Lethal Velocity

by Lincoln Child

  At the far end of the room sat a brace of windowless green doors. Above them was a sign, its cautionary language legible even at Poole’s distance: Authorized Systems Personnel Only Beyond This Point. Use of Retinal and Hand-Geometry Scanners Required for Access. On the far side of those doors lay the vast computers that were the brains of Utopia: a metropolis of silicon and copper that supervised the rides, robotics, pyrotechnic effects, holographic displays, live shows, surveillance, casino operations, electrical distribution, trash processing, fire-sensing devices, monorail, chilled- and hot-water facilities, and countless other systems necessary to keep the Park operational. It seemed incongruous that such a place of wonders would hide behind a facade as bland and colorless as this outer office.

  As Poole waited, somebody stood up from a nearby desk and began to approach him. He glanced over: female, Caucasian, late twenties, slight build, five six, 110, green eyes camouflaged by tinted contacts. He continued whistling.

  She came forward, a little tentatively, eyeing Warne’s passcard clipped to his jacket. Clearly, she was unused to seeing external specialists within the sacred halls of Systems.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

  Poole shook his head and smiled. “No, thanks,” he said. “Already been helped.” And he resumed his whistling.

  The woman stared at him for a moment. Then she nodded, turned away, and—with a single backward glance—returned to her desk.

  Poole watched her go. Then he looked down at his watch. Four o’clock precisely. His whistle slowly segued to a hum.

  As he hummed, he was thinking quickly. This was a distastefully inelegant operation, and it was taking longer than it should. Still, under the circumstances, it would have to do.

  Warne’s plan—not that, to Poole’s way of thinking, it deserved to be called a plan—contained a number of annoying loopholes. To begin with, Warne’s case against this Fred Barksdale seemed circumstantial, difficult to prove. But more to the point, Poole himself had no idea where to find the man, or even what he looked like. Luckily, Utopia had an internal telephone directory. And just as luckily, Poole’s call—made from an empty office at the end of an adjoining corridor—had been answered on the first ring. Now, as he waited, Poole’s eyes lighted on a small black attaché case, stuck beneath an unoccupied desk about a dozen yards away. Glancing around, Poole slid off the tabletop, walked casually over to the desk, and grabbed the briefcase. It would make an appropriate prop.

  Something was moving in his peripheral vision, approaching with quick, deliberate steps. Turning, Poole saw a tall, thin man with blue eyes and a thick sheaf of blond hair, threading his way between the desks. He had come from the direction of the green doors. Although his well-tailored suit was immaculate, and his tie knotted beyond reproach, to Poole’s eye he had the air of a successful man caught during an unexpectedly stressful day.

  Poole extended his hand. “Mr. Barksdale, right?”

  The blond man shook hands automatically. His grip was dry and very brief. “Yes.” Poole recognized the same British accent he’d just heard over the phone. “You’ll forgive me, but I’m rather busy. Now, what’s this about—?”

  Barksdale stopped abruptly as he noticed the passcard clipped to Poole’s jacket. He frowned. “Just a minute. Over the phone—”

  “Pardon me,” Poole interrupted. “But would you mind if we talked out here?” As he spoke, he placed one arm smoothly beneath Barksdale’s elbow and began guiding him toward the outer door—not enough pressure to push the man against his will, but enough to make resistance awkward. It was important to get Barksdale off his turf, into neutral territory.

  Grasping the contraband briefcase in his other hand, Poole led Barksdale out of Information Technology and into the wide corridor of B Level. Barksdale allowed himself to be guided, clearly annoyed but otherwise silent. He was a Utopia bigwig: under normal circumstances, Poole figured, he would have raised a fuss at this unexplained interruption. But if Warne was right—if Barksdale was dirty—then the man couldn’t risk a delay at this point in the game. He wasn’t a professional at this kind of work: he’d be feeling worried, out of his depth, fearful of unexpected complications. He’d have no choice but to go along. And he was going along. Poole’s instinctive skepticism began to ebb.

