Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (16 page)

And now Gary Lesserec had created his masterpiece: a simulation that went far beyond anything Michaelson had imagined in his most gushing presentations to Congressional subcommittees, far beyond even the Yosemite simulation.
 
The new chips he had installed made the capabilities an order of magnitude more sophisticated.
 
The tactile response, canned smells, ultraphonic sounds, accelerometers, and the boggling graphics made this the best, most-intense experience ever produced on Planet Earth.

The mainframe took several hours, eating enough of the parallel machine’s capacity that a handful of other T Program workers came out to Lesserec to bug him about how long he was going to be.
 
Everything else was running as if the disk drives were full of molasses—but Lesserec had finally compiled the entire simulation for the VR chamber.
 
The chips could handle it.

He had never run anything like this before, but he was going to save it for Hal Michaelson.
 
Michaelson, unsuspecting, would think he was just going to see himself floating above the clouds again while fighter jets zipped about below him.

But this was more, much more.

Michaelson wouldn’t know what hit him.

And
then
he’d believe.

CHAPTER 16

Wednesday

Building 433—T Program

Virtual Reality Chamber

Another wasted day
.
 
Hal Michaelson bitterly wondered what he had to show for it.

Hours thrown down the toilet to tour one more program that boob Aragon would eventually muck up.
 
Then he had been called to the Director’s office for another meeting, a recap of the IVI and arrangements for the visit from the foreign nationals.
 
The Director didn’t seem to know whether to rage at Michaelson for going behind his back or to beam in awe at the amount of funding Michaelson’s project would bring to the Lab.
 
More hours down the toilet.

Lack of sleep was catching up with him; he would have to work through dinner, grab a sandwich at the cafeteria, pull an all-nighter before he’d feel caught up enough to go home.
 
He’d have to return to Washington within the week to hold hands there, too—and he couldn’t put off the meeting with Diana any longer, either.
 
He asked himself for the thousandth time if the glory was worth all the bullshit.

He turned the government car into the empty lot outside the T Program trailer complex, dismayed to see that most of his workers had already left for the evening.
 
He himself hadn’t even been back to his house, coming straight from the airport.
 
What the hell gave them the right to go home
on time?
 
Heads would roll in the morning, Michaelson vowed, and he would enjoy letting off some steam.

In the gathering darkness, parking-lot lights splashed yellow circles of sodium light.
 
Thick-tired red Lab bicycles lay abandoned on the sidewalk where they had been left by employees during the day.
 
Behind dark miniblinds, lights burned in three offices of the T Program trailer complex.

In the big-budget glory days during the Cold War, many buildings on-site would still be lit up, researchers working through the night refining nuclear designs, directed-energy weapons, and sophisticated space sensors.

Michaelson went up to the mirrored CAIN booth door that guarded access to the restricted T Program area.
 
Closing the heavy door of the booth behind him, the lock clicked and the badge reader waited for him.
 
Michaelson fumbled with his laminated green badge.
 
He sneezed, feeling uncomfortable and itchy all over.
 
Damned allergies starting up again
, he thought.

The LCD display in the badge reader blinked as Michaelson slid the badge into the slot, magnetic strip down.
 
He punched in his PIN code 0-1-3-7, the inverse of the fine structure constant.
 
Access approved.
 
The inside lock clicked open, and he shoved the door wide, stepping into the dim T Program trailer offices.
 
Empty and quiet, a few lights burning but nobody home.

Out of habit, he snagged his special blue T Program badge from the rack on the wall, clipping it to his shirt.
 
He set his mouth, steamed to find no one present.
 
Long lunch breaks, going home early—these people were getting lazy.

He had faxed explicit instructions to Gary Lesserec, but apparently his deputy didn’t care about meeting deadlines or providing specific milestones.
 
With the President’s speech Michaelson had launched T Program on the most exciting phase of its existence, a history-making mission.
 
The place should have been pulsing with excitement, hackers busy pumping up simulations, engineers installing modifications to the VR chamber, techs distributing the fine sensors for appropriate visual input.
 
To make the IVI succeed, a thousand pieces would have to come together smoothly, all at once, and
right now
.
 
The multinational task force would be here within three short weeks to observe the first full-blown demonstration.

Heads wouldn’t just roll, he thought—he’d launch them into orbit!

Gary Lesserec was bright, but not as bright as he thought he was.
 
His talent didn’t excuse him from shirking his duties.
 
Michaelson already planned to recruit a replacement for the young upstart as soon as he could, but now he reminded himself to stop wasting time.
 
He needed to get another hotshot enthusiast fresh from grad school who would be glassy-eyed and happy for the chance to work eighty hours a week if it meant he could play a role in the IVI.

Michaelson worked his way through the cluttered tech cubicles back to his own office.
 
He snatched at the yellow sticky note taped on his door.
 
“HAL, I SENT THE TECHS HOME EARLY SO I COULD RUN A FULL SYSTEM BACKUP OF THE CHAMBER.
 
I’LL REINITIATE THE CHAMBER EARLY TOMORROW.
 
UPGRADED CHIPS INSTALLED.
 
GOT A NEW SIMULATION READY TO RUN IF YOU WANT TO TAKE A TEST DRIVE—GARY”
 
Lesserec had drawn a little smiley face at the bottom of the page, his stupid signature.

