Stealing Life

by Antony Johnston

  The cook trembled, bewildered and caught off guard by Nicco’s ranting. “Well, we—that is—hang on, I’d better get the chef...”

  The cook turned away from the pot and called over to the chef. The chef looked over his shoulder to respond, saw Nicco and almost ran to the starter counter. Evidently, he wasn’t used to people just walking into his galley.

  Equally evidently, he wasn’t Turithian. The chef’s skin was the deep brown colour of a born and bred Varnian.

  “Ekklorn’s hooves, what’s going on here? Get out of my galley!”

  “He was asking about the tanglefish broth, sir,” said the cook. “Said it might make the governor sick. Does it really give Varnians the squits, sir? I think...”

  “Be quiet, boy!” roared the chef. He loomed over Nicco and jabbed a finger at his chest. “Now look here, you! I spent twenty years cooking out of a damn tent, and never had a single man sick! Not one! So shut your trap and get out of my galley before I have you thrown off this ship, Mr—” He peered at Nicco’s name badge, but Nicco didn’t give him a chance to finish.

  “Doctor Karth,” said Nicco, dropping the strength of his fake accent a little, hoping the Chef wouldn’t spot it. “Very well, Mr Chef. I am only concerned for the health of our illustrious guest and I can see you have the situation under control. I will leave you now. Sorry to trouble you!” Nicco turned and strode to the galley door. Behind him, the cook said something about the good doctor being Varnian to the chef. Nicco opened the galley door...

  “Hold on!” the chef shouted.

  Nicco stopped in the doorway, sweating.

  “Thought you had an accent, but I couldn’t place it... Whereabouts in Varn are you from, Doctor?”

  “Tykkas,” said Nicco, perhaps a touch too quickly. He’d selected the good Doctor’s home with care, a university town halfway across the continent from Hurrunda in the northern province of Haslandia, to account for his half-coloured skin.

  “Really!” said the chef. And then he said something in pure Varnian.

  Nicco made out the words cousin, over there and something that might have been school, but he couldn’t be sure. This was getting out of hand. He looked around nervously as the chef, smiling now, waited for a reply.

  There was nothing else for it. Nicco would have to run for it and ditch the disguise. He hunched his shoulders slightly, ready to push the chef backwards...

  “Staff announcement: three minutes to lift-off, three minutes. Lock down and secure, I repeat, lock down and secure. Three minutes.”

  The chef’s smile vanished, replaced by the hassled expression of a man up against the clock. He gently pushed Nicco out the galley door, and spoke again in Varnian. This time Nicco made out the words go, now, talk and later. Nicco said “Hurrka” and “Felishe”—goodbye—then hurried up the stairs as the chef pulled the galley door closed.

  Only when he reached the top of the stairs did Nicco breath again. That was close, and risky. He couldn’t risk running into that chef again. But he’d pulled it off. It was all going according to plan.

  Nicco hurried to the VIP launch lounge to find his seat ready for lift-off. He was worried that he might arrive to find everyone else already seated, and that would be bad. His job here was to be as bland and inconspicuous as possible.

  He needn’t have worried. To ease the pressure of lift-off, the launch lounges of all modern Turithian airships were fully grav-enabled, and the units automatically activated two minutes before lift-off. A small bunch of the celebrities were having way too much fun with this, taking giant leaps across the floor and vaulting over rows of chairs with ease. The stewards, wearing omnimag-soled shoes to keep them firmly on the floor, were frantically herding everyone into their seats.

  Nicco recognised the rock star from earlier among those jumping around in the semi-gravity. When a steward bodily pulled him back down to the floor, he started demanding to know why they had to sit here when the governor and mayor’s entourage got their own private launch lounge and what sort of stupid rule barred them from drinking during lift-off. He added some speculations as to the stewards’ parentage.

  Nicco took advantage of the chaos and slipped into the first available seat he could find, hitting the ‘secure’ button to activate the locking straps as he sat down. The straps whirred into action and snaked across his lap and chest, holding him tightly. There was no going back now. The stewards’ determination appeared to have won the day, and all the passengers were now seated—even the drink-deprived rock star, who quietly sulked. The stewards took their own seats at the side of the lounge.

