He looked away from the dome, locating his radio. John Doe would be calling any moment. He replaced the canteen in his canvas duffel, following it with the copy of Proust. Then, hunkering back into the shadow, he returned his eyes to the horizon, watching, waiting.
—
FAR BELOW, IN the cavernous spaces of the Callisto Skyport, Bob Allocco stood behind the makeshift series of desks comprising the forward command post. In one hand, he held a telephone; in the other, a two-way radio. He was talking into both. As the recovery and investigative operation matured, the teams of medical, security, and engineering personnel had swelled to ever-larger numbers. And yet, despite the dozens of workers clustered around the entrance and exit areas of Station Omega, the vast Skyport seemed empty and echo-haunted. Allocco finished talking and replaced the phone, but almost as quickly as he had done so, another began to ring.
Amid the frenzy, he had completely forgotten about Sarah Boatwright.
—
NOT FAR AWAY, in the cool celestial twilight of the concourse, lingered John Doe. He was leaning against a luminescent pillar, one of many that lined the entrance to Atmosfear. The lines here had grown much longer since the Skyport had been so abruptly closed down. Folding one arm over the other, he leaned in toward the queue line to catch the chatter of the guests.
“I heard it was a bomb,” somebody was saying. “A neutron bomb, placed by terrorists.”
“I heard it was a gas attack,” said somebody else. “Like that place in India. Killed three hundred people. They’re still lying in there.”
“That’s crazy talk. This is Utopia, nobody dies here. If something had really happened, you think the rides would still be open, we’d still be here?”
“I don’t know. Hey, see those people heading for the exit portal? They look worried, they’re practically running. Maybe they know something. Maybe we’d better leave, too. It’s after four already, and it’s a long drive back to the hotel.”
“No way. I’ve been waiting to watch this holomovie all day. It’s just some bullshit rumor. Probably FantasyWorld employees, get paid to come over here and spread that kind of talk.”
John Doe smiled broadly as he listened. Bombs and explosions had their place: there was nothing quite like the loud report, the sudden sight of scorched clothes and viscera, to stir immediate panic. But rumor could be so much more insidious. It was wonderful to see it at work. It was like placing a single drop of blood on the smooth, placid surface of a pond. The ripples spread out, slowly but unstoppably. Exactly as intended.
He glanced over as a security detail trotted down the concourse, heading in the direction of the strange-looking starry curtain that had been lowered over the entrance to the Skyport. They were in plain clothes, of course, but to a practiced eye they stood out like eunuchs in a Turkish harem. What tourists frowned like that, or walked practically in lockstep? He’d seen a number of publicity flaks, too: cruising the crowd, observing, taking notes. As rumors began to spread and guests grew more restless, they’d have more on their hands than they knew how to handle. That’s what made it all so perfect. You could contain an explosion. But contain a rumor? Like trying to shackle a moonbeam.
Ever since his first inquiring little tap—back when he’d encountered the guard on first entering the Underground—Security had responded with precisely the knee-jerk reaction he’d hoped to see. In every incident that followed—the explosion inside Waterdark, the loss of security cameras, the unpleasantness at Station Omega—his confidence in their zombified dedication to going by the book had grown. He glanced at his watch. In a few minutes, Allocco’s minions would have a far, far larger job on their hands: and thus, unwittingly, ensure that his own departure was worry-free.
He pushed himself away from the pillar and eased out into the throngs of passing guests. There it was again: that sense of something almost like disappointment. In the end, everything had worked out precisely as expected. He’d done his research exhaustively, interacted impeccably, shown a different face to at least half a dozen people. He smiled to himself. If they only knew the truth, knew the real John Doe. Now, there would be a shock, indeed.
His walk slowed. Actually, precisely as expected was not completely true. He glanced toward the Big Dipper, where the absence of Hard Place continued to disappoint guests. Dr. Warne had caused more than his fair share of trouble. Much more, in fact. No doubt he was responsible, directly or indirectly, for Cracker Jack’s temporary incarceration. But the way he’d arrived out of nowhere and spirited Sarah Boatwright away from the Holo Mirrors had been even more annoying.