  A few minutes before, when scouting the area, Poole had noticed a break room a hundred feet down the corridor. Now, he led Barksdale into the deserted lounge. Smiling, he indicated a bank of couches along one blue-painted wall.

  Barksdale freed himself from Poole’s grasp. “Now, look, I’m afraid I don’t understand. Over the phone, you said you were one of Camelot’s mechanical engineers.”

  Poole nodded.

  “You said there was a problem with the governors on one of the rides. Systems tampering, you said. Suspicion of sabotage. You didn’t want to speak to anybody but me.”

  Again, Poole nodded. That had been the bait: to lure Barksdale out with precisely the kind of red flag he wouldn’t dare ignore.

  Barksdale pointed to the passcard. “But you’re an external specialist. Not Utopia staff at all. So what, precisely, is going on?”

  Poole inclined his head. “You’re right, of course. I’m not Utopia staff. I’m sorry about the phone call, but you’re such a hard man to reach. I just wasn’t making any headway through the usual channels.”

  Barksdale’s blue eyes narrowed. Poole read a mix of emotions behind them: annoyance, uncertainty, anxiety.

  “Who are you?” Barksdale asked.

  Poole smiled deprecatingly. “I’m a sales consultant for an external vendor. Fact is, my boss said I had to see you, no matter what it took.”

  “You’re a—what, you’re a bloody salesman?”

  Poole smiled again, nodded.

  The mix of emotions left Barksdale’s face, leaving only indignation in their wake. “How did you get in here?”

  “That’s not important, is it? The fact is, I’m here, and I’m here to help you.” Poole patted the briefcase. “If you could just sit down for a minute, I’d like to give you a brief demonstration of our—”

  “I will not,” Barksdale said. “In fact, I’m going to call Security.” And he turned away.

  “If you could just sit down a moment.” And with that, Poole’s hand shot out, grasped Barksdale’s shoulder, and pushed him onto the nearest sofa.

  Barksdale’s face darkened, but he remained where he was.

  “Thank you. I promise I’ll just take a minute.” Poole went through an elaborate pretense of turning the briefcase, as if preparing to open it. “As head of Information Technology for this fine Park, you must be aware of the dangers of, ah, outside infiltration.”

  Barksdale remained silent, staring at him.

  “The more automated, the more computerized, our infrastructures become, the more susceptible we are to attack.” Poole went on in the singsong rhythm of a canned recitation. “It’s a sad commentary on the times we live in. However, computer-based protection has become a business necessity. There are outside elements who would like nothing more than to penetrate your systems, Mr. Barksdale. And that’s where we can help.”

  As quickly as it had come, the color drained from Barksdale’s face.

  “The firm I represent can diagnose your systems, check for weaknesses, suggest remedies. And today, today only, we’re offering a special two-for-one sale. Can I sign you up?” Poole reached into his pocket for a pen.

  “What firm did you say you worked for?” Barksdale’s voice was as dry and thin as old parchment.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t I say? Keyhole Intrusion Systems.”

  A hunted look came into Barksdale’s face. He looked sharply left, then right.

  Any doubts Poole had now disappeared. He held the passcard up in front of Barksdale, close enough for the man to read Andrew Warne’s name imprinted along its edge.

  “Gotcha,” he said lightly.

  Barksdale leaped to his feet, spun away from the couch, and began
to sprint out of the lounge.

  “Mr. Barksdale!” Poole said in a commanding tone.

  Something in Poole’s voice made Barksdale stop in midflight. He turned around slowly. Poole had dipped two fingers into his corduroy jacket and withdrawn the butt of the hacker’s pistol.

  “It’ll be much less messy if we do this my way, Mr. Barksdale,” he said.

  Then, with an encouraging smile, he relaxed his fingers and let the pistol slip back out of sight.

  TERRI BONIFACIO WALKED down the broad hallway, arms at her sides, eyes straight ahead. It was four o’clock, and—in the wake of the changeover from Red Shift to Blue Shift—the Utopia Underground had grown crowded with cast members. More than once she was acknowledged by a wave, a nod, a smile. Terri did not respond. She was lost in thought.