  The base thrusters fired up, sending tremors through the floor. Nicco took a deep breath.

  Lift-off.

  THE NEXT TWO minutes, like any airship ascent, were very exciting.

  The ship launched vertically at a tremendous velocity. Even in the pressurised grav-controlled environment of the launch lounge Nicco felt G-forces pushing against him, trying to compress his spine. After thirty seconds the airship slowed its ascent, switching from base thrusters to the main engines, and the G-forces eased off.

  The automatic locking straps fell open, freeing the passengers to move. Nicco saw the ageing rock star across the room stand and simultaneously thrust himself up out of his chair, expecting to float into the air. He didn’t—the grav had automatically deactivated as the locking straps opened. He fell, face first, onto the floor, and the rock star’s entourage gasped. Everyone else laughed, none louder than the stewards.

  As was customary on any airship journey, everyone hurried through to the lower viewing pod to catch a glimpse of the distant earth below. The pod was hemispherical, criss-crossed by ladders and gantries to enable views from every possible angle under the ship. There was one on the upper deck too, for stargazers.

  Everyone had seen it before, of course. There wasn’t a man on board who didn’t regularly travel on airships. But they went to the pod to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ all the same. It was a tradition.

  The hour after that was very dull.

  Nicco found the bar and ensconced himself in it, hunched over a non-alcoholic drink. He had no desire or need to speak to any of the other VIPs, and certainly not the ageing rock star currently drinking himself and his girls into a daze a few tables over. Right about now, the MD of Azbathaero would be conducting Werrdun’s tour of the engine with the mayor and entourage in tow. In the meantime, all Nicco could do was wait.

  Finally, the tannoy announcement came for dinner and Nicco joined the wave of people moving from the bar to the restaurant. His nerves were on edge as he took a seat. His dinner companions were two holovid presenters he vaguely recognised, a man and a woman, and two other men he didn’t know at all. One of them was loud and slick, a holokino producer in trademark all-black, the other a middle-aged corporate type in a dark blue suit. Nicco wondered who in the fifty-nine hells had organised the seating arrangements.

  Werrdun, the mayor and their companions were already seated at the head table. When everyone was seated, the mayor stood up and called for quiet. Time for a speech. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “It is my great honour to welcome you all aboard the Astra for her maiden voyage. And it gives me even greater pleasure to welcome Governor Werrdun aboard, to see superior Azbathan technology in action.” There was a smattering of applause. The press crowded around the top table, recording the event for their streams, taking notes and snapping holopics. “And now, ladies and gentlemen... Governor Werrdun.”

  The mayor led the applause himself this time, and Werrdun stood up to deliver his own speech. As he began, thanking everyone involved for their time and hospitality etc., etc., Nicco cast a glance at the tables of suits. How many times must they have already heard this speech, with slight variations, during Werrdun’s visit? Didn’t they ever get bored? He was zoning out already; all he cared about was the food.

  And finally, it came. Nicco sniffed at the tanglefish broth. It smelled pretty good. Any other time, he would have tucked in. But
not today.

  “Doctor,” said the young woman on his table, “are you not eating?” She was a kids’ holovid presenter Nicco had seen while channel-hopping in the mornings. She was apparently something of a lust object for teenage boys, but Nicco didn’t see the attraction himself; the woman was bone-thin and wore enough make-up to make Xandus think twice. Nicco preferred his women natural, like Tabby. Not that he’d ever tell Tabby that, of course.

  “I am from the mainland of Varn,” he replied in his fake accent. “I am unused to seafood, and find it does not sit well with my digestion.”

  “Have you ever tried tanglefish?”

  “Once. I was sick for many days.”

  “Where did you try it?”

  By the watery saints, thought Nicco, take a bloody hint. “In the Lighthouse Tower restaurant, miss. I am sure it was very good, but...”

