The Utopia Experiment

by Robert Ludlum

  “Okay, Duane. I know it’s hard in this kind of terrain, but think about where you heard the shot come from and what line of sight the sniper would have had to hit Carrie. Then look for…”

  His voice faded when he realized that his advice was pointless—instructions on how to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together given to a student with a lighter. The rain had stopped and the Merge was having no problem at all picking up the sniper at a range of just over four hundred meters. There was a pink body-heat plume seeping from the edges of what Smith assumed was a rain poncho scattered with dead foliage. Even more obvious was the enhanced outline of a rifle barrel, which the Merge now also identified by make and model—an enhancement the coding team had just finished. It should have also determined whether they were in range of the weapon but a glitch they hadn’t been able to find was causing that data to come up garbage.

  “Yeah, I got him,” Duane said excitedly. “He’s right there!”

  “Okay, good job. Anyone else?”

  A brief pause. “Not that I can see. Just him.”

  Smith squinted uselessly, but came up just as empty. “The others must have pulled back to set up a defensive position closer to the flag.”

  The young man nodded, his helmet floating on his head a bit. “What do we do?”

  The sniper was technically within range of the M16s their training weapons were made to simulate, though only for a good shot lying on firm ground. But what the hell? They were out here to experiment, right?

  “Shoot him.”

  “What? I can’t hit him from here. He’s like a mile away, sir.”

  “Then you’ll miss him. And if you do, we’re going to get the trunk of this tree between him and us, and we’re going to very carefully climb to the ground. Him scoring against you is less of a problem than you falling. Understood?”

  Duane gave a short, frightened nod as Smith altered the way the young man’s Merge treated a hit—disabling the subroutine that would degraded his vision and balance for one that read out the damage percentage only.

  “Find a solid position and lean your rifle on a branch. What’s your targeting system saying?”

  Duane hugged the tree and pressed the side of the weapon against the trunk, which was thick enough to resist the light winds. “The crosshairs have come up and it says he’s four hundred and twelve meters away. It’s asking for wind direction.”

  “What do you think? That’s because it’s such a long shot.”

  “Pretty much left to right.”

  “Okay. That’s due east. Enter it.”

  “It’s asking for speed.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe five miles an hour?”

  Smith had significantly more experience judging these kinds of things and decided to cheat a bit. “Why don’t you put in seven?”

  “Done.”

  “Okay, Duane. Your team needs to get across that clearing alive. And for them to do that, you need to shoot that son of a bitch. Or at the very least, put the fear of God into him.”

  “Should I tell them what I’m going to do?” Corporal Grayson’s voice suddenly filled their heads. “We’re already listening on the open comm. We’re ready. Let us know how you do and if we should go.”

  “Roger,” Duane said and then held his breath while he adjusted his aim. It was an odd thing to watch—there was no scope or sights on the weapon, and thus no need for him to look along the barrel.

  “Don’t jerk the trigger,” Smith said. “It’s got a nice light pull. Just an easy squeeze when you’ve got your crosshairs on him.”

  The artificial sound of the rifle sent the birds sharing the tree into the air and Smith watched the readout in his peripheral vision.

  “Jesus…”

  “It’s a hit!” Duane shouted. “Go. Go!”

  The sound of the team sprinting across the riverbed drifted up to them as the Delta sniper’s combat effectiveness number rolled down to forty-five percent. He lurched from beneath the poncho and, respecting the rules of the game, stumbled along in an awkward retreat. Duane got off another shot, but with the addition of movement into the equation, there was no way he could finish the job. Smith, though, knew that he himself could have easily. Incredible.

  As they started to the ground, he tried to concentrate on what he was doing but found himself distracted by the green dots representing two of his team dragging Carrie to the safety of the trees. There was no doubt that it was critical information, but maybe a little too much for his present situation.

  On the other hand, the kids who had grown up on video games might be able to handle the varied input better. And every study the military had ever done on women suggested a significantly superior ability to multitask. Yet another thing to add to his endless list of things to explore.

  When they hit the ground, they ran immediately to the riverbed and managed to cross with no resistance. With fifty-five percent degradation, their Delta opponent wouldn’t attempt a shot that difficult. He’d be retreating toward the flag and help.

  When they rejoined their team, all were huddled around Carrie, with the exception of the Ranger, who was crouched behind a tree keeping lookout.

  “What do we do with her, Colonel?” Stacy said. “She can’t walk.”

  “This is war,” Smith said. “What would you do if we were in Afghanistan?”

  They discussed it among themselves and decided one person should stay behind and wait with her for an evac.

  “Which one of us?” Gregory Kent asked.

  Smith shrugged. “Your call.”

  Grayson returned to the group, looking impatient. “We’ve got these sons of bitches on the run and we need to press the advantage. Who here is the most cooked?”

  “I feel good,” Duane said, still running on adrenaline.

  “I’m tired, but okay,” Stacy chimed in, still looking game. Her file had said she was an avid swimmer and it seemed to be serving her well despite the extra pounds.

