Lethal Velocity

by Lincoln Child

  She met his gaze, held it.

  “So what can I do?” Warne said after a moment.

  “If you can use the Metanet to narrow down which bots have been affected, and how…Anything, any scrap, would be useful. If we know what they’ve done, maybe we can figure out their next move. Prepare ourselves.”

  She looked down. “Let’s hope to God it doesn’t come to that.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “I’ll do what I can. As long as—” He gestured toward the bed.

  “I’ll personally make sure that Georgia’s looked after. We’ve had security teams sweep a few select areas—Medical, the VIP suites—for any signs of tampering. She’s safer here than anywhere else in the Park.” She lowered her voice. “There’s something else you need to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Teresa Bonifacio is on the short-list of possible suspects.”

  “Terri?” Warne said incredulously.

  “I don’t believe it, either. But there are only a handful of people with the skills and the necessary access to pull this off. She’s one of them. Keep that in mind. And another thing. You remember how, in my office, we traced Georgia from her imagetag? Well, I noticed somebody was tracing you, too.”

  “Me?” Warne felt surprise, followed by an uncomfortable trickle of fear. “Why?”

  “No idea. But be careful. And maybe you’d better take off your tag. I’ll have somebody drop it in a trash can on the far side of the Park.”

  Warne glanced down at his lapel, found it empty. “Gone. Lost it in the ride, I guess.”

  “Just as well. If any cast member stops you, show them your passcard, tell them to talk to me.”

  The curtain parted again, and a man in a white coat came in. “Ah, Sarah,” he said. “They told me I’d find you here.”

  “Dr. Finch.” She nodded. “What’s our status?”

  “A lot better than it could have been, thank heaven. It was a miracle, that retaining spar catching where it did. Kept the entire structure from collapsing. Otherwise, we’d be needing a fleet of coroner’s vans. As it is, we’ve got some two dozen casualties, the worst being the boy with two broken legs.”

  Sarah’s lips set in a tight line. “Keep me posted.”

  The doctor left, and Sarah turned back to Warne. “You left something in my office,” she said. Taking one of his hands, she strapped the echolocator around his wrist. “Remember?”

  Warne’s skin tingled at the forgotten touch. “Is that why you brought him along?”

  “He’s your dog. Remember?”

  Warne looked at the hulking, canine robot, which was looking back at him. His hand dropped unconsciously to the echolocator. The moment—with its shock, grief, anger—had taken on an almost surreal cast.

  The curtain drew apart yet again. A short, heavily built man came in, nodding at Sarah. He carried himself with an air of self-assurance; his tanned face made his thin blond hair look almost gray. “Is this him?” he asked Sarah.

  “No, this is Andrew Warne,” she replied. “I think Poole’s in the next bay, with Feldman and Whitmore.”

  The man scowled. “The guy’s a damn hero. You shouldn’t let him be pestered by PR flaks.”

  Warne turned to Sarah with a look of mute inquiry.

  “This is our head of Security,” Sarah explained. “He’s here to thank a guest named Angus Poole. Seems Poole was on the ride a few pods behind Georgia. Risked his life to save the other passengers.”

  Allocco nodded, grunted, then parted the curtains and disappeared.

  “I think I’ll go pay my respects, too,” Sarah said.

  Warne turned back to the sleeping Georgia. As he bent forward to kiss her cheek, he noticed Sarah had left the bag of disc shards on the edge of the bed. He scooped it up with one hand, and then—with a backward glance at his daughter—turned to follow Sarah and Allocco through the curtain.

  A man sat on the bed in the next bay, worrying at a freshly dressed cut on his right wrist. He was clearly a guest: brown tweed cap, corduroy jacket, black turtleneck. Fortyish, muscular but not heavy. His lips seemed to be set in a fixed, distant smile. In fact, his entire face seemed immobile save for the alert, faded-denim eyes, which never fell still, shifting from object to object with implacable curiosity. Feldman and Whitmore were nowhere to be seen.

  The blue eyes shifted to Warne, then widened slightly in surprise. “You!” the man said.

