There were several rooms in use for various members of the band, dancers, crew. One in particular had an obvious bodyguard in front. He was muscle in a suit, with a practiced faint scowl. He looked reasonably competent and alert, but didn't project much presence. On the other hand, the Ripple Creek guards didn't generally. When they did, though . . .
"May I help you?" he asked.
"Caron Prescot. I hope I'm expected," she said.
He looked over the entourage.
"The invitation is for Miss Prescot, and males are not allowed in Berit's dressing room."
Aramis looked the man over. He was big, bulky, reasonably well-trained, and he had to know Prescot's detail were Ripple Creek. The way he looked at Elke said he knew she could kick his ass and wasn't comfortable with their presence. Bart and Aramis made him very twitchy. That was silly. No one was going to fight over this.
"Please inquire," Elke said. "We cannot leave her unattended."
Bart added, "Please tell her Bart Weil is with the party and would like to meet her again."
"I'll relay that," the man said, looking put upon. He opened the door and slipped inside.
A few moments later he opened it again and ushered them through it. Beyond that was a phone screen and another door.
Inside that, the room was brightly lit, had makeup smells and jabbering artists, someone with a tray of snacks, someone at a rack of outfits, all of them female and most of them young and supple.
From a makeup chair, a woman called, "Bart! My favorite German!" She bounced to her feet, bounded over and threw herself on him.
The hug looked amusing. Berit was small and perhaps sixty kilos. Bart was near two meters and more than twice her mass. She looked comfortable in his presence as she stepped back. She sighed.
"I see we're both moving up in our jobs. I could not afford you now."
"I hope you will not need me," he said. "It's nice to see you again, though. You look well, and I'll enjoy the show."
"Thanks! But I'm being rude." She turned and said, "Miss Prescot! So interesting to meet you."
Berit was probably quite pretty with those Nordic cheeks and black hair. Her makeup, though, was designed to make her look like a pop star, and to do so under the bright houselights. Up close it was overdone and garish.
Her body, however, was the product of money and exercise. She might not have biosculp; her curves looked very natural, but she had rock hard muscles. She fit an ideal very few people even bothered with. It made her very visible.
Caron's response was interesting. She was partly meeting a celebrity, but she had her own visibility now, with all that money. She was also meeting someone who knew Bart fairly casually, who was attractive. Bart had spurned her teases. She was probably wondering how he felt about Berit. Aramis watched, curious and amused.
Of the two, he'd choose . . . well, both, of course. He wasn't going to think about that. Berit was older, thirty-two? he thought he recalled, and had just barely faint wrinkles and almost visible age from gravity. Caron was twenty-two and still flush with youth. She had nothing to be jealous of, but Bart's prior snubbing and the warm greeting he received here threw her off a little.
Meanwhile, he was on duty. He was professionally expected to examine everyone and everything here in detail and he did so. Not bad. Eight attractive women chattering in Norwegian, giving him the eye, which he could coolly ignore behind his ballistic shades while enjoying every minute of it. Nothing obviously a weapon, no threatening movements, no trouble at all. So he eyed them right back.
By the time he was done, Elke was in the process of snapping photos of the two, with their cameras and her own. The two were comfortably close and swapping contact info, and a signed picture with attached Muzikflash from Berit.
Aramis took Berit's offered hand, accepted a gentle but firm shake with a slight bow and said, "It was good to meet you," even though he actually hadn't. Manners were part of the job, as was meeting people in passing with no time to talk. He'd met probably fifty high profile people this way, not counting principals, and been in the room for hundreds of others.
In short order they were back in the bay next to the Prescot family box.
As they moved inside, Caron grabbed a phone off the counter, then and dropped into a sprawl in a reclining couch.
"Yes, Suite Seventeen. Please send up some cold cuts, cheeses and a variety of breads. Welsh Rabbit would be nice, and some London broil, but medium, not rare. Assortment of beers and a sweet red please. Ta."
It was still an hour to showtime, and there wasn't much to do. They spent the time checking status, messages, news and general status. The arena filled up from scattered to packed, and the noise rose slightly, though the screens damped it a lot.