  “Major?” Grayson said, turning his attention to the overweight man sitting in the mud.

  He hesitated a moment before speaking. “I’m getting a little old for this kind of thing. I don’t know if I’m going to make it up that slope.”

  Grayson gave a short nod. “No dishonor, sir. Someone needs to stay here and you’ve already made your kill for the day. Now let’s move out.”

  * * *

  OKAY, WE’RE HERE,” Grayson said, pointing to a laminated map that was still easier to use in a group than the Merge. They’d made it to the base of the eastern slope leading to the flag—not quickly by any stretch of the imagination, but with no injuries. The downside, though, was that the two non-combat soldiers were tired enough that they were stumbling every time they sped up to even a slow jog.

  Grayson slid his finger across the wet map. “I’m saying that our injured sniper is here. The terrain above him is too steep to climb in his condition and coming around this way is too far. He’s going to dig in as a first line of defense.”

  “So you think the others have pulled back to the flag?” Stacy said.

  He nodded. “And that leaves their forces divided. I say we take advantage of that. I want you two to move directly up the ridge. Take it easy and stay low. I’m going to swing around behind him through the harder terrain and we’ll catch him in a crossfire.”

  “What about the people above?” Duane asked.

  “The rain’s coming in and that’s going to keep visibility down. I think we’ll be okay.”

  “You think?”

  “Combat’s like Vegas. There’s no sure thing. It’s about playing the percentages.”

  Grayson took off up the steep slope and the other two started along the ridge at the best pace they could manage. The Ranger had been right about the rain: A few heavy drops quickly escalated into a roaring downpour.

  Smith took a different route, switching his Merge’s frequency to the one being used by Delta.

  “Lieutenant Raymond,
this is Colonel Smith coming in on your position from the south.”

  “Understood,” came the response.

  Grayson had guessed right about his injured opponent but had taken a more cautious route that allowed Smith to beat him. When Smith arrived, he found the unhappy Delta man lying in a shallow depression that was quickly filling with water. Smith lay down next to him, feeling his fatigues finally soak completely through. Fortunately, the temperature was hanging on just north of eighty degrees.

  “How’s it going?”

  Raymond shook his head miserably. He’d been hit in the shoulder and had immobilized the arm by tying it to his torso.

  “I figure I’m bleeding out, sir. Twenty-five-meter accuracy at best. Who the hell are these guys?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Raymond frowned, undoubtedly believing that he was up against some new black ops team carefully disguised to pass as a typical slice of Midwestern America. He slid forward out of the water a bit, sinking his elbow in the mud and scanning to the east through his scope.

  Smith didn’t need to rely on anything quite so primitive. Now that he was motionless, he could expand his overhead view of the battlefield. Two green dots were coming slowly up the slope in front of them and another was making slightly better time on the trickier approach behind.

  More interesting were the red dots. One, of course, was right next to him, but instead of both of the remaining Delta soldiers protecting the flag, only one was. The other was coming down what must have been a nightmarishly slick gully overhead. They hadn’t left their sniper behind just as a first line of defense—they’d left him behind as bait.

  “Good luck,” Smith said, rolling out of the deepening water and heading for a neutral position where he could get a good view without giving away Raymond’s position.

  It was raining hard enough now that the imaging system was being supplemented by a beta version of a motion-canceling software that Dresner was developing in conjunction with Mercedes. In the absence of wind gusts, rain droplets tended to fall along a predictable trajectory and at a predictable rate. The software hid everything coming down at that speed, while highlighting motion that didn’t fit the pattern. The image it produced was a bit bizarre but, once you got used to it, provided an enormous amount of information.

  It took less than a minute for Duane and Stacy to come into view at about a hundred meters. When they crossed ninety, both dropped suddenly to the ground and aimed their weapons at the Delta man. Amazing. Smith toggled off his vision enhancement and estimated unaided visibility at less than twenty meters.

  When he brought his Merge back up he saw his people fire in unison. Both missed, but they got close enough that Raymond got a proximity warning in the form of the hiss of a bullet playing over his earpiece.

  He immediately pulled back, going down awkwardly in the water and coming up spitting mud. Smith had linked to the Delta team’s comm and he heard Raymond’s warning a moment later. “I’m under attack from the east. Can’t see anyone but I nearly took another hit. Who the hell are these guys?”

  The red dot coming down from above started traversing east toward Duane and Stacy as Grayson continued to close from the southwest. Things were about to get interesting.

  Smith finally managed to spot the Ranger, his outline appearing and disappearing as the prototype software tried to deal with the wind starting to whip up the slope. The sun broke out of the clouds for a moment, glimmering off the raindrops but improving visibility slightly. It turned out to be just enough for the soldier above. A shot sounded and a moment later Duane’s combat effectiveness number spun to zero.

  “I…I’m hit…I can’t see!” he said, sounding panicked. “I can’t see!”

  “Calm down,” Smith said. “You’re going to be black for ten seconds, then your unit’s just going to shut down. Stay put until I tell you otherwise.”