John Doe had been particularly proud of Sarah Boatwright. Over the course of numerous conversations, Fred Barksdale had, quite unwittingly, provided a very detailed character analysis of the Park chief. John Doe knew the type: headstrong, overachieving, territorial, a little defensive. He felt certain that—if he pushed just the right buttons—he could provoke her into premature action. And he’d been right. Her placing security guards in the Galactic Voyage ride had allowed John Doe to react, show righteous anger, plant the fake disc and take the real one. More important, it meant he did not have to invent reasons for the necessary delay—such as, say, claiming the disc was garbled. They would think he had no disc; they would never think to refuse a second handoff. Best of all, it meant Sarah would blame herself for what happened—and thus certainly agree to meet him for the second handoff.
John Doe had counted on her death—at his own hand, fittingly, in the dark passages of the Holo Mirrors—to add the final dollop of confusion, a crisis of leadership, that would further ease his own exit from the Park. But Andrew Warne, fly in the ointment, had spoiled this beautiful piece of manipulation.
Of course, in the larger scheme of things, it made no difference. Now that Cracker Jack was back in operation, the team’s casualty count was once again down to zero. True, Fred Barksdale had expired a bit earlier than expected, but that simply saved trouble down the road. Quite literally; John Doe was never one to share his hard-gotten gains. And they already had two discs, two priceless glass masters that—thanks to Imaging Technology’s copy-protective overburning—could not be duplicated. That meant two sales of the Crucible, twice as much profit. And speaking of profit, the armored car was approaching the vault at that very moment.
John Doe stared down the concourse, sighing once again. He realized he was reluctant to leave the place. After all the preparation, the planning and execution, the successful end of an op always seemed anticlimactic. The difference here, of course, was that—for the first and only time—he was acting as his own client. And putting together this retirement package would be his last piece of work.
Although, if he found retirement too confining, he might just come back long enough to pay Andrew Warne a visit. Reward him for his uninvited contribution to the day’s events. Time would tell.
He lingered another moment, drinking in the crowds, the costumed cast members, the otherworldly air of the place. Then he turned away and entered a nearby rest room.
Approaching the bank of sinks, he washed his hands carefully, waiting for the sole occupant to leave. Then he walked to a maintenance door in the rear wall. He punched in the day’s access code and the lock clicked open. Reaching into a pocket, he withdrew a passcard and a fresh imagetag—courtesy of Tom Tibbald, now deceased—and fixed them to his jacket. Then he opened the door and walked through, closing it tightly behind him.
The concrete-lined maintenance corridor beyond was cool and smelled faintly of refrigerant. Pausing in the empty space, John Doe glanced first left, then right. Then he pulled his radio from a jacket pocket, tapped in a frequency.
“Water Buffalo, this is Prime Factor,” he said into the mike. “Come in.”
He waited a moment, listening.
“Water Buffalo, over.”
“How’s the view?”
“Outstanding. Rolled in right on time.”
“So I heard. Anything since? Arrivals of a more official vari
ety, perhaps?”
“Negatory. Just routine deliveries.”
“Very well. Your job’s done there. Meet us at the waypoint, double time.”
“Roger, out.” Any arrivals after this point—and there were sure to be arrivals, sooner rather than later—would make no difference. Ten minutes, and they would be driving away from Utopia at seventy miles an hour, in the safest means of transportation possible.
John Doe replaced the radio. As he did so, he noticed that the trousers of his linen suit had become creased. It must have happened in the Holo Mirrors. An annoying development. Then again, it didn’t really matter: he’d be burning the suit in the hotel incinerator that evening, anyway.
He turned and, with jaunty step, made his way down the maintenance passage toward the stairwell to A Level.
WILLIAM VERNE YAWNED, then leaned back in his chair, stretching languorously. He had barely moved for the past hour, and he could feel the joints in his shoulders shift and pop. He realized—at some distant, barely conscious level—that his movements were being captured on a security monitor. But it didn’t matter. An occasional stretch wasn’t excluded from his job description. Besides, the whole business had become so damn routine he doubted anybody was watching. And if anybody was, they’d be looking at the truck, not him.