  Sarah stepped forward. “Mr. Poole, my name is Sarah Boatwright. And this is Bob Allocco, head of Security here at Utopia.”

  “We wanted to thank you for your bravery, back on the ride,” Allocco said with an approving nod. “Helping those people safely escape that broken pod took guts.”

  “Those people are relatives of mine,” the man named Poole said. Though he spoke to Allocco, his eyes were still on Warne.

  “We’re terribly sorry this happened,” Sarah said. “Utopia has the best safety record of any park, but I’m afraid even the most stringent checks can’t guarantee against every mechanical—”

  The man’s alert eyes darted from Warne to her. “You’re in charge?” he asked.

  “I’m head of Operations, if that’s what you mean. And I’d like to do something for you, compensate you in whatever small way I can, for what you did here.”

  The distant smile deepened slightly. “Actually, I thought I could do something for you.”

  Sarah frowned. “I don’t quite understand.”

  The man looked at her in surprise. “Well, how many of them are there?”

  “Them?” Sarah echoed.

  “The bad guys. What kind of a force are we talking about? Tactical? Rogue cell?”

  Warne watched as Sarah Boatwright and Allocco exchanged glances.

  “Sir,” Allocco said, “I think maybe you should rejoin your family—”

  Sarah motioned him to be silent. “I’m sorry, we’re just a little confused.”

  “By what?”

  “By what you’re saying. There’s just been a serious accident, and—”

  The man named Poole laughed: a short bark almost like a cough.

  “It’s serious, all right,” he said. “But it’s no accident.”

  When nobody spoke, he continued. “I can’t believe you turned on all those lights,” he said, baritone voice almost mournful. “Escape from Waterdark was my favorite ride. But now I know how it’s done. You ruined it for me.”

  Once again, Warne saw Allocco and Sarah exchange glances. But they remained silent.

  “I was up at the start of the ride when the thing went off. After I got my relatives out, I spent quite some time up there, waiting. And then, later on, they lowered me past that ruined spar. By then all the lights had come on, and I got a real good look. Quite a blast signature. C-4, right? Three charges, placed laterally. What’s known as a club sandwich. Remarkably precise work, really. And cleverly done, considering the working environment.”

  There was a silence in the recovery bay.

  “Keep talking,” Allocco said.

  “Do I need to? Unless you guys are in the habit of using high explosives for your special effects, I’d say you’ve got some party-crashers on your hands. Or else one seriously pissed-off guest.” Poole waved his hand toward the curtain. “But where’s law enforcement? Why isn’t the crime scene being stabilized? Instead, there are all these suits rushing around, apologizing for the accident. The accident. Smells like a cover-up to me. Someone’s scaring you, bad. And I think I know who he is.”

  “You do,” said Sarah.

  Poole nodded. “Early this morning, in the Nexus, I saw this fellow talking to himself. That’s what caught my attention first: it was like he was reciting poetry or something. He had a South African accent, that was the second thing. And the cut of his suit—no tourist wears a five-thousand-dollar Italian suit to an amusement park. But what really struck me was the way he was looking around. I recognized that look. As if he was casing the joint. Or, actually, a
s if he already owned it. As if there were no surprises left.”

  Poole shook his head, chuckled. “But it’s my day off, so I forgot about it. Until, sitting in that broken pod, I started to put two and two together.”

  “Are you a cop?” Sarah asked.

  The man laughed again. “Not exactly.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “Armed guard. Personal protection services. That sort of thing.”

  Allocco rolled his eyes. “And here I thought you were Sherlock Holmes.” His tone had changed significantly in the last minute or two.

  There was another silence, longer this time.

  At last, Sarah drew a deep breath. “You said you could do something for us, Mr. Poole. What, exactly, did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. What do you need?”

  Allocco broke in abruptly. “That’s enough,” he said. “Mr. Poole, would you excuse us for a moment, please?”

  “Certainly.”

  Warne followed Sarah and Allocco back into Georgia’s bay.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Allocco said, rounding on Sarah. “He’s just some kind of guard for hire. And we’ve got work to do.”

