Lesserec watched the progress on the terminal screen. The entire file was enormous, maxing out the capabilities of the parallel processor. He had been working on it for months, developing modules at home, fusing them at the Lab, creating something so absolutely mind-blowing it would knock Michaelson flat on his ass. The big man wouldn’t know what hit him. Lesserec smiled at that.
He was one of the few people who dared speak his mind to Michaelson. The T Program leader intimidated everyone else, including the Lab Director and a number of prominent congressmen. But Lesserec had been around since the program’s inception. He had been one of the bright-eyed boys sitting at the table, kicking back on Michaelson’s farm, brainstorming what they could do.
Lesserec had been younger then, incredibly bright and talented — and wet behind the ears, his own enthusiasm unbridled by the bureaucratic reality of working in a government lab abiding by shelves full of DOE “Tiger Team” regulations and coping with managers more interested in timely reports than in actual progress.
Back then, Lesserec had viewed the entire Virtual Reality project as a thought experiment. Given appropriate funding and appropriate talent, what is it possible to do?
He had not realized then that those two assumptions were practically impossible. As a result, T Program preyed on the enthusiasm of starry-eyed students and new graduates — like Walter Shing and Danielle Fawcett — who came in, dumped their brainpower into the project, working incredibly long weeks. T Program squeezed them dry and then tossed them aside to pick up another batch of bright young researchers. That technique kept the project working at a frenzied level at all times, producing the impossible and gaining a grudging respect from those others who operated in a normal routine. Nothing was truly impossible.
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
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.