Angel Eyes

by Nicole Luiken

  I listened with half an ear to the rumours flying from lip to lip. All the lifeboats were launched. No, there was still one left. A rescue ship was on its way. Only women and children were allowed spots on the lifeboat, no, only first-class passengers were allowed on. One of the lifeboats had tipped over. They were all going to die…

  The richest man in the world was insisting that the last lifeboat not be launched until his daughter was aboard.

  That rumour swung my head around. Was Kenneth Jones taking an active part in his own game? I paused and listened. “They say he’s offered to give up his own seat on the lifeboat to the person who finds her,” said a clerkish man with glasses and a ruler-straight part in his brown hair.

  Maryanne frowned, listening too. “How can the richest man have a seat?” she objected. “It’s women and children first.”

  “He promised to pay $100,000 to the family of some granny from third class if she’d sell him her seat. And employ all her sons,” the clerk said.

  “I heard it was a quarter million,” his companion said, speaking around the cigar clamped in his teeth. They both wore life-belts, but looked gloomy.

  Maryanne frowned. “Why is he doing this?” she whispered to me, meaning her father.

  I wondered the same thing, but tugged on her elbow, pulling her further down the promenade. “Come on.” We had to keep moving. From the increasing slope of the deck, the Titanic was running out of time.

  We emerged from the covered passage and ran out of boat. The entire forecastle and bow of the Titanic was underwater, and the black water had reached C deck two decks below us. Stairs led down. I felt confident we could launch from B deck—Tad had gotten that much right. I frowned, thinking.

  Maryanne wrinkled her brow. “Why on earth is someone singing old ABBA tunes?” she asked.

  I lifted my head and listened. Faintly, a masculine voice came to my ears over the gabble of the crowd: “Angel eyes…”

  I started to grin. That was Mike’s voice. Without a word to Maryanne, I pushed my way up the stairs toward the singing.

  The crowds of sweating, panicked humanity were thicker on the boat deck, though the brighter bulbs were pressing their way to the stern.

  And there he was: fifteen rungs up the ladder on the enormous number one funnel. My heart lifted, joy surging through me. “Mike!”

  His head turned, and I saw the same joy flood his expression. He quickly climbed down.

  I spared a brief glance to make sure my evil clone wasn’t lurking about, then hurried to meet him, squeezing through small gaps, elbowing for room where none was given. And then we reached each other. His arms encircled me, drawing me against his chest as his lips came down on mine. Heat streaked through me, and I couldn’t get close enough. I struggled to show him with my kiss how much I’d missed him, how tired I was of being separated from him.

  Mike’s kiss sent the same message in return, tinged with desperation. Tears pricked my eyelids at the proof that he’d missed me, too.

  I could’ve kissed him forever. I ignored Maryanne’s tactful throat-clearing, but soon someone in the crowd jostled us. A woman clucked disapprovingly. Awareness filtered back. As much as part of me would’ve liked to just drop out of the game now, my team was depending on me. Reluctantly, I stepped free of Mike’s embrace, though I kept hold of his hand.

  Mike nodded to Maryanne, obviously recognizing her despite the long blonde tresses and chubby cheeks. “Hey.”

  “Hi, Mike.”

  Mike turned to me. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Who says I have a plan?” I demurred.

  “You always have a plan,” Maryanne and Mike chorused together.

  I pretended to pout. “Mike makes plans, too.”

  Mike grinned. “Yes, but mine tend to be simple. Find you, avoid little white dogs, get off the ship.”

  Dogs? Sounded like there was story there—I’d ask about it later. “Coincidentally, my plan also involves getting off the ship.” I smiled up at him, conscious of his warm hand against the small of my back.

  I filled Mike in on the raft plan in whispers as we traipsed down the stairs, back to the new bow of the ship.

  “The problem isn’t going to be launching it,” Mike said thoughtfully. “It’s going to be launching it without being swamped with desperate people. You’re going to need a distraction.” He narrowed his eyes. “Brawl?”

  I shook my head. “Too dangerous.”

  “Striptease?”