  Stacy fired at the man coming down on her position, but she didn’t take time to aim properly. Smith couldn’t spot her target but could see that the red dot had stopped and that Stacy’s retreat was slow even for her. He assumed that she’d gotten close enough to force the Delta soldier to take cover and was dragging Duane along with her.

  “He’s dead, Stacy. Get the hell out—”

  Another gunshot sounded and her health counter spun to zero. With the advantage of the Merges and their early success, it was easy to forget one critical thing: The men they were up against were off-the-charts good.

  He turned toward Grayson as he continued his cautious approach. Lieutenant Raymond was on his back in the water, looking directly in the Ranger’s direction but unable to see him calmly raising his dripping rifle. The shot registered center of mass and a few expletives escaped the dead sniper as Grayson rushed the shallow impression and dove in.

  Knowing that they were still invisible to the Delta man above, Smith ran over and slipped into the water with the two men.

  “Looks like just me left, huh, Colonel?” Grayson’s Merge would have taken Stacy’s and Duane’s icons off the battlefield overview.

  “You know how it goes. Things can fall apart in a hurry.”

  Grayson nodded, propping his rifle on a wet rock at the edge of the indention they were submerged in. “Let’s see if we can bring it back to even odds.”

  Lieutenant Raymond sat silent, futilely searching the rain for what Grayson was aiming at.

  The Ranger squeezed off a round and Smith watched the approaching soldier’s effectiveness spin to zero.

  “Sir?” Grayson said, wanting feedback on the shot.

  Smith just shook his head in disbelief. “That’s a kill. You’re one-on-one now.”

  22

  Near Santiago

  Chile

  EVERYTHING IN THE ROOM was a perfect white, every inch of wall, ceiling, and floor glowing with the same soft light. The temperature was controlled at exactly seventy-two degrees by radiating panels so that there was no movement of air.

  It was his blank canvas—a place that Christian Dresner could quiet his mind enough to think. Or at least that had been the plan.

  In the far corner, a fifty-inch computer monitor was built into the wall and a keyboard sat beneath it on a small shelf. Despite their inconspicuous design, they seemed to dominate the room, an archaic intrusion bordering on vulgar. A reminder of his failure to remake the world.

  The monitor displayed a ribbon of yellow-tinted road and the dusty, mountainous landscape moving past its edges—a direct feed from Craig Bailer’s Merge.

  Generally speaking, it was impossible to hack into the units and display their input. The software and bandwidth necessary for that kind of upload would be quickly discovered by a media already obsessed with outdated privacy issues. However, the company-issued units didn’t have those constraints, leaving him the ability to provide important players in his world with hardware he could access at the press of a button.

  Dresner stood beneath the monitor and watched as Bailer glanced over at David Tresco in the passenger seat and then faced the windshield again to negotiate a treacherous corner. The image seemed hazy and unwieldy, but the use of the monitor had proved necessary when viewing this type of output. Trying to run the images directly into his own visual cortex induced nausea.

  He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. It always came back to vertigo and nausea. The mind had evolved to be very rigid about how it received input. If the information didn’t come from the eyes, nose, ears, skin, or tongue, the brain wanted to reject it. Perhaps more youthful adopters would learn to handle the dissonance. The young mind was incredibly adaptable.

  The road on screen straightened and the image moved back to Tresco before the limitations of the cellular network carrying the data caused it to freeze. Dresner moved forward a few steps, examining the man’s horrified expression for a few seconds before the feed started again.

  “You used the North Koreans like lab animals?” he said. “Jesus Christ, Craig. How many died? How
many were permanently disabled?”

  “I don’t know the exact number. It—”

  “You don’t know the number? My God, it’s so many you don’t know the number? How could you get involved in something like this? How could Dresner get involved in something like this? He—”

  “Why, when, how,” Bailer said, the hidden speakers in the wall picking up the increasing volume of his voice. “It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that it happened and we need to deal with it.”

  “I didn’t know anything about it,” Tresco said, trying futilely to calculate a way to save himself. “I wasn’t told.”

  The image kept flicking from the increasingly panicked David Tresco to the winding road ahead.

  “Whether you or anyone else on the board knew isn’t going to matter, David. If this comes out, no one is going to care about the details of who knew what when. Dresner Industries will collapse, I’ll be tried for crimes against humanity, and you’ll spend the rest of your life either in prison or fighting to stay out of it. The public will demand its pound of flesh. Whether you’re guilty or not won’t make any difference at all.”

  Tresco froze again, but this time it wasn’t the network. He seemed paralyzed, staring sightlessly through the windshield at a world he’d taken so much from. A world that now seemed to want it all back.

  Bailer returned his attention to the road. “We can fix this.”

  “Fix it? How could this ever be fixed?”

  It was an interesting question and Dresner listened as he turned away from the monitor and focused on the blank white of the wall behind him. The car noise and wind were being filtered out by his own Merge but the audio was still degraded—the result of Bailer continuing to use the primitive structure of his inner ear instead of the microphones that had proved so superior.