  What had started as a normal day had turned into a kind of waking dream. Actually, waking nightmare was more like it.

  And to think it had started with a pleasant surprise—Dr. Warne’s arrival a week early. Day after day, as she’d monitored the Metanet, watched it subtly improve itself and the bots under its care—and as she’d relayed this information to Warne in countless phone conversations—she had grown increasingly interested in its creator. Here was a man who shared her fascination with machine intelligence, who’d actually made fundamental contributions to the discipline. Someone she could learn from. A witty, brilliant someone, with a wry sense of humor to boot. As gossip about his breakup with Sarah Boatwright surfaced, she’d even gone so far as to daydream about a future collaboration: Warne as the iconoclastic genius, herself as the technical wizard who could implement, complement, his visions, bring them into the mainstream. Hand in hand.

  The surprises that followed, however, had been far less pleasant.

  And the final revelation, Barksdale’s treachery, left her stunned. Even now she could scarcely believe it. Could it all be some terrible mistake? Could Warne have made some profound error in judgment?

  The double doors of the Central Medical Facility were closed, bright lights shining behind the frosted-glass windows. Terri slowed as she approached.

  Even now…And what about now? Whatever the truth about Barksdale, she’d seen that struggle in the Hub, the duffel full of ammunition. And now she was headed for Medical, volunteering for battle. Sure, let me help. Let me save some bratty kid from an army of mercenaries. Nice going, Terri.

  She shook this thought away. The chances were a thousand to one against anyone coming after a fourteen-year-old girl. Even if they knew of her existence—which was unlikely—they had far better things to do. She was just making sure. For Andrew.

  She took a deep breath, pushed the doors open.

  Terri had only been in Medical a few times—once for a flu shot, once when she’d dropped a propulsion system on her foot—and each time it had been nearly empty. The facility was laid out in the shape of a square, its two wide central corridors forming a giant plus sign where they intersected. She imagined all too clearly the scene that was about to greet her: half a dozen nurse practitioners, standing around patientless, would immediately demand to know her business. But as she passed by the doors, she found something very different. A single nurse stood at the nurses’ station—an open area ahead and to the left, at the intersection of the two long corridors—frantically balancing a phone on each shoulder while scribbling notes. Other nurses were running back and forth, pushing crash carts or gathering medical supplies.

  Terri walked toward the nurses’ station, looking around curiously. Now a group of doctors approached her, heads together, talking rapidly. As they passed, Terri strained to listen. It seemed there had just been some kind of freak accident on one of the rides in Callisto. Numerous casualties were reported, and the burn unit was on full alert.

  Terri felt a chill course through her. Not again…

  She caught sight of two security specialists. They were standing at the junction of the two main corridors, across from the nurses’ station, talking in low tones.

  Terri slowed her pace, forced herself to think. There were two ways she could do this. The first way was to be honest and up-front. She’d approach a nurse, or one of the guards, and say, Hi, I’m Terri Bonifacio, from IT. You’ve got a casualty, Georgia Warne, recuperating here? Well, we’re not sure she’s safe here, and her father wants me to hide her someplace else, so…

  Terri dismissed this option without playing it out any further. She’d have to try the other way.

  She walked forward and, as nonchalantly as she could, reached out and slipped a clipboard from the sorting tray on the near end of the nurses’ station. She was still wearing her white lab coat; it could double as a medical uniform in a pinch. Tugging the lapels tightly around her neck, and holding the clipboard in prominent view, she walked along the station to the corridor junction. Ahead lay the operating theater and the ICU. To the right were the examination rooms and lab facilities. To the left lay the recovery rooms and support areas. And lining the walls of the transverse corridor were the patient bays, their privacy curtains drawn back, beds and chairs open to view. In a few of them, she could see orderlies changing linens, smoothing down sheets. It was as if they were expecting a flood of casualties. Perhaps they were.