Aramis wasn't sure what to do with those. The view and sound quality would be increased with them open. So would visibility and threat level. It was one of those things they had to accept. Still, a crowded concert reduced the possibility of several types of attack. Also, the darkened box, relative to the hall, would make them harder to see.
A few minutes shy of showtime, there was a chime and flash from the door. Jason answered it, handed something back without looking. Elke snagged it, nodded, signed it and handed it back. Then Jason pulled a cart in, closed and latched the door.
"Food," he said.
Caron asked, "How was it signed for?"
Elke said, "I have an account with you, remember? So I signed."
"Ah, of course. The bookkeepers can fix it."
She stood and pulled lids off serving platters. The London broil was rather fragrant. Fruit and cheese and crackers were in arrays worthy of a recipe page. It was almost a shame to eat it.
Caron popped a clear bulb of beer that foamed perfectly. It was amber and clear. She used tongs to pull a few pieces of meat and cheese onto a bed of crackers and sat back down.
"Please, help yourselves," she said.
Elke said, "Thank you" and grabbed a couple of cubes of cheese. She nibbled one, and looked surprised and happy.
That was one of the advantages of tremendous wealth, Aramis noted. Caron never had to eat bad food, nor even merely good food. It was hard not to gain weight, in fact. He'd had to up his activity level with a second session each day.
If only he hadn't stuffed himself with sandwiches right before they left. Still, there'd be plenty here in a while.
Jason kept general watch. Elke monitored sensors through her glasses and comm. Bart and Shaman sat at the front, looking at slight cross angles. Shaman wasn't going to see much of the show, though Aramis suspected that wasn't really a problem.
He couldn't count how many concerts and events he'd been present at and not seen. It was just part of the job.
Roaring cheers indicated activity on stage. Aramis checked the door again and looked out and across the audience, as lights played over them.
Then the stage started flashing, with bass and percussion beats with oscillations and fluctuations of something pop and dance. Caron could see quite well at the angle the steps and balcony offered. Aramis made another ongoing assessment. Nothing was likely to come from the stage, and little could reach from other angles. So why was he nervous?
It was probably the damned lights, which were possibly just ultra bright diodes, but might be xenon or some other halogen. They were enough to hurt.
Elke asked, "Shaman, have you pain killers?"
"Not OTC. I strip my kit down to major gear only. Sorry. Problem?"
"Just a headache behind the eyes," she said. "Probably all the stage lights. The color contrast is annoying."
Jason said, "I have some. You should look the other way." He handed her a package. "Might want to put your shades on, too. Your pupils are a bit dilated."
"Ah, that's probably residual stim. I took one earlier. Thank you," she said, and swallowed two pills. She popped open a bulb of juice and washed them down, then swapped off with Bart toward the back of the box.
While lighting was not dire
ctly a medical issue, the annoying side effects of that, and the volume, could be issues. Horace didn't appreciate it. To his mind, this was excessive. He wasn't up on modern pop music, so it was entirely possible this was some style or trend. It was not good, though. The flicker rate wasn't fast enough to cause much in the way of seizure response, but he agreed it was unpleasant. He didn't have a headache himself, but that was due to him spending most of his time watching the back of the hall. Aramis had donned his shades again, though.
Horace glanced toward the back, and rose to his feet at once, feeling a rush of concern.
Elke looked woozy, now. Her breathing was noticeably rapid and shallow.
"Elke. Toxin." That had to be symptomatic, and not of bright lights and a stim.
"Y-yes," she agreed with a slow nod, and started slumping.
Jason punched his mic and shouted, "Evac! Get Cady. Medical support. Miss Prescot, lie down, you have been poisoned."
"What? I'm fine," she insisted. Then she looked at the plate. "Oh, God."
Horace took a glance to confirm Jason had her under control, and went back to work on Elke. He was very angry, because the rules dictated he use Elke as a test subject until he knew what the problem was, then abandon her to save their principal.
