Angel Eyes

by Nicole Luiken

  Which made it 1912 or 1913 depending when her birthday fell. Steam power then. The guys were probably stoking the boilers. “I’ve lost track, what’s today’s date?”

  “I’m not going to answer any more of your fool questions,” the Irishwoman said, her temper roused now.

  “Tell me and I’ll go,” I promised.

  She wasn’t mollified. "Banging in here in the dead of night, preventing a body from getting a decent night’s rest. And whose trousers are you mending, anyway? I'm going to complain—"

  "Enough," Nell added her two cents from the other bunk. "I'll tell you the date, if it will shut you both up. It's the night of April 14th."

  My stomach dropped and swooped as if on a roller coaster. I recognized the date from Sahan’s list of possible disasters.

  Crap. My team was in deep trouble, and we didn’t have much time if we were going to survive it.

  A swift peek outside showed the way was clear. Without another word, I exited the cabin and ghosted back to the 3rd class dining room.

  Thankfully, Maryanne still waited inside, pacing. Her face brightened with relief. “Angel! I was getting worried.”

  “Put these on. Fast as you can.” I thrust one pair of wet trousers at her, then skinned out of my own skirt. “I think the guys are stoking the boilers, but we have to hurry.” I related what I’d learned while jamming first one leg then the other into my trousers.

  “What’s the rush?” she asked. She didn’t bother to take off her skirt, bunching it around her waist. Her nose wrinkled and she shuddered as she pulled on the wet trousers.

  As soon as she had the up to her hips, I grabbed her hand and started running down the hall. "It’s April 14th, 1912.”

  "What happens then?" Maryanne gasped, running beside me. “1912 is before World War I starts, isn’t it?”

  "Yes, but the Disaster isn’t a sea battle. We're on the bloody Titanic, and the boiler rooms flood first."

  Chapter Sixteen

  MIKE

  One hour previously

  Mike mopped up the last bit of sauce on his plate, uncovering a White Star logo on the fancy china. That sealed it. They were definitely on the Titanic.

  Not that he had any intention of telling Dev.

  “They call this the Golden Hour? Try the Snore Hour,” Mike complained. All the By Invitation golden ticket holders had been allowed into the NextStep scenario an hour earlier than the Blanks. Since Angel hadn’t yet arrived, he’d stuck close to Devon in hopes of spiking her guns. “It’s a complete waste of time.” He tipped back in his chair and studied the white molded ceiling in the posh first class dining room.

  “Speak for yourself,” Dev said smugly. “I’ve learned what ship we’re on and its fate.”

  Mike raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.” During the Golden Hour, contestants were prohibited from asking the place and date directly. Not that the rule had stopped one of the dumber celebs, but the Non-player VR steward serving the dining tables merely blinked and said, “I’m afraid we only have poached pears, ma’am, no dates.”

  At least the programmers had a sense of humour.

  “We’re on the Lusitania,” Dev whispered. “She gets torpedoed by a German submarine in 1914, outraging the American public and hastening their entry into World War One.”

  “U-boat,” Mike corrected, willing himself not to blink. The Lusitania was almost plausible, but no. If WWI was going on, the non-player characters would’ve mentioned it at least in passing. Which meant Devon knew it was the Titanic and was trying to lead him off-track. So he messed with her back, pretending to be fooled. “Did you just figure that out? I’ve known for ten minutes.”

  Dev took a sip of tea to hide her smile.

  Sucker.

  Mike tapped his foot on the green-and-white carpet. The knife-edged crease in his pin-striped trousers vibrated. "Are rich people always this boring? I still say we’d have had more fun if we weren’t stuck in first class.” He implied they were a team for the benefit of the cameras.

  Dev snorted, the sound at odds with her blue silk dress and elbow-length gloves. "Survival is what's important. You can’t collect bonuses if your character Game Overs. Remember the Crusade campaign? I’d much rather be one of the knights up on a warhorse than one of the poor schmucks armed only with a spear that they run down."

  He could see her point, but if he’d been tempted by the bonus, then Angel probably would’ve been, too. He looked around at the white pillars and snowy tablecloths. “I don’t see any knights in armour here.”