Michaelson crumpled the note and tossed it into the green metal trash can.
 
System backup
? he thought.
 
Upgraded chips?
 
What the hell was Lesserec doing?
 
They wasted time on full system backups only before making a substantial modification.
 
With the IVI announced only yesterday, Michaelson had allotted a good two weeks of upgrading before the system was ready for a backup.
 
More wasted time, wasted effort, a poor administrative decision.

Want to take a test drive?
 
Lesserec was goofing off, oblivious to the importance of his own project.
 
That did it.
 
No one was indispensable.

Fuming, Michaelson unlocked his office and powered up his workstation, thinking of the words for a new job posting.
 
He rubbed his palms on his slacks, feeling tingly and itchy again; this time his face felt hot, scratchy.
 
Damned kid is getting to me
.
 
He wondered if somebody had messed with the thermostat.

Scooting his chair up to the keyboard, he tapped out a terse memo describing Gary Lesserec’s job position.
 
Tansy could clean up the wording, and he’d cram it through the Internal Transfer office in the morning.

Michaelson sat back to think, though, and the ergonomic chair creaked with his bulk.
 
What he really needed to do was find the perfect person for Lesserec’s job first,
then
post the notice; if he didn’t have the right replacement in mind, it could turn out to be another disaster.

Besides, thanks to the Lab’s prehistoric hiring procedures, Michaelson couldn’t just fire Lesserec outright.
 
He had to play along with policy just to make everything appear fair.
 
That would mean another delay.

Michaelson viewed the Livermore rules as obstacles to get around, blockades thrown up by incompetents.
 
Bureaucratic rules, made up by beancounters who had nothing better to do: boobs like José Aragon who had been promoted beyond their capability to do any real job.

Michaelson printed a copy of the memo and stuffed it into his upper desk drawer.
 
He would have to make phone calls in the morning, ponder who might be a good replacement.
 
The smartass kid who always wore inane superhero t-shirts had outlasted his usefulness.

Deciding he could do no more tonight, Michaelson shut down, rubbing his hands and face again.
 
Damn, that burned—he wondered if he had picked up some kind of rash.
 
He thought of how good it would feel to go home, mix himself a drink, take a long shower, then go to bed.

But as he headed out of his office, he stared down the long back hall at the empty VR chamber.

Got a new simulation ready to run if you want to take a test drive
.
 
Even though Michaelson had complete access, he saw that the door was propped partly open, inviting.
 
The chamber was dark.
 
He glanced around, seeing only the glowing phosphors of Lesserec’s workstation and other terminals blinking as the main system computers crunched away.

A test drive?
 
Michaelson had no idea what Lesserec had been developing, probably another one of his “consulting projects” instead of doing IVI work.
 
“This better be good,” he muttered.

He scanned Lesserec’s desk, frowning at the clutter of scratch paper, code printouts, technical reports, and a toy Snoopy model.
 
Michaelson frowned at a photo of Lesserec and his model-beautiful girlfriend standing on the rocky shore of a deep blue lake.

Michaelson picked up the photograph.
 
Lesserec sported a wide, goofy grin; his red hair and white legs made him look like a bloated fish just pulled from the icy depths.
 
The girlfriend was dark-haired, sleek, and tan, making the couple an unlikely pair.
 
Michaelson snorted and placed the picture down.
 
What did she see in a twit like Lesserec?
 
But he knew very well how appealing some women found quick-witted young men.
 
His own attraction to Amber, Diana Unteling, and all the others rose in his mind.

After all, despite his faults and screwed-up priorities, Lesserec
had
developed the algorithms that turned the virtual reality chamber into a playground for the gods.
 
Michaelson recalled towering miles above the surface of the Earth, his Olympian legs rising through the clouds below as jet fighters buzzed like gnats around his knees.

But that still didn’t excuse Lesserec’s arrogance and lack of responsibility.
 
He wondered how far the little deeb had gotten with the IVI prep while he had been gone.

Michaelson hunched over Lesserec’s workstation.
 
In the primary window tiny icons dotted the layout as a flowchart of the VR chamber appeared on the screen.

Fidgeting, rubbing his hands and cheeks, Michaelson glanced over the modifications to the virtual reality software, trying to decipher what Lesserec had done.

By now the burning sensation had spread over his palms and the backs of his hands.
 
He looked down, expecting to see angry red skin, but found instead a whitish pale appearance to his hands.
 
He must have gotten into something.

He punched in the final loading procedure for the new VR simulation.
 
The icon of the small jet fighter denoting the Nellis AFB simulation had disappeared, replaced by the stylized drawing of a tiny mountain with smoke around its top.
 
Lesserec had gotten rid of the aircraft simulation!
 
What the hell?

A few taps on the keyboard confirmed that no other routine remained in the parallel processor, only one new memory-hogging simulation.
 
Michaelson stared at the workstation screen, appalled.

Distracted from the fiery itching that continued to spread, Michaelson angrily used the menu-driven directions on the screen to power up the chamber.
 
A minute passed and the screen blinked green, indicating that the simulation was ready.

Michaelson straightened and stomped down the hall toward the open vault door.
 
“This had better be damned good, Gary, or I’ll rip off your head myself.”

A red glow pulsed from inside the VR chamber; light streamed onto the floor from the door.
 
Michaelson entered, holding a hand up to shield his eyes from the ruddy brightness.