  “Ha, ha.” I bit my knuckle, brainstorming out loud. “Human drama might do the trick. Not an accusation of murder— we don’t want anyone getting locked up—maybe a dramatic breakup?”

  “The kind where you slap my face?” Mike raised his eyebrows.

  “Exactly. ‘You cur,’” I improvised aloud. “’You broke my heart when you kissed my sister.’” Only after the words came out did I realize how close to the bone I’d cut. Because Mike had kissed Devon.

  Silence. Maryanne winced and looked away.

  Mike squeezed my hand, face intense. “I’ll never mistake her for you again. She’d never have fooled me, if I’d known she existed.”

  I nodded and squeezed his hand back, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “I know that. I promise, I do.”

  Maryanne cleared her throat, breaking the tension. “But if the crowd’s watching the two of you quarrel, how will you escape?”

  I lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “We’ll just have to swim for it.”

  “In the Atlantic in April? Are you crazy? You’ll die of hypothermia before rescue arrives. And that’s if you don’t tip the raft to begin with. No. I’ll be the distraction. You know I can find a spot in the lifeboat, easy,” she argued. “Dad will know it’s me as soon as he hears my voice.”

  “Are you sure?” Torn between concern and gratitude, I put my hands on her shoulders. Her plan would work like a charm, much better than the argument, but it meant giving up the chance to prove herself to her father. The chance to win on her own.

  Maryanne shrugged, pretending it wasn’t a big deal. “He’ll be impressed, I made it this far. And,” she flicked her shoulder cam, “I have the footage to prove I didn’t just give up or get caught, that it was planned.”

  I granted her the respect of not trying to argue her out of the decision; it was hers to make.

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. Thanks.” I hugged her.

  Back to the rafts.

  The men had leaned the tarpaulin-covered bundles against the wall and stood in front of them, bodies tense.

  Gerry spotted me first. He nudged his neighbor. “There she is. I told you we could count on Angel.”

  “Who’s the bloke?” one of the brawny carpenters asked, frowning.

  “This is Mike. He’s a friend of mine,” I said breezily.

  “Hey,” Tad broke in. “Isn’t this the guy who’s in love with your twin?”

  “A ruse to get into the scenario,” I said dismissively.

  “I’m Angel’s boyfriend,” Mike said, glaring. “And you are?”

  “A member of my team,” I said hastily, trying to head off the coming argument. “Let’s get moving. Mike, lend a hand.” I led the way up the Grand Staircase to A deck.

  Despite the tarpaulins, we began to attract unwelcome attention almost immediately. The people on the stairs kept going up, but the window-gazing men lining the promenade straightened. They flattened as we went by, but curiosity woke in their despondent expressions.

  “What’s that you’re carrying?” an older gentleman asked.

  I ignored him and beckoned to Maryanne. “Ready to take one for the team?” I asked her.

  She nodded firmly. “Ready. See you on the flip side.”

  She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, carrying herself as if she were important.

  Maryanne had had the lead in the school play back in high school and had obviously honed her acting talents in many Historical Immersions. Now she assumed a frantic expression. “O
h, dear, oh, dear,” she muttered under her breath. “Please excuse me.” She smiled politely at the old gentleman, then continued ahead of us down the promenade. “Oh, dear, oh, dear.”

  I waited until she’d almost reached the bow, then raised my voice and pointed dramatically. “Cor, it’s her! It’s the missing heiress!”

  Maryanne raised her hand, looking helpless. “Please let me through! I need to find my father!”

  The male crowd turned, murmurs breaking out, “Where?” “Who’s her father?”

  “Please, my father is very rich. He’ll reward any who help me, I’m sure.” Maryanne kept moving toward the bow, drawing the crowd with her.

  “I’ll help you, miss,” a burly coal-smudged crewman grabbed her arm. Maryanne let out a little squeak of alarm.

  “Don’t touch your betters." An English dandy smiled down at her. "Just take my elbow, miss, I’ll have you to your father in a trice.”

  “I saw her first!” When a fistfight broke out between the two, I signaled the men to move the rafts through.