  “If you’re bored, how about a little wager? And we can collect some of those bonus points you’re so keen on.”

  And now she would try to ditch him. Predictable, but he was bored sitting here. If he gave her enough rope, maybe he’d be able to figure out more of her secret plan.

  He leaned forward. “You have an idea how to prevent the disaster?”

  Devon rolled her eyes. “Did your coma rattle your brains? Never set yourself against the programmers. They won’t allow anybody to circumvent the disaster because it would ruin the game. They’ll put up giant roadblocks if you try.”

  “So what did you have in mind?”

  “We each have twenty minutes to enter as many rooms and talk to as many Storyline characters as we can.”

  Mike wasn’t quite sure what she meant by Storyline, but Gabriel would know, so he merely nodded. “Stakes?”

  Devon laid her napkin on her plate and stood up. “If I win, you acknowledge that you’re still ill and withdraw.”

  No way in hell. But she didn’t have to know that. He smiled and pretended to accept. “And if I win, you let me in on your secret plan.”

  She stiffened, then nodded. “Deal.”

  They strolled out of the dining room together, then split up once they entered the reception room, circulating among the wicker chairs and small tables. Listening to the Non-Player characters talk, he quickly learned that the captain of the ship’s name was Edward Smith, the ship’s designer was Thomas Andrews and the owner of the ship was Joseph Ismay. Now they sounded like possible Storyline characters. He accessed his character memories and found out what they looked like, but couldn’t spot any of them.

  Glancing around, casually, he located Devon by the wall. So far she hadn’t sneaked off. Was she serious about the bet, after all? His competitive nature came to the fore.

  A few snippets of conversation struck him as interesting: “…American heiress. They say she eloped with her groom and is somewhere on board, down in third class. Her father is desperate to find her and get the marriage annulled. Though if you ask me, it’s probably too late…” the middle-aged high society lady tittered.

  That smacked of a quest. Apparently, save the princess hadn’t gone out of style with the Mario Brothers.

  The name Margaret Brown cropped up twice. The first lady expressed admiration for her charitable works, but the next one scorned her for being a suffragette, who’d run for the U.S. Senate three years before. “She’s just a vulgar American. And Irish to boot! My husband warned me not to speak with her.”

  Mike tried to spot Mrs. Brown, but she wasn’t in his character memories and none of the women looked any more vulgar than the others to him.

  Picking out the Non-Player VR constructs from the celebrity contestants was much easier. The Non-Player characters talked about things they’d purchased in London or what business they were in. When they passed the conversational ball on, the celeb fumbled with it. “I, uh, own some stores. That sell, you know, luxury stuff. From France.”

  Or, “I’m Lady Letitia Kingsbottom. My husband’s an Earl.”

  Someone nearby snorted a laugh. Mike looked up and met Dev’s black eyes. “Kingsbottom?” she mouthed.

  They sniggered together. Convulsed in mirth, Dev looked less grim, more like Angel. Mike stopped laughing, aware that it was the sort of thing he and Angel would have laughed over. It felt obscurely like betrayal to share a laugh with Dev.

  “I�
��m going to try my luck elsewhere,” Mike said casually. He turned away from both Dev and Lady Kingsbottom and left the red-carpeted reception area for the black-and-white tiled floor around the grand staircase. The wooden railings shone satiny smooth and had elaborate glass panels.

  Let Devon think he planned to enter as many rooms as he could in the ten minutes remaining.

  He clattered downstairs first, quickly ducking in and out of the sauna and pool room. Sure enough, when he emerged he saw Devon high-tailing it up the staircase. He trailed her one flight behind, using two rich-looking men for cover.

  Unfortunately, she spotted him once he reached A deck. Mike slapped on a smirk and pointed to the men-only smoking room as if to say, ‘Ha, ha, that’s one room you can’t collect.’

  He stepped just inside the door and started a slow count to thirty.

  “I’ll pay ten thousand dollars for her safe return.”

  Ah. This must be the father of the misplaced heiress, Lord Newark. The sandy-haired Lord paced, his hands balled into fists. “She could’ve been kidnapped.”

  Privately, Mike thought it sounded more like she’d run away. “What does she look like?” he inquired, making points. Fifteen, sixteen…

  Lord Newark produced a black-and-white photo. “That’s her.”