Elke was rapidly losing consciousness, losing muscle control, and losing autonomic functions.
"It's a metabolic depressant or a neurotoxin," he said. "Induce vomiting."
Prescot was lying down. Jason unceremoniously rolled her halfway over and shoved fingers down her throat. She didn't have time to protest, but thrashed and twitched, gurgled and puked all over his hand and the carpet. He pulled them out long enough for her to gasp a breath, then did it again.
Elke, though . . . Horace tried his fingers and nothing happened. He shoved a tongue depressor far back. Nothing. Cursing, he reached for a chemical inducer.
Elke nodded her head and fluttered her eyes halfway. "Wuzza?"
"Elke, can you gag?"
"No eazly," she muttered.
He grabbed her chin, dumped a vial down her throat, and waited while it flowed down.
A few seconds later, Elke thrashed in semiconsciousness, and gushed sour-smelling, biley vomit with chunks of cheese and beef. She moaned and rolled to her hands and knees and heaved while twitching, then collapsed again.
"Use this," Horace said as he handed another vial to Jason. "Empty her as much as possible."
"Please stop," Prescot moaned. She had a sizeable puddle in front of her already, on the carpet, her hair, her dress.
As she spoke, Jason poured the syrup into her mouth and twisted her head until she swallowed and choked, then twisted her whole body back over in time for her to spew.
Bart was at the door, and pulled it open to admit Cady. She had a full paramedic kit and a gurney, one of her people had another, and the rest of her team had a perimeter set already. They had real guns. The gurneys were marked as arena property.
"Vitals," Horace said. "Apparent metabolic depressant or neurotoxin. Vomiting induced. Help Elke, keep me informed." He shifted at once to Prescot, who was twitching, moaning, sweating and losing consciousness all at once.
He reached over, unzipped her corset armor, pulled the shoulder straps of her dress, yanked it down to her waist and tore her bra off in front. Cady was ready, bent down and slapped sensors onto her skin.
"That is not a healthy rhythm," he said as soon as he glanced the waveform.
Cady said, "Move," and shoved past Jason. She snapped Elke's jacket and blouse open, and cut one strap of her body armor, then flopped it aside and sliced her elastic support shirt with a hook knife. Her assistant passed down more leads and she pressed them on. "Take care of that armor," she said.
Jason took orders at once, whipped out a knife and cut the other strap. Horace was more impressed. The man could move from leader to follower and back in a moment. First class.
Cady said, "Same rhythm, toxicity probably a little more advanced."
That rhythm was familiar, though.
"Probably a fish or shell toxin," he said.
Cady replied, "I concur. What do we have to counter?"
"Nothing on hand. Keep respiration up." He just hadn't anticipated a neural or cardiac condition in a nubile, healthy 22 year old, nor in an athletic 32 year old. There was a limit to how much gear he could carry even in a briefcase and shoulder bag, in addition to weapons and other gear.
Jason asked, "Will any stimulants work? I have three."
"No," Horace shook his head. "It takes a specific acetylcholine stimulant. Donepizil, Pyridostigmine, distilled nicotine in the field."
"Cigar?" Jason asked.
Horace spun around. Jason was peeling the label off a huge Cuban.
Jason continued, "Exaltado. Genetically boosted nicotine."
"Yes, lots of smoke."
Cady said, "That's going to cause gagging if they're nonsmokers."
"It can't hurt, might help, and we don't have any time to waste. Do it."
Jason pulled out a lighter, and spun the cigar while drawing fast. He got it lit to an angry orange coal.
Cady said, "Try to breathe that fast and you'll choke out. Shaman, you monitor. I'll cover Prescot, you take Elke." She shifted sides.
Jason nodded, drew a huge puff on the cigar, handed it over and gave Elke a lungful. He just had time to reflect on how fucked up it was to be shotgunning an unconscious comrade with puke all over her lips, before he leaned back, grabbed the cigar from Cady and took another puff.
No niceties. They were trying to get a lot of nicotine in fast. The cigar was wet with spit. Cady used to be a man, part of him said.
