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“A beautifully crafted scare-fest . . . heaven for techno-thriller fans.”—People (Page-turner of the Week) It’s like nothing anyone has ever seen before. Utopia is the brand-new frontier of theme parks, a fantastic collection of Worlds each so authentic it takes the average visitor’s breath away. Teeming with cutting-edge holographic and robotic technology, it has captured the nation’s imagination. But it has also attracted a group of ruthless criminals. After infiltrating the park and its computer systems, their leader—calling himself John Doe—sets the parameters: If their shocking demands are met, none of the visitors to the park that day will be harmed; if not, then all hell will rain down. Dr. Andrew Warne, the brilliant engineer who designed much of the park’s robotics, suddenly finds himself in a role he never imagined—trying to save the lives of thousands of innocent people . . . one of whom just happens to be his daughter.
Praise for Lethal Velocity
“Terrific . . . a sensational piece of popular entertainment . . . [Lincoln] Child has created a fictional wonderland that is both high-tech and nostalgic. . . . If you are looking for intelligent fun, it doesn’t get much better than this.”—The Washington Post Book World “[A] whiz-bang plot . . . springs to life from the opening pages . . . Child does an outstanding job of depicting the workings of this fantastic playground.”—San Francisco Chronicle “A riveting read . . . part mystery, part science-fiction, and all page-turner.”—Roanoke Times Previously published as Utopia
“A beautifully crafted scare-fest . . . heaven for techno-thriller fans.”—People (Page-turner of the Week) It’s like nothing anyone has ever seen before. Utopia is the brand-new frontier of theme parks, a fantastic collection of Worlds each so authentic it takes the average visitor’s breath away. Teeming with cutting-edge holographic and robotic technology, it has captured the nation’s imagination. But it has also attracted a group of ruthless criminals. After infiltrating the park and its computer systems, their leader—calling himself John Doe—sets the parameters: If their shocking demands are met, none of the visitors to the park that day will be harmed; if not, then all hell will rain down. Dr. Andrew Warne, the brilliant engineer who designed much of the park’s robotics, suddenly finds himself in a role he never imagined—trying to save the lives of thousands of innocent people . . . one of whom just happens to be his daughter.
Praise for Lethal Velocity
“Terrific . . . a sensational piece of popular entertainment . . . [Lincoln] Child has created a fictional wonderland that is both high-tech and nostalgic. . . . If you are looking for intelligent fun, it doesn’t get much better than this.”—The Washington Post Book World “[A] whiz-bang plot . . . springs to life from the opening pages . . . Child does an outstanding job of depicting the workings of this fantastic playground.”—San Francisco Chronicle “A riveting read . . . part mystery, part science-fiction, and all page-turner.”—Roanoke Times Previously published as Utopia
Due to publisher restrictions the library cannot purchase additional copies of this title, and we apologize if there is a long waiting list. Be sure to check for other copies, because there may be other editions available.
Due to publisher restrictions the library cannot purchase additional copies of this title, and we apologize if there is a long waiting list. Be sure to check for other copies, because there may be other editions available.
Excerpts-
From the book
7:30 A.M.
FROM ITS JUMPING-OFF place at Charleston Boulevard, above the Las Vegas Strip, Rancho Drive makes a casual bend to the left and heads straight for Reno. It arrows northwest with absolute precision, ignoring all natural or artificial temptations to curve, as if in a hurry to leave neon and green felt far behind. Country clubs, shopping centers, and finally even the sad-looking ersatz adobe suburbs fall away. The Mojave Desert, tucked beneath the asphalt and concrete sprawl, reasserts itself. Spidery tendrils of sand trace their way across what the signs start calling Route 95. Joshua trees, hirsute and sprawling, dot the greasewood desert. Cacti stand like standard-bearers to the emptiness. After the frantic, crowded glitter, the gradual transition to vast empty spaces seems otherworldly. Except for the highway, the hand of man appears not to have touched this place.
Andrew Warne tilted his rearview mirror sharply upward and to the right, sighing with relief as the dazzling brightness receded. “How could I possibly have come to Vegas without bringing dark glasses?” he said. “The sun shines 366 days a year in this place.”
The girl in the seat beside him smirked, adjusted her headphones. “That’s my dad. The absent-minded professor.”
“Ex-professor, you mean.”
The road ahead was a burning line of white. The surrounding desert seemed bleached by the glare, yucca and creosote bush reduced to pale specters. Idly, Warne laid the palm of his hand against the window, then snatched it away. Seven-thirty A.M., and already it had to be a hundred degrees outside. Even the rental car seemed to have adapted to the desert conditions: its climate control was stuck on the maximum AC setting.
As they approached Indian Springs, a low plateau rose to the east: Nellis Air Force Base. Gas stations began to appear every few miles, out of place in the empty void, sparkling clean, so new they looked to Warne as if they’d just been unwrapped. He glanced at a printed sheet that lay clipped to a folder between their seats. Not far now. And there it was: a freeway exit sign, bright green, newly minted. Utopia. One mile.
The girl also noticed the sign. “Are we there yet?” she asked.
“Very funny, princess.”
“You know I hate it when you call me princess. I’m fourteen. That’s a name for a little kid.”
“You act like a little kid sometimes.”
The girl frowned at this, turned up the volume on her music player. The resultant thumping was clear even over the air conditioner.
“Careful, Georgia, you’ll give yourself tinnitus. What’s that you’re listening to, anyway?”
“Swing.”
“Well, that’s an improvement, at least. Last month it was gothic rock. The month before, it was—what was it?”
“Euro-house.”
“Euro-house. Can’t you settle on a style you like?”
Georgia shrugged. “I’m too intelligent for that.”
The difference was evident the moment they reached the bottom of the exit ramp. The road surface changed: instead of the cracked gray concrete of U.S. Highway 95, lined like a reptile’s skin by countless repairs, it became a pale, smooth red, with more lanes than the freeway they’d just left. Sculpted lights sloped gracefully over the macadam. For the first time in twenty miles, Warne could see...
About the Author-
Lincoln Child is the author of Death Match, Deep Storm, Terminal Freeze, The Third Gate, and The Forgotten Room, as well as co-author, with Douglas Preston, of numerous New York Times bestsellers, including Blue Labyrinth, White Fire, Cold Vengeance, and Relic. He lives with his wife and daughter in Morristown, New Jersey.
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Random House Publishing Group
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