Leaning forward again, he swept his eyes across the control board. As always, everything was green. Vault status okay, delivery chamber okay, access corridor okay, Financial Processing System okay. Okay, okay, okay. Sometimes he almost found himself wishing something would go wrong. At least it would be a change.
Five months had gone by since Verne had been lured away from his job as a software developer in Palo Alto. The position had sounded too good to pass up. Not only would he be working at Utopia, and not only would he be working in their New Technology department, but the job had some hush-hush high-security aspect that intrigued him. He’d had to sign all sorts of waivers and nondisclosure forms, submit to an extensive background check. What a surprise, then, to find himself doing the same kind of work here at the Park as he’d done in Palo Alto. Systems development and maintenance was the same, it seemed, whether you worked for a theme park or a small start-up company. More money here, cooler toys, but much less creative responsibility.
And the “high security” portion of the job? It consisted of watching a control board, sniffing diesel fumes, and staring at the ass end of an armored car for about seven minutes, once a week.
There was a low tone, then a buzz as somebody outside Vault Control activated the retinal scanner. The heavy door clicked open and Tom Pritchard, representing the Auditing and Controls department, stepped inside.
Verne looked over at him without interest. “How’re we doing?”
“Locked up tighter than your sister’s chastity belt,” Pritchard said as he closed and locked the door. He’d just returned from the obligatory visual inspection. During the few minutes that the actual exchange took place, the section of C Level surrounding the vault and the access corridor was closed off from the rest of the Utopia Underground.
“Good. Let’s get this over with.” From the corridor beyond, Verne could hear the insistent chirp of the armored car’s warning tone as it backed the three hundred feet down the corridor toward them. He hit a switch, engaging the powerful exhaust fans that would send the engine fumes back into the desert where they belonged.
“Where’s our baby-sitter?” Pritchard asked as he stepped toward the observation window. Although only two crew members were required for the transfer—a Treasury Operations specialist and a liaison from Controls—normally at least one security specialist sat in during the exchange.
“Guess we’re on our own today,” Verne replied. “They’re probably all back at that damn machine again.” The week before, one of the security grunts had won eight grand on a high-stakes video poker machine in the Boardwalk casino. The money had been confiscated, and the guard disciplined for gambling while on duty, but it had caused a huge stir among the junior security specialists.
“Maybe they’re all at that accident scene in Callisto. Whatever it was.”
“If it was, you mean. That’s the third accident story I’ve heard today. Wonder who makes them all up.” Of course, even if it was true, they probably wouldn’t hear about it for days, stuck down here in the damn bilge. Verne had once read a story by Joseph Conrad in which these two Englishmen were stranded, working in some really remote outpost in darkest Africa. Eventually, they couldn’t take it anymore, went crazy, and killed each other. That’s how he remembered it, anyway. It had always seemed pretty far-fetched to him. But maybe it wasn’t, at that.
“I don’t know, it sounded like the real thing to me. I heard somebody died.”
“Hey, who knows? Maybe a hundred died.”
“Stop messing around. I even heard talk of terrorists.”
“You’re always hearing talk about terrorists,” Verne said, looking at him derisively. “You’re in the wrong end of this business, pal, you know that? You should be working with the ride designers and creative engineers. Anyway,” he went on in a more placating tone of voice, “if there was anything really wrong, His Lordship would have canceled the run.”
“His Lordship” was how much of the Systems staff referred to Fred Barksdale, who was known as a hardworking and talented boss but also as a stickler for protocol. Barksdale had designed much of the financial control system and always took personal control of the weekly exchange between Utopia’s automated vault and the armored car. During orientation, Verne had been told of the precise chain of command. If anything went really wrong, Barksdale would notify them that the weekly pickup had been canceled. But nothing had ever gone really wrong, and Barksdale had never called to cancel. He’d called for plenty of other reasons—to criticize a slow or sloppy exchange, for example—but never to cancel.
