The difference, from what Nicco could find out, was in how Werrdun ran things. He directed the city well—well enough that Nicco, researching all of this on a library terminal in downtown Azbatha two days ago, couldn’t find a single criticism of his rule from anyone who lived there. Not one. And the Turithian press, which barely acknowledged Varn’s existence at the best of times, didn’t seem to even know Hurrunda existed until last month when Werrdun’s visit was first proposed.
Praise, by contrast, was plentiful. The Hurrundan media treated Werrdun like a benevolent god, publishing regular puff pieces that bordered on hagiography. The governor, Nicco read, had turned his back on superstition and invested in technology. Despite the war, he’d imported know-how and materials from Turith, Praal, Varn, everywhere. He’d encouraged business and science education, and done away with compulsory religious schooling. Three of the city’s colleges were named after him. He’d encouraged free access, free trade and free expression. Over the last sixty years, Jarrand L. Werrdun had led Hurrunda to a golden age of wealth and quality of life, and everyone loved him for it.
Everyone except the Kurrethi, of course.
Fearing purges, the sect had gone underground. For the last sixty years they’d been a constant thorn in Werrdun’s side, claiming oppression and resorting to violent protest. They bombed bars and shot at public officials, they reacted to secular policies with vague threats of retaliation in this life and the next. They released statements that accused Werrdun of making a pact with Ekklorn—the religion’s adversary figure, an evil deity who was at constant war with Kurreth for the souls of humankind. They had quite literally demonised the governor.
Werrdun, his security and his citizens had all grown accustomed to these cranks. Life apparently went on as normal. The odd thing, to Nicco’s eyes, was that Werrdun refused to actually outlaw Kurrethism. His police arrested plenty of the religion’s soldiers, and funding them was illegal—though finding sympathetic donors both inside and outside the city didn’t seem to be a big problem for the rebels—but their cries of oppression rang hollow. Werrdun had even allowed Kurrethi candidates to run in city ward elections, presumably to prove that the battle of reason versus faith was a fair one. But when the Kurrethi were soundly thrashed, as they had been repeatedly, they simply claimed the votes were rigged and bombed another public building. It seemed a lose-lose situation for Werrdun.
Recently, though, the terrorist threat had declined. It was rumoured the rebels had gone to ground somewhere in the Hurrun Peaks, using the jungle to hide their location and movements. But rumour also had it that post-Year Zero the Kurrethi had a new leader, a shadowy guru called Ven Dazarus, a dangerous, war-hardened man. Worried by the prospect of a genuine soldier leading the Kurrethi, the Hurrundan authorities had tried to flush them out of the mountains, but to no avail. Whatever was going on, the Kurrethi had suddenly gone very quiet.
This was all amazing to Nicco. Religious unrest was unheard of in Turith, where the state religion had long ago been supplanted by secularism. Nicco didn’t know a single person who still attended church—though given his social circle, that probably wasn’t much of a surprise—and the Turithian gods were relegated to being used as curses and turns of phrase. The idea of fighting a rebellion over gods was completely alien to Nicco.
But to Hurrundans the threat was very real, and decades of religious terrorism had honed Hurrundan security practices to a keen edge. Nicco saw for himself the discipline it enforced in Werrdun’s security as he shadowed the governor. After the first couple of days, though, it was clear the besuited heavies were relaxing a little. Azbathan politicians were in more danger of being hit by the mob than a disenfranchised electorate, and Werrdun’s schedule generally kept him to low-risk areas like industrial districts, tours of technology plants and dinner receptions at City Hall. But Nicco had seen men like Werrdun’s security guards before, usually working as mercenaries for gang bosses. Ex-military, born to fight and trained to kill. No amount of relaxation would suppress their instincts if something serious kicked off, and it was pointless making any plan that relied on them letting their guard down. Instead, Nicco had to find some way to use their zeal to his advantage.
That was why he posed as an engineer and planted the bomb under the stage, the morning before Werrdun made his speech outside City Hall, so he could see Werddun’s security in action.