Shut up and smoke.
He had a good puff, and the lacy traces of the last one were just curling from Elke's lips as he leaned down and hit her again.
She coughed and moaned. "Wha?"
He gasped, "Nicotine as antitoxin. Shut up and breathe, Elke."
"Yah."
Dammit, he had to get a good, clean breath in between. Mouth to mouth was draining the regular way. This way . . . he was buzzing from the cigar and oxygen deprivation.
Cady coughed deeply. She obviously wasn't a smoker. Her eyes were tearing up and weepy red. That explained why she didn't know how to draw properly.
Both victims were coughing now, but that meant they were still breathing. Prescot flinched a little as Cady mashed lips on her again, but she tried gamely to inhale.
Elke moaned. "Please . . . roll over."
"Sorry, Elke." Blow. "I know it feels like shit. Hang in there."
She clutched at her guts. "Siiick," she said.
"Going to puke?"
"No."
"Good." Blow.
Elke coughed, hacked and moaned again.
Behind him, he heard Shaman say, "Transport arriving in three minutes. Keep at it."
Jason grabbed the cigar and drew again. Damn, it was going down fast. Two people drawing pretty much nonstop, and big lungfuls, kept the coal hot and bright.
"I want pyridostigmine as soon as they're here," Horace said. "Chain of custody."
"Say again?" Bart asked.
Shaman jabbed a finger for emphasis. "Make sure it's our people who bring it!"
Yes, it was paranoid, but someone had already infiltrated the food service concession on short notice. They could trust their own people . . . probably.
"We're being stupid," Cady said.
"Uh?"
She flicked ash off the cigar, shoved the mouth end between Caron's lips, said, "Seal on this," and pinched her nostrils. Then, carefully, she wrapped her own lips past the coal and blew. She didn't get as much inflation, but that had to be twice the nicotine with none wasted in her lungs.
"Brilliant," he said as he took the stub and did the same with Elke, pressing her lips around it. Smoke eddied out of her nose before he was done. He didn't burn his tongue on the coal, but he could certainly feel the heat.
Horace kept an eye on the map. There was a chro
nological juggle between being exposed, and not moving fast enough.
"Transport now," he said. He grabbed Caron's legs, Jason grabbed under her shoulders, and they raised her onto the gurney. When he looked up, Elke was already on the other. He quickly threw a sheet over Prescot's bare breasts. It wasn't that critical but he didn't want some paparazzi selling pics to some pervert. This was a medical emergency, not a beach.
Elke went first. Again, it was a threat issue. Better someone try to shoot her than Prescot. It was aggravating, but business. The second gurney was surrounded by all four team members, and four of Cady's fell in as the cordon collapsed. A crowd stared, but didn't have time to comment before they crossed the mezzanine, into two held elevators, trailing a cloud of cigar smoke, and to hell with the hall regulations and European law.
The ride down was too slow to suit him, but there was nothing he could do at this point.
At the ground floor, they pushed through the door before it fully opened. The operators went into goon mode and just shoved people out of the way, waving batons and shouting as needed, though they managed to cut a pretty good hole just from presence. Cady's eyes streamed tears and she still coughed from the smoke, staggering and gripping the gurney for balance. Jason was upright but obviously not tracking well. Still, there was most of a cigar's worth of genetically enhanced nicotine in the bloodstream of the two women, and their EKGs were faint but present.
Two ambulances were right on the curve, and they were company vehicles, with a lot of trauma gear. Perfect for someone shot, stabbed or caught in an explosion. Not perfect for a poison in the food. He'd have to make a report on that. Still, they did have Pyridostigmine as far as he knew.
A man handed him two syringes. He looked familiar, but Horace wanted to be sure.
"Vouch!" he demanded.
"Yes, he's mine," Cady said. "I'm going to be sick now." She bent over at the curb and vomited.
Horace said, "Get me a vein," and tapped the first syringe. That should be enough. Better a little low than too much. Competing neurotoxins would be really bad.
Do Unto Others-ARC Page 11
