fellow riders. Despite the notoriety of the ride—the magazine articles, the websites devoted to Station Omega trivia—there were always a few passengers who weren’t in on it. They truly believed they were about to take a ride on a shuttle, and that this oversize elevator was merely transportation to the real attraction. Kyle’s practiced eye roamed over the sixty-odd guests crowded around him, ferreting out the ignorant. That Japanese tour group, chatting animatedly to one side: maybe. That pair of adolescent lovebirds in the corner, more interested in groping each other than in their surroundings: another maybe. The middle-aged couple in matching shirts and hats, wondering out loud how long the shuttle ride would be: definitely. Kyle nodded smugly to himself. When all hell broke loose, those two would be the ones to watch.

  Outside, in the access corridor, Kyle could see the third attendant, talking to a white-haired couple in a low, urgent voice. The couple wasn’t all that old—maybe sixty, maybe a little more—but the attendant was obviously turning them away. Utopia took no chances. Kyle knew, from the websites he’d visited, that the shuttle attendants at Station Omega were more than just a glorified boarding crew—they were medically t
rained staff, on the lookout for anyone even remotely unfit for a free-fall drop. He watched the two move grudgingly away, fresh casino vouchers in hand. They could have been his own parents. A part of him was glad they wouldn’t be going on the ride.

  He glanced over at Tom, nudging him in the ribs and nodding toward the tourists in the matching outfits. Tom glanced over, rolled his eyes. Yup, his expression seemed to say. Victims.

  Kyle grinned. In addition to a mounting sense of expectation, he was aware, far back in his mind, of another feeling: a feeling very close to relief. Tom was acting like his old self again. Maybe it was just a one-day blip. But then again, maybe he was, at last, beginning to see some light at the end of the tunnel.

  The transport chamber was almost full now, and people were shuffling back and forth, creating small oases of space, in the unconscious way they did in subway cars and elevators. In a few moments, it wouldn’t matter: everyone would be screaming, clutching at whoever was closest, personal space forgotten in the terrifying plunge into darkness.

  Once again, Kyle wondered, a little idly, how it was done; how they managed to keep everyone upright and level during the drop. In free-fall rides at other parks, people were strapped into cars like they were wearing straightjackets. But here—where the element of surprise was everything—seats and straps would have been a dead giveaway. He knew somebody, a graduate student at UCSB’s engineering school, who had a theory; something about the use of compressed air. Kyle made a mental note to pay careful attention this time. But it was difficult: the fall was so abrupt, so brief and wrenching, that almost before you drew in breath to scream it was over. And then there was…

  His thoughts were cut short as the transport doors whispered shut, sealing the crowded car from the corridor beyond. He heard a loud clang from outside, then a voice came over an invisible internal speaker. Transport under way to shuttle dock. You may feel a small vibration as we leave the airlock.

  A small vibration, Kyle thought to himself. Yeah, right.

  This was the moment he loved most: the last few seconds before the bottom dropped out of the world. He felt his nerve ends taut with anticipation. He caught Tom’s eye, gave him a thumbs-up. Then he glanced at the faces around him—some smiling conspiratorially, some bored and blissfully unaware—before settling at last on the couple with the matching hats.

  There was a humming noise outside the compartment, as if an engine had engaged. The hum rose in intensity as power increased. A sensation of gentle movement.

  Then a sudden lurch.

  “Shit!” came an involuntary mutter.

  Abruptly, the sensation of movement stopped. There was another jolt, stronger this time, and the lights flickered briefly. Kyle watched as the couple in matching outfits exchanged glances of mild surprise. Naked fear would follow soon enough.

  The whine of the engines increased; grew ragged; then cut out. In the sudden silence, tickings and creakings of metal sounded outside the transport. There was a crack, louder this time, and yet another jolt. And then, suddenly, the lights snapped out.

  There was a moment of pitch-blackness. Then a bank of emergency lighting, thin and blood-red, came on near the floor. Kyle liked this touch especially: the light rose up, rather than down, throwing everybody’s features into grotesque relief.

  Attention, came the voice over the intercom. We are experiencing difficulties with the main propulsion system. We will be under way shortly. Do not be alarmed.

  Please, do be alarmed, Kyle thought, sneaking another glance toward the matching couple. Their eyes were wide and staring now, their faces set.

  Another, rending crack sounded from outside, followed by the brittle hissing of sparks. And then, right on cue, came the smoke.

  Kyle tensed. This was it: this was the drop.

  He waited, half-eager, half-apprehensive, for that indescribable moment when you suddenly realized there was no longer any floor beneath your feet, and you were hurtling downward into the void. He took one breath, then another.

  And then something very strange happened. The red emergency lights winked out.

  Kyle waited, listening to the rumblings and hissings outside the transport. He felt himself jostled gently as the bodies around him shuffled in utter darkness. He didn’t remember the emergency lights ever going out before—not completely, anyway. Had he just failed to notice before in the excitement?

  Around him, he could feel his fellow guests standing in place, some tense with anticipation of the drop, others mystified. He didn’t remember this long a wait, at all. Maybe he’d just grown too used to the ride.