  She thought quickly, ignoring the beating of her heart. Georgia’s injuries were minor, Warne had said, but the medication would keep the girl asleep a while longer. She was in one of the recovery bays. Terri glanced up and down as she approached the intersection. But all the bays were vacant, their curtains drawn back…

  …except those few down the transverse corridor, to her left.

  As she passed the security guards, she looked down at the clipboard, turning left into the intersecting corridor, keeping her movements as casual as possible. The guards glanced at her, but did not pause in their conversation.

  She headed toward the closed bays. There were three together, jutting out from the right wall, light blue curtains shut tightly around each, shielding the beds from sight. As she came closer, she realized with a sinking feeling that all three were in clear view of both the guards and the nurses’ station. Goddamn it, she thought, I’ll never get away with this. She felt ridiculous, exposed.

  Propelling herself forward by a conscious act of will, she approached the empty bed closest to the three closed bays. She turned her back to the drawn curtains, placed her clipboard on the bed, and pretended to check the placement of a blood-oxygen meter at its head. As she did so, she took a covert glance toward the intersection. Nobody was watching. She slipped behind the curtain.

  Terri turned around, then drew in her breath sharply.

  An old man lay in the bed, blankets tight around his chin, eyes unfocused and rheumy. Liver-spotted hands trembled as they clutched the sheet. A monitor beeped monotonously beside him. She worked her way around the foot of his bed, careful not to jostle the curtains or in any way betray her movement to those outside.

  On the far side of the bed, she paused to draw another deep breath. Then, turning away from the elderly man and staying close to the wall, she pulled back the curtain separating him from the next bay.

  Empty: the bed freshly made, the instrumentation screens dark. This is a wild-goose chase, Terri thought. She could be anywhere.

  There was one more bay to try. After that, she’d head down to Security. Nobody, not even Andrew, could say she hadn’t tried. Besides, she thought as she made her way around the empty bed and stealthily pulled the curtain from the far wall, Georgia’s probably safer here than anywhere. Probably. Taking another deep breath, she slipped into the third bay.

  Georgia was still peacefully asleep, chestnut hair spilled across the pillow. For a moment, Terri stood there, the world around her forgotten as she stared down at Warne’s daughter. From this angle, she could see something of him, younger and foreshortened, in the face: the high forehead, the deep-set eyes, the rising swell of the mouth.

  Then she forced herself to think once again. Andrew had asked her to take Geor
gia back to Security, if she could. Even if that proved impossible, there were plenty of other options: a place where she wouldn’t be looked for, a place unlikely to attract unwanted attention. There were dozens of innocuous-looking offices, labs, utility spaces, all within a two-minute walk. At the far end of this hallway was an emergency exit that would take her out of Medical into a service corridor. Finding a hiding place would be the easy part.

  But getting Georgia out unnoticed—that might prove impossible.

  She stepped away from the bed, looking around the bay, hesitating. This is nuts. What am I going to do, carry her out on my shoulder under the noses of the guards? She should just sit here, wait for Georgia to wake up. What was going to happen, anyway?

  She turned back, looking down at the sleeping form, at the fresh, angry-looking bruise coming up on one cheekbone. Something about the girl reminded Terri of herself. It was not a physical similarity: she knew she wasn’t as pretty, and she lacked Georgia’s natural grace, so rarely found at the awkward age of fourteen. It was something in her manner; something in the way she presented herself to the world. At that age, Terri remembered, she’d been quiet, withdrawn. Newly moved to the States, she was the brainy Asian, shortest kid in her class. Adults might have seemed stupid to her, but they were preferable to her teasing, bullying peer group. Fourteen was a tough age.

  She felt her will hardening as she stared at the girl. The chances might be a million to one that she was in any danger. But it didn’t matter; she’d find a way to guarantee her safety. She’d do it for Georgia—and for her father.

  Moving swiftly to the far side of the bed, Terri parted the curtains and looked out toward the end of the corridor, hoping for a gurney, a cart, anything on which she could wheel the sleeping girl. Seeing nothing, her heart sank.