The radio speaker set into the control board crackled. “Utopia Central, this is Nine Echo Bravo.” It was the voice of the armored car driver. “I have a visual on the chamber.”
Verne leaned toward a gooseneck microphone. “Utopia Central confirms. We’re green for the exchange.”
He glanced at his watch: 4:18. Right on time. At least Barksdale wouldn’t be calling to complain today.
Verne stood up and joined Pritchard at the observation window. Down the gentle curve of the access corridor, the rear of the armored car could be seen approaching at a slow, steady pace. American Armored Security was emblazoned in large gold letters on its flanks. Verne stared without interest. Already, Vault Control was beginning to stink of diesel fumes, fans or no fans. And the smell would remain for at least twenty minutes after the truck had gone. He wondered if diesel fumes were carcinogenic. Maybe he could put in for hazard pay.
The truck drew level with the control room, then stopped with a sharp protest of brakes. It sat there a moment, as it always did, the invisible occupants going through their checklists. Then the driver worked the door release and the heavy passenger-side door swung open. A man stepped down lightly, shotgun in one hand and clipboard in another. He turned toward their window and waved.
Verne pressed a button, and a small door facing the access corridor popped open. He pushed the door open and descended the ten steps into the high-ceilinged corridor. The grinding noise of the diesel was much worse here, and he wished fervently that they’d turn it off. But no; that was against regulations.
The armed guard was approaching him now. Verne looked at him, frowning slightly.
“How’s it going?” the guard asked. He was in his late thirties, smiling, with a short coppery mustache and a deep tan. He had an easy, assured Texas drawl that matched his demeanor.
“It’s going,” Verne said.
The man smiled, nodded. He was chewing gum.
“You’re not the regular driver,” Verne said.
The man kept smiling. “Nope. I’m Earl Crowe, route supervisor for AAS. I conduct runs myself sometimes, make sure everything’s operating
efficiently, the customers are happy. And, damn, you’re our biggest customer.”
He passed the clipboard over. Verne took it, still looking at the man.
“Johnny’s here, actually,” the man named Crowe went on. “Outside. Some of the boys were out helling around late last night, and he got himself pretty drunk. So I had him drive the escort car instead of the truck today. Nothing like eating forty miles of dust to sober a body up, right?”
At this, Verne finally chuckled. He plucked a pen from his pocket, glanced down at the form without reading it, scribbled his name.
“Are you happy with the service?” Crowe asked as Verne returned the clipboard. “Any problems or concerns I should take up with senior management?”
Verne, so used to being on the receiving end of orders, was surprised and pleased by this. “Well, no,” he replied. “Nothing I can think of.”
“I’m real pleased to hear that. You be sure to tell us, though, if there’s any little thing we can do to serve you better.”
“I’ll do that, thanks,” Verne said, managing to sound a little more managerial. “If you’re ready, I’ll open the delivery chamber now.”
He stepped back into Vault Control, hastily closing the door against the noise and fumes. As the door clicked shut, a red light on the panel blinked back to green. He turned to Pritchard, who’d been watching the exchange through the observation window. They nodded to each other: the visual “handshake” with the truck was complete.
“Engaging the delivery chamber,” Pritchard said, typing a series of commands on a keyboard. Moving to another keyboard on the far side of the control panel, Verne typed in a separate access code.
There was a brief hum of machinery, and beyond the control room wall the door of the vault began rotating on its silent bearings. Both Pritchard and Verne moved to a smaller window in the side wall to observe. For Verne, this was the one part of the job that never grew stale.
From the moment that money was received by Utopia’s Financial Processing System—whether it was at a casino counter in Gaslight, a hot dog vendor in Boardwalk, or a seller of wimples in Camelot—it remained untouched by human hands. Whisked away to collection stations, scanned and sorted, counted, taped and bagged, and ultimately delivered to the vault, it was always under machine control, human handlers kept far out of temptation’s path. Now the heavy curved door moved aside, sealing off the corridor that led deeper into Utopia and exposing the delivery chamber and the vault beyond to the armed guards. There was a boom as the door came to rest on the far side of the corridor.