  Maryanne stood in front of the pilot house, clapped her hands to her cheeks and wailed. “Oh, I’ve been such a fool! I must find my father and beg his forgiveness, oh, please, please, someone help me!” She started up the stairs to the boat deck, drawing the crowd with her.

  We received a few curious glances as we went down the stairs to B deck, but the tarps disguised the rafts enough that the spectacle of the heiress having hysterics kept their attention.

  The shoving match spread to two other men, while a third man pulled at Maryanne’s arm. She vanished from sight still saying, “Oh, dear, oh, dear.”

  I bit my lip in worry, not liking having her out of my sight. Using Maryanne as a decoy had seemed like such a brilliant idea, but now I wondered why exactly Kenneth Jones had been so desperate to get her off the Titanic. She wasn’t in any danger of drowning. Unless something was wrong with NextStep’s safety protocols? But then why not shut it down? Kenneth Jones might lose some revenue, but if someone died the scandal would taint him forever. It didn’t make sense.

  Mike put a hand on my shoulder. “Most of them are VR characters,” he reassured me. “They can’t do more than create a slight pressure on her suit. She’ll be fine.”

  “Right. Let’s get to it then.” We ripped off the noisy tarps.

  I’d pre-assigned roles and places on each raft, so everyone moved in unison. “Lift the rafts!” We slid the clumsy crafts into the water without too much trouble. I studied them anxiously, but they seemed reasonably seaworthy, the cracks sealed with tar.

  Now to see how many people we could safely get on board. I was hoping for at least six per raft. Ron bravely crawled out onto the bobbing surface.

  He swore as water washed over his hands. “That’s bloody cold!”

  “You’re next,” I reminded Tad.

  He hesitated for a second then clambered up onto the railing. The first raft bobbed at the end of the short rope held by one of the other carpenters. A two-foot gap of cold dark water showed. The step was easily spannable on land, but Tad hesitated, started to lose his balance.

  I lunged forward and caught his windmilling hand, steadying him.

  He looked down at me, eyes unreadable. “You shouldn’t have done that. If I’d fallen I could’ve pulled you over.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The correct response when someone saves your life is to say, ‘Thank you.’”

  The raft swung closer, and he safely crossed over to crouch beside Ron.

  “He has the manners of an ape,” Mike growled.

  I shrugged. “He has his talents.” Or useful Augments, at least.

  Gerry boarded the second raft.

  Just when I was starting to think the plan might work, a commotion broke out on A deck above us. The third raft had arrived. Unfortunately, it didn’t have tarps around it, and it was accompanied by a pushing, shoving mass of men. From their suspenders and shirt-sleeves, they were mostly third class. “Hands off, it’s my raft!” “Let go!” Their shouts were attracting more people.

  “Hurry,” I urged. This was going south fast.

  The carpenter in front of me dropped the rope holding raft one and scrambled aboard. His momentum pushed them several feet out. I grabbed for the rope, but it snaked out of my grasp.

  Ron tried to push the rope back toward the Titanic with his single oar, but only succeeded in pushing raft one into a slow spin.

  The mob spilled out onto the A deck bow above us. “Go back, we’re too high!” From the sounds of it, a struggle broke out as they tried to push back through the desperate crowd to the stairs. I winced at the banging and thumping sounds.

  One of the oars flew overboard and landed in the water.

  “Come on,” Mike urged me. “You’re next.” He helped me stand on the rail beside raft two.

  And then in the struggle the mob lost their grip on the third raft. It crashed down the stairs and broke in half.

  There was a moment of horrified silence, as everyone stared at it. In another second they would storm the sole remaining raft and probably flip it.

  “For shame! Look what you’ve done!” I bellowed, pointing at the drifting raft and oar. “Now we only have one raft! Are you thieves to steal another man’s labour? Are you beasts or men?”

  Shame replaced panic; men looked sheepishly at one another, unclenched fists and straightened their suits.

  “Now, then, a little order,” I said sternly, making eye contact with each of them. “All of the men with me helped build the rafts with their own two hands. Unless you can say the same, stand back. If the rafts can bear the weight, we’ll take on passengers, but only those who behave with decency.”