  “That’s the problem,” Sarah whispered back. “What kind of work, exactly? Anything pan out on Barksdale’s list of internal suspects yet?”

  “Nothing suspicious. The tech named Tibbald logged out at a security checkpoint early this morning and hasn’t returned, so we haven’t been able to question him. And the video logs have checked out clean so far.”

  “See what I mean? We don’t have anything to do but lick our wounds and wait for the phone to ring.”

  Allocco jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the curtain. “For all we know, he’s one of them.”

  “Come on, Bob. You know that’s crazy. His relatives were on that ride; he risked his life to save them.”

  “So he’s a guest. That’s even worse. Do you know how this is going to look? What he’s going to say?”

  “What do you think he’s going to say if we tell him to get lost? We need all the help we can get. You send your security specialists crawling over everything, it’s going to look suspicious. But this guy—a tourist in khakis and a tweed cap? Probably not. He obviously knows what he’s talking about. I’m inclined to bring him on board. And last time I checked, this wasn’t a democracy.”

  Allocco looked at her in disbelief. He opened his mouth to protest. Then he shut it and gave his head a disgusted shake. “You’re right, it’s not. But I don’t want anything to do with him. And keep him the hell away from my people.”

  “No promises.” Sarah motioned them back into Poole’s cubicle.

  “You’ve got some relatives here, Mr. Poole?” she asked as they re-entered.

  The man nodded. “My cousin’s family. Good, solid Iowa stock.”

  “Are they all right? After the—the accident, I mean?”

  “You kidding? The way your PR storm troopers have been passing out meal vouchers and casino chips around here like they were candy? They’re already back in the fray.”

  “And you don’t want to join them.”

  “It’s like I told you. My favorite ride’s just been ruined for me.” Poole shook his head, the perpetual smile drooping a little mournfully. “Couldn’t enjoy a Sam Adams now.”

  This was greeted by another silence.

  “You mentioned personal protection. You mean, like a bodyguard?”

  “That’s not the term we prefer. It’s on a case-by-case basis. Business executives, foreign dignitaries, VIPs. That sort of thing.”

  “Okay.” Warne watched Sarah wave in his direction. “Mr. Poole, meet Andrew Warne.”

  Poole nodded at him. “I saw you in the Skyport. I thought you were just another guest. Getting some jogging in, as I remember.” He peered more closely at Warne. “Feeling okay, pal?”

  “Well, he’s not just another guest. Think of him as your VIP.”

  The man considered this. Then he nodded.

  “And Mr. Poole?” Sarah said.

  Poole rolled his faded blue eyes toward her.

  “Keep him alive for the rest of the day, and maybe you’ll get your lifetime pass.”

  Poole smiled.

  NORMAN PEPPER SAT on a wide leather couch in the External Specialists’ Lounge on B Level, sipping a glass of soda and reading the National Edition of the New York Times. He’d just spent a delightful half hour with the A section, and he intended to spend an equally delightful half hour finishing up the rest.

  The day had gone even better than he’d hoped. The Utopia personnel all seemed intelligent, businesslike, eager to help. His proposal for the orchid beds in the Atlantis athenaeum had been accepted without question. In fact, they’d given him an even bigger budget than he’d requested. And Atlantis itself was remarkable. When it opened, he was sure it would become the biggest draw of all the Worlds. Calling it a water park didn’t do it justice. It was almost like an inland sea, or something, with those special boats that propelled you between the individual rides and the half-sunken city. But the best touch was the actual entrance to the World. Even in an unfinished state it was outstanding, outstanding, undoubtedly the cleverest portal in Utopia. And he, Norman Pepper, had seen it before anybody. Wait until his kids heard about this—they’d die. He felt a secret smugness, as if he’d been made privy to state secrets. He chuckled softly to himself.