  “No, no, that was your mistake,” said the holokino producer. From his incessant pre-food anecdotes and egotism, Nicco had him marked as some kind of bigshot. “Tea For Turith’s a right hole. Overpriced rubbish, and their chefs don’t know one end of a fish from the other. You should try Marakide’s, at the Hotel Azbatha in downtown. Now there’s a chef who knows his fish.”

  “I’ve never been to Marakide’s,” said the other presenter, a sports commentator Nicco had seen once or twice on late night shows. “Is it really that good? I mean, you say the Tower’s expensive, but Marakide’s is positively extortionate.”

  “Is it?” said the producer. “I hadn’t noticed, I don’t really look at the bill. But I don’t care what they charge, it’s worth every lira. Palluk Marakide’s a good friend of mine, actually.”

  “Really?” The woman’s eyes lit up.

  “Sure,” said the producer. “We go way back...”

  The corporate, who’d barely spoken a word, looked over at Nicco and raised an amused eyebrow as the three media darlings began to yap. Nicco’s issues with the fish had been forgotten, and by the looks of it so had Nicco himself. He smiled back at the man and shrugged.

  “So, Doctor,” said the businessman as he tucked into his tanglefish broth, “if you’re Varnian, what’s your purpose on board? Trying to broker your own deals under Werrdun’s nose, perhaps?”

  He was sharp-eyed and well-kept for his age, and Nicco couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to him than met the eye. He decided to play it safe, and shook his head. “No, no,” he said, “I am attending in the place of a colleague from the Turith, who is indisposed today.”

  “Ah. Medicine without borders, is it? Nations working together for the common good?”

  “Yes... yes, something like that.”

  “Very admirable, old boy.” He raised his glass and smiled. “I’m all for a bit of international co-operation.”

  Nicco glanced at the other guests on his table. They were swapping yuppie restaurant tips and swooning at the producer’s tales of his fat expense account, eating their broth between snatches of gossip and resolutely ignoring the foreign doctor. That was all fine by Nicco.

  He glanced at the top table. Werrdun—and, Nicco noted, half of his security—were eating the broth, too. Excellent.

  It happened as the waiters retrieved the diners’ bowls. The children’s presenter groaned and rubbed her stomach. The sports presenter made concerned noises and asked if she was all right. She nodded, and said it was just a bit of cramp.

  Then she vomited in the producer’s lap.

  Nicco forced himself not to laugh. The producer yelped in horror and called for a waiter. But the waiter was distracted by one of the fatcat CEOs falling out of his chair and moaning in pain. Then another, another and another... Nicco looked to the top table and saw the mayor’s wife doubled up in her chair, trying to hide the fact she was throwing up all over her husband’s expensive shoes. Not that he cared, as he was busy clutching his stomach and roaring about cramp.

  Governor Jarrand L. Werrdun, meanwhile, had collapsed on the floor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MOVING ALMOST AS fast as the governor’s security team, Nicco sprinted to the top table and made a beeline for Werrdun.

  A meaty hand slamming against his chest stopped him in his tracks, but he’d been expecting that. Nicco looked up into the stern eyes of a dark-skinned, narrow-eyed Hurrundan security man. “Where do you imagine you go?” he said with a thick accent.

  “I am a doctor,” said Nicco. “Let me through, I can help!”

  The guard narrowed his eyes. “What is this? Poison of the food?”

  “Yes and no. We call it Aberrant Intestinal Haematomic Occlusion Syndrome. It is common with certain foods at high altitudes, yes. What did the governor eat this morning?”

  The guard had to think about that for a second. Finally he said, “Roast tallus hearts. With the pepper sauce.”

  “Ah!” Nicco exclaimed as if he’d discovered a cure for cancer. “Pepper with tanglefish, at this altitude—I feared something like this might happen! Let me through, I can help him!”

  The guard hesitated, watching dozens of people around the room vomiting and moaning. “Is it could threaten his life?” he asked. But before Nicco could answer, a fresh bout of retching from Werrdun persuaded the guard that, life-threatening or not, his boss needed help. “All right. Go forward. You do Werrdun first.”