AS NICCO EXPECTED, Werrdun’s own men were the first and fastest to react to the explosion. Two of them threw themselves at the governor, driving him to the ground and shielding him with their own bodies. Another two ran to the back of the stage, clearing an exit path for the governor and his entourage. The remaining pair drew blasters—entropy guns, typical bloody Varnians—and guarded Werrdun, scanning the crowd for signs of any further trouble.
Nicco followed Werrdun through the binoculars. Thick, black smoke billowed out from under the stage and filled the air, threatening to block his vision, but the binoculars automatically switched to infra-red motion sensing. The guards shielding Werrdun covered him completely. They weren’t looking at the governor, they weren’t even looking around for the source of the explosion. They just lay on top of Werrdun and didn’t move. That wasn’t what Nicco had wanted to see.
By contrast, the Azbathan police panicked. Two of them had their guns out, waving them around at the crowd and looking more dangerous than any potential assassin. One of them was cowering on the stage floor. The last—a tall, thin sergeant with long white hair—actually had the presence of mind to bundle the mayor, his wife (her silly hat had fallen off) and Werrdun’s personal assistant backstage. Whoever he was, the man was wasted in the Azbathan force. Nicco made a mental note to avoid him.
As the people forty-eight floors below waited for something bad to happen, Nicco packed his equipment into a kit bag and left the room, leaving no trace he’d ever been there. Out in the corridor he headed for the nearest grav tube, stepped into it and slowly floated down to street level. The tube was packed, full of people above and below him, all shouting and screaming that there had been a huge explosion in the square.
But the people waiting for bad things to happen never got their climax. The explosion had just been a smoke bomb, a test to see what kind of security Nicco could expect if he went straight for Werrdun. And the answer was: a lot. This was the last in a series of recces Nicco had made on the governor’s security and it was the final straw. He’d hoped to use their security routines against them somehow, to twist their efficiency and tactics to his advantage. But Werrdun’s security simply didn’t leave the man alone. They were loyal and attentive, and now Nicco knew they were also willing to die to protect him. How on earth could he get past that kind of commitment?
To make matters worse, it also seemed that Werrdun never took that damn necklace off. The only pictures Nicco had found showing Werrdun without the necklace were thirty years old. Not that Nicco could tell at first—the governor’s appearance hadn’t changed a bit in the intervening time, apart from the necklace. Nor had Nicco seen him without it since his arrival in Azbatha. For all he knew, the governor slept with it. Nicco had to conclude that Xandus was right—it really was magical in some way. Why else would he be so attached to it?
Nicco had to figure out some way to get Werrdun alone. It was the only possible answer. But the mayor had given his own official residence over to the governor for the duration of his visit, and security there was tight as a bug’s arse. No chance of sneaking in and lifting the necklace from Werrdun while he slept. And even if there were, Nicco wasn’t convinced Werrdun’s security men didn’t sleep in the same room. He probably didn’t even go to the bathroom alone.
He joined the confused throng outside, racking his brains for an answer. Werrdun was only here for another two days, and after this little stunt his guards would be twice as vigilant as before. Tomorrow, the governor toured the Azbathaero Industries plant—that was what the sole surviving company down at the docks was called, Nicco had learned—to see
their new prototype engine. In the evening he had another official dinner, this time with leading West Turithian fatcats. The day after that, the mayor had arranged a dinner cruise on Azbathaero’s prototype airship to see the engine in action. Perhaps the mayor was hoping the trade agreement would encourage Hurrunda to invest in a few good cargo vessels. That evening was the final dinner reception, this time to sign the trade agreement itself, before Werrdun flew home again.
All of the events would be crawling with press, business moguls and hangers-on. There was no way Nicco would be able to get anywhere near Werrdun without being seen, and to get the governor alone would take a miracle. It was enough to make Nicco regret taking the job, and he felt his stomach knotting with worry and drugs. Sleep hadn’t come easy the past couple of days, and Nicco had resorted to doping himself each night to help him rest. It worked a treat, but too much would give a man the cramps from hell, along with a nauseous fever. He feared he’d overdone it last night.