  It almost worked, should have worked, but the programmers threw another monkey wrench into my plans.

  “What about him?” the brawny VR carpenter pointed at Mike. “The toff hasn’t dirtied his hands. Why should he get a free ride instead of one of my mates?”

  Crap.

  Mike raised his voice. “You’re right; I haven’t earned a place yet. Allow me to correct the error.” He stripped off his jacket, vest, shirt, shoes and pants. “I’ll retrieve the first raft.” He jumped over the side into the freezing water in just a long johns and an undershirt.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ANGEL

  He’d done exactly what I would’ve done. Part of me approved of the dramatic gesture, but worry furrowed my brow. The water was so cold the programmers were sure to inflict hypothermia on him if he stayed in for more than a minute. We’d warmed Ron back up, true, but that was indoors.

  Keeping his head above water, Mike clumsily stroked out to the drifting raft, grabbed the rope and then began the laborious process of towing it back.

  In the moment when everyone was still awed by his bravery, and perhaps shamed by their own cowardice, I put my hands on my hips. “Well? Done behaving like beasts? I suggest you try to repair your raft or build a new one. There are plenty of tables around and hammers and nails under the poop deck.” Under my stern eye, several of them picked up the pieces of the old raft and retreated.

  One big bruiser lingered. “I’ll guard the stairs for you, if you’d like, miss.”

  “Thank you.” I hopped down from the rail and anxiously looked for Mike. He was still two meters out, struggling to tow the heavy raft as the cold sapped his body.

  I leaned out and stretched my arm toward him. He tried to pass me the rope, but fumbled it. I fished it out of the water and wrapped it around my palm. “Got it.”

  Mike gained the railing and hung there, too tired to haul himself out of the water. I grabbed a handful of his long johns and heaved him out onto B deck. His lips were blue, his flesh cold to the touch. His teeth chattered. “C-c-cold.”

  The carpenter who’d called him a toff took the rope from me. “You take care of your man, lassie. We’ll hold a space on the raft for you both.”

  I thanked him, then stripped Mike’s wet clothes off, thankful again to the
VR modesty fuzzing. I used his shirt to towel his hair, then bundled Mike back into his dry jacket and pants. I removed his socks, wrung them out and stowed them in my pocket. Hopefully, they’d dry out enough to be worn again later.

  The water lapped dangerously close to the barrier. We had to get the rafts loaded and launched before it started to spill over. The next rafts would have to be launched from the crowded A deck. Not your problem. Focus.

  I pulled Mike to his feet. “Jog on the spot,” I told him. “You need to get the blood flowing.”

  He obeyed, movements slow and clumsy.

  The bruiser guarding the stairs laughed. “What he needs is a nip of whiskey.”

  I pursed my lips, dubious. Alcohol caused a temporary feeling of warmth by opening the skin pores. “No, thank you.”

  “Excuse me,” a well-dressed man called down from the deck above us. “Can you squeeze one more onto your raft? I don’t ask for myself,” he added awkwardly, “but for her.”

  A young woman joined him at the rail. “Oh, please, have mercy,” she called down tearfully. “All the lifeboats are filled.”

  Mike swore, and I saw an entirely-too-familiar face. Devon.

  My hands curled into fists, and I bristled like a cat. “No way. A thousand times no. She’s not stealing a spot on my rafts.”

  “We may not have a choice,” Mike said grimly. “If we try to stop her and she appeals to the crowd, they’ll riot again.”

  He was right, but I shook my head stubbornly. “If she dares set one foot on board, I’ll tip her in the water. I can make it look like an accident.”

  While we spoke, Devon had descended the stairs. The man guarding the stairs stepped aside to let her pass with a pleading look. “She’s just a slip of a girl. You can find room for her, can’t you?”

  “No dog,” Mike said, sounding pleased. He stopped running in place and stood at my shoulder.

  I stiffened as I came face-to-face with my clone for the second time. Wrongness jarred me at seeing my features on another’s face outside of a mirror. Her voice, thankfully, didn't sound like mine, presumably for the same reason my recorded voice always sounded strange and high.