  And this lounge was just the icing on the cake. Free food and drink, videos of all the Nightingale shows, showers, pool tables, a small library, private “breakout” rooms with televisions and phones. Best of all, nobody seemed to use it. The place was dead. It was probably the name, Pepper guessed. “External Specialists’ Lounge” conjured up bus-station images: plastic chairs, year-old magazines, instant coffee in Styrofoam cups. Nothing could be further from the truth, but what else could explain why it was so deserted? There was only one other person in the lounge, and he’d just come in about five minutes ago. Maybe the other visiting specialists were all out, taking in the Park. But Pepper didn’t want to rush that. He was scheduled to visit Gaslight at six, to check on the problems with the night-bloomers. Tomorrow, more meetings, finalizing the design and installation schedule. And then on Wednesday, he’d do the Park. He’d do it right: nine to nine, soup to nuts, Camelot to Callisto. He sighed with satisfaction and laid the paper aside to fill his glass with the dregs from his Dr Pepper can.

  Ever since childhood, Pepper had been teased about his choice of soft drink. He couldn’t help it; he just had a weakness for the stuff. No amount of teasing had ever changed his mind. Nowadays, he liked to tell people that the Doctor had been his great-great-grandfather. Just a joke, of course. But, my, the mileage he got out of it. He took a huge swallow and picked up the paper again, keeping the glass in his right hand as he did so. Now, this was living.

  As he turned over the pages, he got a glimpse of the lounge’s other occupant. The guy was dressed in an outlandish getup: Inverness cape, tight wool suit with skinny lapels and lots of buttons. One hand held a tall silk hat, the other the brass head of a long walking stick. The man had been wandering the lounge, peering in here, glancing around there. Now he approached Pepper.

  “Very quiet,” the man observed.

  “Like the grave. You’re the only one I’ve seen come in.”

  The man nodded at this. “Been here a while, then?”

  “Sure have,” Pepper said. And what of it? he thought to himself. He didn’t like the man’s tone. After all, he was an external specialist, right? He had every right to be here. Which was more than he could say for this guy. In that getup, obviously a cast member. What was he doing in the lounge? Snagging the free food, probably.

  Now the man was scanning the ceiling with his eyes. They were almond eyes, set into a wide, almost heart-shaped face.

  With a careful, almost delicate motion, the man placed his hat on a nearby table, then turned deliberately toward Pepper. He was holding the polished wooden sti
ck in his right hand now, tapping its oversize brass head into his palm. Pepper watched the sharp bright ferrule winking in the fluorescent light. He lowered the newspaper.

  “You’re a difficult man to track down, Mr. Warne,” the man said as he walked toward Pepper. Only for some reason he didn’t stop in time. He kept right on walking until his shins pressed against Pepper’s knees.

  Pepper had become so lulled by the tranquil, friendly atmosphere of Utopia that, for a moment, he felt merely curious. Then reality set in, and he shrank back into the leather folds of the couch. His fingers went slack and the glass dropped, ice cubes and soda spreading across the newsprint. What was this about? The man was violating his personal space. More than that: his voice—what was that accent? French? Israeli?—was clearly menacing. Pepper had become so alarmed, so quickly, that it took a moment for the man’s last words to sink in.

  “Warne?” Pepper babbled. He felt the cold soda crawling in around the seat of his pants, soaking the small of his back. “I’m not Warne. That’s not my name.”

  The man took a step back. He lowered the heavy cane to one side, waiting.

  “Oh, no?”

  “No. But wait, wait! I remember now. Warne, sure. He was the guy on the monorail with me this morning. I’m not Warne. I’m Pepper. Norman Pepper.”

  The man’s eyes swiveled from Pepper’s face to the soda can.

  “Of course you are,” he said with a smile. Then he came even closer.

  FROM HIS UNCOMFORTABLE perch at Terri Bonifacio’s console, Warne watched the man named Poole unlock the laboratory door, open it cautiously, peer out into the corridor, then close and lock it again. In his tweed cap, corduroy jacket, and turtleneck, he looked like a tourist playing at secret agent. It was not a reassuring image.

  “You know, I get nervous just watching you,” Warne said.

  Poole glanced over and showed his teeth, startlingly white against the tan. “Good,” he replied. “Nervous is good. Keeps your pecker at the ready.” He eased away from the door, then began a slow turn around the office, glancing at the walls and ceiling tiles. Circuit complete, he came over to stand behind Warne, arms folded.