Nicco felt his forehead, but it was cool. No fever. He was just worrying too much. Think clearly, man! How could he get Werrdun alone long enough to take the necklace and make sure he didn’t raise the alarm before Nicco slipped away? His security were with him everywhere, but Werrdun himself looked three hundred years old. How difficult could it be? There must be some way of getting to him, even past the police and the security goons and the press and the legion of doctors that must be necessary just to keep a man of his age alive...
Nicco smiled. Things always turned out be simple when you looked at them from a different angle.
CHAPTER SIX
THE AZBATHAERO ASTRA waited on the launch platform, gleaming and proud in the bright midday sun. The flagship of Azbathaero Industries, its sleek lines and smooth ovoid shape belied the power and efficiency of its prototype magnapulse engine. It was this engine that the company had shown off to Werrdun the day before, the same engine the mayor was hoping would win over the notoriously technophobic Varnians and persuade them to inject a much-needed booster into Azbatha’s economy.
The congenital Turithian antipathy toward magic had cost the country dearly in some respects. Comul, its Archmage, was barely above Wegnak of Kyas in power; and Wegnak was a joke. Sure, by definition every Archmage had enough power to destroy the planet, but even at the top of the heap there was a hierarchy. The Institute at Turilum, Turith’s capital, faced perpetual funding cuts and neglect by the state, who saw Archmages and their wizards as a foolish drain on the economy. Turith had been one of the last countries to adopt charm-enhanced power sources such as the engines that kept the ubiquitous airships running. Even then, most native Turithians would still choose a locally-built, all-tech vessel over something with a charm engine. A vessel like the Astra.
But if magic was mistrusted and largely ignored by Turithians, they more than made up for it with their faith in technology. From holovids to smartphones to grav tubes, from the world’s only 500-storey tower to the lowly vacpac meal, it had all been invented right here and exported across the globe. For five centuries the global war had been a perfect testing ground for new technology. Azbathaero was just one of the country’s many technological success stories, designing and building airships using both pure tech and magical engines. And now the company claimed its magnapulse prototype was as efficient and powerful as any charm engine on the planet. The company was poised to make a fortune.
At least that’s what Nicco had read in a holozine when he was researching in the library. Frankly, he didn’t much care. This maiden voyage was his best chance to steal Werrdun’s necklace, and that was all that mattered to him.
Nicco stood in the VIP lounge and watched Werrdun’s party board the Astra, led on board by the mayor, his wife and the CEO of Azbathaero. The mayor’s wife seemed incensed that the boarding door wasn’t big enough to fit through without removing her outrageously large hat. Then the wind snatched it out of her hand and propelled it straight into the Nissal Straits, and he had to fake a coughing fit to keep from laughing out loud.
Nicco took the opportunity to check out his fellow VIPs. Most of them were businessmen and -women, the same CEOs, CFOs, MDs and SOBs who’d been trailing Werrdun’s tail since he arrived, all hoping for a juicy export contract to swell their bottom line. Another dozen or more were press, and the remainder was a large assortment of personalities and celebrities—rock stars, holovid presenters, lifestyle gurus, models and actors. At first they struck Nicco as a random selection, possibly invited just because they happened to be in Azbatha at the time. But then he recognised a few, and realised there was a very real connection: they weren’t just in the city, they were all from Azbatha.
Most of them didn’t live here any more, of course. It was a standing Azbathan joke that the second you made a million, a computer somewhere in Shalumar transferred the money directly to a realtor in Turilum. The only people still in Azbatha with any real money were corrupt politicians and merchants, and the crooks who corrupted them. But all of these celebrities had been born here, in the Pit-on-Stilts. Nicco had even seen some of them mention it on holovid interviews, normally to the horror and sympathetic noises of an interviewer whose idea of hardship was only having enough money to buy half a crate of Varnian wine.
The mayor must have pulled a lot of strings to set this up, another all-out attempt to impress the governor. Well, he’d get that, all right; Nicco would make sure this was one media event none of them would ever forget.