  But there was something else. Every place he’d been in Utopia had been cool, almost chill. That went for the rides as well as the boulevards and concourses. It was something you took for granted, never even noticed. But it seemed hot inside this transport: hot, and getting hotter.

  There were voices around him now, talking in low, urgent tones.

  “What’s up?” he heard somebody ask.

  “When are we going?” came a plaintive voice.

  “Are we on our way to the shuttle now?” asked a third.

  Kyle tugged at his shirt, plucking it away from his chest. The cape around his shoulders seemed suffocatingly heavy. Christ, it was getting hot.

  He felt himself jostled again, more forcefully this time, and as he flung a hand out to restore his balance, he felt the back of his arm slide along a man’s face, sweaty and stubbled. He shrank away. Probably some kind of goddamn breakdown, he thought with a mixture of annoyance and concern. The kind of money you spend to get into this place, you’d think this wouldn’t happen.

  In the darkness, a small voice started to cry.

  The murmur of voices began to rise, notes of tension unmistakable now. Kyle glanced around, eyes wide against the darkness; but the darkness remained, unvexed by any light. It was an unfamiliar and somehow awful thing, absolute darkness. Only once before had he been completely without light, on a spelunking trip with some fellow UCSB students. As a joke, the leader had all the cavers turn off their helmet lamps when they reached the bottom of the cavity. But that had been for just a moment. And they’d all had flashlights. And they’d been able to get out.

  Why did we have to make it seven? he asked himself as the incorporeal forms around him grew more restless, the voices more agitated. Why couldn’t we have left it at six? This would ruin everything.

  Utter darkness was terrifying. You felt defenseless, helpless, disoriented. And how much worse to be here, in an oversize shoe box, sweating your balls off, hanging suspended over a drop that…

  With an effort, Kyle mastered himself. Maybe this is intentional. They probably monitor the fan sites on the Web, watching for guests getting too complacent, rides getting too familiar. Maybe they’ve changed the ride. To keep repeat riders guessing, keep things from getting stale. That would be their style.

  Even if it was some kind of breakdown, he reasoned, there was nothing to worry about. The whole place was crawling with engineers and mechanics. It had to be. A few more seconds and they’d go into free fall; he knew they would. And he’d have even more of a story to tell back at the dorm…

  As if in response to his thoughts, the car gave another lurch. There was a tense, excited burst of chatter as sixty-odd people tried to keep their balance in the blackness. Here we go, Kyle thought. And the relief that flooded through him was almost overwhelming.

  But they did not go. And now, as he waited in the sweltering, oppressive darkness, Kyle realized something must be terribly wrong. It was too hot, too stifling, for the close quarters, the crush of bodies, to account for by themselves. He could feel the smoke continue to tumble down upon them, but it wasn’t like the fake smoke of the previous drops. That had been cool, moist, scentless, even refreshing. This was hot, almost scalding.

  “I can’t breathe!” somebody cried. There was a sudden, wild scuffling to his right.

  Kyle tried to gulp air. His lungs felt parched. He wheeled around in confus
ed desperation.

  “Get us out of here!” cried another voice.

  “We’re trapped! Help, help!”

  It was as if a dam had suddenly burst. In a single, galvanic action, dozens of panicked bodies turned toward the doors that had closed behind them just minutes before, crying, pleading, pounding frantically against the unyielding walls. Kyle felt himself buffeted, knocked back and forth by hysterical unseen forms. A heavy blow spun him around, sent him reeling toward the floor.

  He fought desperately to keep his balance, grabbing at limbs, pulling himself upright. Even in this extremity, he could hear some inner voice quietly reminding him that to fall would mean being trampled relentlessly underfoot. The scorching air was full of screams, curses, ragged cries. He could hear a different voice coming over the speaker now—a male voice, quick and urgent—but it sounded distant, impossibly faint over the bedlam that surrounded him.

  Something screaming ran into him with terrific force. Kyle felt hands tugging at his hair, nails raking across his face. He fell backward, knocking against slippery bodies and, despite a supreme effort, found himself sliding down, down into a region inhabited by boots and shoes and sandals. The floor was like a griddle and he turned over, trying to rise to his knees, but the press was too close around him and he was unable to struggle against the overwhelming pressure. He could hear the horrific impact of flesh on bone as people fought and clawed their way toward the closed doors. Something heavy hit him in the face—once, twice—and suddenly the panic, the confusion, even the blistering heat, seemed to fade away. Vaguely, he wondered what had happened to Tom. And then people were falling upon him, crushing him with their weight, and as consciousness began to flicker and his limbs relaxed involuntarily he realized he was sinking, sinking, like an old leaf, coming gently down to rest on earth.

  ANGUS POOLE SAT on a desk in the large outer office of Information Technology, arms crossed, whistling a jaunty if off-key arrangement of “Knock Me a Kiss.” He was surrounded by at least three dozen other desks, most of them occupied. On each desk sat a keyboard and flat-screen monitor, set at the same precise angle. Despite its size, the room seemed quiet, and Poole’s whistling easily overrode the quiet murmur of conversation, the tap of keys, the jingling of telephones.