  Mike almost choked. It was Maryanne in old-fashioned clothes, with her hair long.

  “You’ve seen her?” Lord Newark asked eagerly, seizing his arm in a firm grip.

  Not a VR character as he’d assumed. Could it actually be Kenneth Jones? The mustache, slicked back hair and old-fashioned clothes made it hard to tell. “Yes, I have, but not on board ship.”

  “Where? In whose company?”

  Twenty-three, twenty-four… Mike attempted to pull away. “Sorry, I don’t remember. It was some months ago.” That was true.

  Lord Newark/Kenneth Jones peppered him with more questions, but Mike kept repeating, “I don’t remember,” until he lost interest.

  Finally. Mike slipped out, happy to escape the cigar fumes.

  He hit the boat deck next, but found it chilly and all but deserted. No sign of Devon. She’d given him the slip. Reluctantly, he headed back down the grand staircase on the off-chance that she still meant to honour their bet.

  After a brief stop at the purser’s office on deck C—ding, ding—Mike returned to the reception area on Deck D. No Dev. Big surprise. He did a quick tour around the almost deserted dining rooms, too, then returned to reception. Still no Dev.

  A pang of unease hit him. What if the hate-crimers had found her?

  Don’t be stupid, he told himself roughly. Still, he hung around the reception area a little longer. He had nothing better to do until Angel arrived in—he paused to check his pocket watch—another fifteen minutes.

  The crowds had thinned considerably. As it neared 11 pm most of the non-player VR characters had sought their beds, leaving mostly golden ticket holders cruising around.

  Mike spotted Leona in a long pink dress, her dark hair pinned up in a roll. He drifted closer. Maybe she’d be willing to trade info. “Hey, have you seen—”

  Leona cut him off, frowning. “Do you see that woman over there?” She pointed at a statuesque woman garbed in black complete with a black hat and veil. “Do you think she’s supposed to be a ghost? Some sort of widow?”

  Mike blinked. “She looks pretty solid to me.”

  “I’m going to investigate.” Leona brushed by him and minced across the red carpet in her tight skirt. She touched the widow’s sleeve, then shrieked as the woman whirled, gun in hand.

  Reflexively, Mike dove behind a chair. The wicker frame wouldn’t provide any protection from bullets, but it would hide his movements.

  “Everyone against the wall,” The Widow said in a breathy, high-pitched voice. She gestured with the gun in her gloved hand.

  Mike didn’t move, staying out of sight behind the chair.

  The dozen first-class passengers reluctantly complied. Dev wasn’t among them, but he recognized quite a few famous faces.

  Joey Tatsuigi, a football quarterback, saw Mike crouched there. His eyes widened, and then his jaw firmed. Apparently deciding that if anyone was going to play hero for the cameras it would be him, he abruptly turned and charged The Widow.

  Crack.

  The Widow fired without hesitation, and Joey dropped like a rock, a red splotch blooming on his upper chest. Mike was impressed by how well the VR simulated a bullet wound.

  Gasps from the crowd.

  “Crap,” Joey said, looking at his bloody fingers.

  Mike suppressed a snort of amusement. Joey’s lips had formed a more vulgar word.

  None of the celebs stepped forward to tend his wound. He’d ‘bleed out’ of the game soon if he didn’t watch it.

  “Enough,” The Widow squeaked. “Everyone hand over their jewellery and wallets. You there,” she swung the gun to cover Leona. “Put them in your handbag.”

  “Me?” Leona’s hands flew to her cheeks.

  “Yes, you.”

  Leona duly started collecting everyone’s jewellery.

  Mike edged behind a large potted plant. Between the veil, the gloves, and the long black dress all he could really say was that the jewel thief was tall.

  His suspicions, roused when Leona screamed like a little girl—the same Leona who’d gritted her teeth and borne a broken leg in silence—solidified. He’d bet money The Widow was Vincent in costume.

  He admired both their ruthlessness and their ability to set this up in so short a time. In comparison, Dev had squandered their golden hour. Yet another sign that she had a secret agenda.