Nicco’s own name-tag identified him as ‘Durrun Karth,’ a Varnian doctor of medicine. He wore a false beard, old-fashioned eye-glasses to disguise his face and an equally old-fashioned trouser suit. Strapped tight around his stomach was a fake paunch, and he bent his back a little and spoke with a heavy accent, inserting the occasional Varnian word or phrase into his conversation. Nicco’s Varnian wasn’t great, but like most of the criminal community in Azbatha a few choice words and phrases proved useful from time to time. He’d be in trouble if anyone tried to talk directly to him in Varnian, but Nicco was here to rob the governor, not strike up a polite conversation with him.
Nicco had squeezed his, or rather Dr Karth’s, way onto the VIP list with a simple bribe in a shadowy bar. Come war or peace, some things would never change, and the corruptibility of Azbathan officials was one of them. If this plan was going to work, Nicco had to count on it.
Two security guards re-opened the exit and the guests slowly shuffled their way onto the launch pad toward the Astra. Nicco joined them, sauntering through the boarding checklist with a quick “Hurrka”—thank you in Varnian—and then he was through, heading to the boarding door, keeping to the centre of the crowd. He walked through the airlock at the same time as an ageing rock star accompanied by three nubile women. Nicco struggled to remember his name, but it wouldn’t come. Some long-faded, big-haired synth-rocker, anyway. Nicco didn’t recognise any of the girls, but he had no doubt they were earning a packet for this little sortie. The rock star winked at him. Nicco stayed in character and turned his head as if embarrassed.
They had ten minutes until take-off. Nicco put the time to good use.
First, he headed for the onboard storage locker area. After a quick check that nobody was watching, he took a keycard from the pocket of his trouser suit and slotted it into the lockpod of 72A. Nicco’s examination of the Astra’s blueprints (chalk another one up for bribery) had shown him the most suitable place for his plans, and 72A was it. The locker was close to a set of stairs leading down to the emergency escape pods, very near a bathroom and positioned at the end of a corridor that couldn’t be seen from any of the main rooms without turning a corner. It was perfect.
The lockpod illuminated green and the door slowly swung open. It should have been empty. No-one on board was actually going anywhere, after all. The flight plan consisted of four hours circling over the northern reach of the Nissal Straits. Enough time for Werrdun to see the magnapulse engine in action, conduct a dinner reception, listen to some formal music and get back down to e
arth again. But the locker wasn’t empty, and Nicco thanked the watery saints under his breath. He closed the door and locked it.
Next he made his way to the galley. He could hear the chef bawling out his cooks all the way from the top of the stairs outside the main lounge, barking orders and insults with equal aplomb. Presumably the chef was having some problems with the mainly Varnian menu, served in honour of the visitor. From the way he shouted, Nicco wondered if he’d been a Turithian army chef during the war. And now here he was, cooking Varnian dishes for a Varnian dignitary. Nicco could only imagine how many bodily fluids the governor would be ingesting today.
Bold as he could muster, Nicco walked through the door and looked around to get his bearings. The chef had his back to him, berating two of his cooks by the main dish counter. The starter cook was at his station, stirring a large pot. According to the manifest Nicco had read, the starter was a broth of boiled tanglefish, a Turithian dish, with root vegetables from the Hurrun Peaks and spices from Praal. Being an archipelago, most of Turith’s native dishes were seafood of one kind or another, and the tangy smell from the steaming fish made Nicco salivate. But this was one meal he wouldn’t be eating.
Nicco walked over to the starter cook, gesticulating wildly. “Hey, you!” he shouted in a thick Varnian accent. The cook looked up, startled. “This is tentacle fish, yes? Tentacle fish soup for the governor?” Nicco stood close to the cook, almost touching him, and pointed furiously at the pot of boiling tanglefish.
“It’s, erm... tanglefish... kind of like tentacles, yeah... sorry, who are you?”
Nicco ignored the question. “Tanglefish, yes! Now listen, it’s very important you cook this properly! The governor is not from this country and his stomach is delicate—very delicate! If not cooked properly, this fish could poison him, do you understand? I am a doctor from Varn, and you must listen! What instructions have you been given to cook this... tanglefish?”
Stealing Life Page 5