  “Hurrka,” said Nicco, and bent over the governor. He was curled up on the floor in a fetal position, moaning softly. Nicco put his ear to the man’s back and tapped it in several places. Then he pulled Werrdun’s shirt up and prodded his stomach, looking for something. Werrdun whimpered with every jab.

  At least, Nicco hoped that’s what it looked like he was doing. The truth was he knew exactly what was wrong with Werrdun, and everyone else currently expelling the contents of their stomach over the restaurant floor.

  He had doped the starter pot back in the galley, when the cook turned his back to fetch the chef. It had been given plenty of time to ferment in the soup, and right now it would be coursing through the digestive system of practically everyone in the room. Nicco had no doubt they were all in immense pain. They probably all thought they were going to die.

  Nicco looked up to see the guard who’d questioned him watching his impression of a doctor. He leaned back as if in thought, and across the room he spotted what looked alarmingly like a ship’s doctor approaching. He couldn’t have that. Nicco leapt to his feet and shouted at the guard.

  “It is as I feared! Quickly, to his quarters!”

  The guard looked around. “What of the others?”

  “Who is the most important man here?” Nicco hissed at the bodyguard, hoping his Varnian impersonation would give his patriotism some weight. “The proud governor of a Varnian state, or a bunch of Turithian fools?”

  “Is true, exactly. This way.”

  The guard lifted Werrdun onto his broad shoulders and carried the governor out of the room, followed quickly by Nicco. He didn’t have much time.

  The guard led him through the corridors to the VIP guest suite. Still carrying the governor, he pulled a card from his jacket and slotted it into the room’s entry lockpod. The door slid open with a quiet hiss and the guard led the way inside.

  Two Hurrundan security men leapt to their feet from the couch. One of them dropped the holovid remote. They shouted what looked like a formal salutation at the bodyguard, but he just snarled at them and continued through to the suite’s rest chambers. Nicco stifled a smirk and followed. Once inside, he placed Werrdun on the bed and looked at Nicco. The governor was already drifting in and out of consciousness, which suited Nicco perfectly.

  “Will governor die?” asked the guard.

  “Not if we act fast,” said Nicco. “I must administer certain medicines. You must fetch for me. Go, to the ship’s doctor!” Nicco reeled off a list of medicines, just ordinary antibiotics and bowel remedies that would speed up the natural process of the dope wearing off.

  But to Nicco’s chagrin, the guard didn’t leave the room. He just
poked his head out the door and relayed the instructions to one of the guards, then stepped back inside and closed the door.

  “Is there no magic for this to him?”

  Nicco shook his head. “I am a doctor of medicine and science, not a wizard.” He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out three things: a vial, a hypodermic needle and a small metal box. It was a last resort, but the guard’s reluctance to leave the room had tipped Nicco’s hand.

  “Ekklorn’s hooves!” said the guard, staring aghast at the hypodermic. “What is this?”

  “A sedative,” said Nicco. “I carry it for air sickness, as a precaution.” Unseen by the guard, he pressed a button on the metal box.

  “No,” said the guard, approaching Nicco and holding out his hand. “You will not, it is forbid. Give to me!”

  Nicco obliged, giving him all fifty mills straight into his upper arm.

  He staggered back, eyes wide with surprise. “What...?” he croaked. Then he collapsed.

  Nicco caught the guard before he hit the ground, then gently lowered him to the floor. He couldn’t chance any other guards in the suite hearing the sound and coming to investigate. He knew no-one would see what was going on—the metal box was a miniature black noise generator, a smaller version of the one in Allad’s stock room that the fence had loaned him, no questions asked. According to the ship blueprints, there was both a day/night camera and a sensing mic in this room. The black noise would block them completely, giving Nicco some time to work, safe from prying eyes. But not much.

  Werrdun tried to sit up and shout in protest, but he was too weak to make a sound. Nicco pulled another vial from his jacket and smiled at the frightened governor.

  “Relax,” he said. “You’ll live.” Then he plunged the hypodermic into Werrdun’s shoulder. The governor was unconscious before Nicco removed the needle.