  “You can have the necklace, but please let me keep the earrings,” a comic actress protested when her turn came. “My dear,” sniff, “late husband gave them to me. I ask you this favour, woman to woman.”

  Ooh, had she figured it out, too?

  The Widow Vincent hesitated.

  Leona saved him. If he’d given in, everyone would’ve argued. “What are you talking about? The jewels aren’t real. Please,” Leona said shrilly, “just give them up. I don’t want to lose the game like Joey.”

  Defeated, the comedienne removed her diamond earrings. As she dropped them in the handbag, Mike saw Leona brush the actress’s shoulder as if by accident. Leona did it again to the next contestant. The NextStep manual had mentioned that every VR suit came equipped with its own shoulder cam.

  Ah. So the robbery wasn’t just for the dubious bonus points of fake jewelry, but rather to take their opponents’ cameras out of operation. Viewers would be less likely to award bonus points to competitors they saw little footage of.

  Plenty of other cameras lurked on board, of course, but the manoeuvre gave Leona and Vincent’s team an edge. He remembered Leona knocking against his own shoulder before she confronted The Widow and quickly polished the spot where he thought the lens might be.

  Mike peeked around the wicker chair. He considered tackling Vincent from behind—those long skirts ought to hamper him—but Leona was facing Mike. If he endangered her partner, she’d act.

  “Here.” Leona offered the now-full black bag to Vincent. Her hand shook.

  Talk about overkill.

  And then her eyes and mouth widened comically. Crap, she was doing it anyway: giving away his position.

  Mike lunged to his feet as the Widow Vincent spun around in a flare of black skirts. Mike dove forward, grabbed The Widow’s shoulders and bore ‘her’ to the ground. The gun fired close to his ear, almost deafening him, but he didn’t feel any pain or blood. The bullet had missed.

  Faintly, in the background he was aware of the other celebs yelling and scattering, but he focused on his opponent.

  Where was the gun? Mike grabbed The Widow’s wrist. Yeah, definitely too thick to be a woman’s. While they struggled, the gun went off again, a thunderous crack. A bullet hole appeared in the ceiling. Mike slammed Vincent’s wrist against the floor, and the gun flew from his fingers.

&nb
sp; A quick blow to the solar plexus, and he pinned Vincent with an elbow to the throat. “Someone fetch an officer,” he said.

  “Hold still or I’ll shoot!”

  Crap, he’d forgotten Leona. She held the gun in shaky hands, still pretending to be bird-witted. If she ‘accidentally’ shot him instead of the robber, no one would blink.

  Vincent took advantage of Mike’s distraction to clout him on the ear. Mike responded by pressing down harder on Vincent’s Adam’s apple.

  What a farce.

  “You can get off her,” Leona told Mike earnestly. “I’ll shoot her if she tries to escape.”

  Yeah, right. Mike rolled onto his feet, then jerked Vincent up and twisted Vincent’s arm behind his back. Using him as a shield, Mike forced him toward the Grand Staircase. He’d take him up to the purser’s office.

  They passed Joey’s inert body on the way, and Mike noticed cartoon X’s drawn over his eyes, indicating his character was dead. This must be just a VR body now, and the real Joey had been ghosted out of the Immersion. Spooky to think there was stuff his VR contacts weren’t letting him see.

  By now a small crowd had gathered, the robbery victims plus a few more drawn by the gunfire. Excellent. Witnesses might keep Leona in line.

  “Hold on a moment. You there,” he nodded at a burly gentleman. “Help me tie ‘her’ up.”

  The Widow’s gown had a big black bow sewn to the back. Mike held Vincent’s wrists tight while the other man looped the wide sash around them and knotted it.

  The material looked flimsy, but it would at least slow Vincent down and keep him off balance. He gripped Vincent’s elbow. “Let’s go. Stay two steps above us,” he instructed Leona. “Keep your gun pointing at ‘her’.”

  His pulse raced, thrilling to the challenge ahead. Vincent would almost certainly try something on the stairs, and when he did Leona would take a shot at Mike. He was risking Game Over.

  Somewhere above them a little dog began to bark.

  “What’s going on down there?” A white-bearded gentleman with a cane and a small white dog demanded from the top of the stair. The dog yapped and lunged at the end of his leash.