Greenthieves, p.14
Greenthieves, page 14
In place of the mechanical that had cleared the table and taken their order, a human waiter appeared bearing a cuprothermic bowl of lightly steaming melted chocolate together with a platter of appropriate tidbits for dipping. Manz frowned as the display was set carefully on the table.
“We didn’t order this. I’m having Rumbutan Papeete and my companion …”
“Your orders will arrive later, sir, if you are still hungry.” The waiter straightened. “This is compliments of the management. Because of the unfortunate incident of the previous night, sir.” He smiled apologetically, bowed, and departed.
Okay, so I’m tempted, Manz admitted to himself. As he inspected the elegant array of dipables, the band and soloist launched into a weird Nigerian-inspired stompromp chant. The dance floor cleared save for a pair of limber, energetic teens.
Vyra eyed him disapprovingly. “Well, aren’t you going to taste anything, after all the fuss you made?”
“I didn’t make any fuss,” he protested. “Help yourself. I’m still digesting my entree.”
“I would not sample the food just yet.”
Manz blinked at his Minder. “Why not?”
“I have detected movement within.”
“Of course.” Vyra smiled perfectly as she skewered a spongy ball of yellow cake and plunged it into the fondue, stirring slowly. “Fondue is supposed to bubble.” She removed the skewer and slipped the chocolate-coated cake between perfect lips, sucking it off the skewer with a movement that could have melted more than chocolate. A sensuous smile spread across her face. Fine chocolate does that to people, even offworlders.
“Semisweet liquid satin. You really ought to try some.”
“All right, already.” He speared some cake. “Here, you try those sugar honeycombs, or whatever they are.”
“With pleasure.” She reached into the deep bowl of opaque crystalline spheres and abruptly jerked her hand back.
“Ow! Something bit me!”
A concerned Manz leaned forward slightly to eye the polished metal container. “Must be a sharp edge inside the bowl.”
“Look, I know when …”
But he wasn’t listening. He was staring at the bowl.
With incredible convulsive energy an ugly white segmented body was squirming its way free of the sugary globes. Each segment boasted a pair of small, clawed legs. The blunt, repulsive head was all dull white compound eyes and hooked jaws. Most of the body was still hidden within the candy.
Before it could twist free, a metal composite whip slashed down and smashed the head and upper quarter of the tough, armored body. It also crushed the bowl and left its imprint embedded in the tabletop. Moses cocked his limb for another blow, but the first strike had reduced the offworld arthropod to a violently contorting splotch within the crushed bowl. With the remains of its entire ten-centimeter-long body now exposed, the stinger at the tail end was clearly visible.
Ignoring the stares of the other diners, Manz had darted around the table. He was holding Vyra’s right hand and staring at the spreading redness in the center of her palm.
“How’re you doing?” he asked stupidly. Everything had happened so fast. On the tabletop the creature’s contortions were slowly winding down. Spilled fondue formed a pool of viscous brown fluid that dripped slowly to the floor.
“Hurts,” she said tightly. “My fingers are going numb.”
“Son of a bitch. What was it, Moses? Recognize the species?”
“I regret to say that I do not.”
“It is a Qaraca.” Manz didn’t have to look up at the eventoned Minder. “A large adult specimen. Extremely venomous. I told you I saw movement,” it added.
“You didn’t say where,” Manz snapped angrily.
“I warned you about the food. Before I could be certain, Ms. Kullervo made contact.”
Holding her right wrist with her left hand, Vyra rose shakily and stepped away from the table. “Could we maybe apportion blame another time? I can feel it spreading up my arm.” She was beginning to tremble, the first indication that her system was starting to go into shock. “Broddy … this is so embarrassing … I feel all of a sudden real dizzy. I’ve never fainted in my life. I imagine the sensation will be …”
She collapsed and he barely caught her as she slumped, easing her gently to the floor. By this time they’d attracted quite a crowd.
“The adult Qaraca employs an omnispecific neurotoxin. By the same token a general antivenin should be capable of neutralizing its effect, if applied in time.” The Minder was studying the prone form of Vyra with professional disinterest. “Her breathing is already growing shallow.”
“I can see that, damn it!” Kneeling beside her, Manz turned to yell at the crowd. “Medical, somebody flash Medical!” The human maitre d’ had arrived at the back of the group to see what was going on. Now he turned and raced for his station.
Her eyelids were fluttering, the pupils hugely dilated. “Broddy, I can’t see too well.”
He cradled the stung hand as gently as he could. The intense redness had spread from her palm all the way to her shoulder. “Easy, Vyra, easy. There’ll be a doctor here soon.” He was sweating profusely.
“Everything looks funny. Of course, everything Earthside always looks funny to an offworlder, but I mean real funny. Tilting, blurry … Broddy, I don’t feel so good.”
“I know.” Somehow he forced a smile, wondering if she could see it. “Quit this. You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry.” She smiled weakly back up at him. “Here’s a little squeeze to make you feel better.”
“Thanks. That helps.” Her fingers had barely twitched, much less contracted, but she was unaware that paralysis was already taking hold. If it reached her heart …
“Please let me through! I’m a doctor. Let me through, please!” With the maitre d’ running interference, a small olive-skinned gentleman was pushing through the crescent of gaping onlookers. He wore an elegant suit of synthetic silk and an anxious expression.
Moses and Manz made room for him as he bent over Vyra. Her eyes were still open but no longer tracking.
“House physician,” he explained. “Technically I went off duty three hours ago.”
“Glad you decided to hang around,” said Manz earnestly.
“Normally I don’t. But I met this account executive from Milan. One of the benefits of working at a good hotel frequented by well-off travelers. You manage a nice class of dates. We were having dinner. I eat free here.” He was taking the measure of Vyra’s condition with commendable speed. “What did this?”
Manz glanced at his drifting Minder. “Something called a Qaraca. It was in with some of the food. Stung her when she reached into the bowl where it was hiding. I’m reliably informed that it uses a nonspecific neurotoxin.”
“You’re certainly up on your offworld venomites.” The physician reached inside his dinner jacket and extracted a small, flat plastic case. It popped open to reveal dozens of tiny vials and several jewellike instruments. Moses worked to keep the curious crowd at a distance.
As Manz looked on, the doctor pressed the tip of one of the devices to Vyra’s throat, then her chest. He checked the tiny, glowing readout, then inserted one of the vials into another instrument, much like someone loading a small pistol.
“I’m going to have to guess at the dosage. You’re sure the toxin is nonspecific?”
Manz peered sideways at his Minder, which remained silent. “I’m sure.”
The physician took a deep breath. “I wish I could run a full workup first, but she won’t last that long. We have to neutralize the venom and then get her to a hospital as quickly as possible.” Leaning close, he ripped the sleeve of Vyra’s dress and clenched her forearm, hunting for a vein.
At that point a sound came from her lips.
Manz leaned over. “She’s trying to say something. Vyra? Vyra, what is it?”
The sound came again, louder. He sat back, a baffled expression on his face.
She was giggling.
Soon she was laughing hysterically. Hysterically amused as opposed to hysterically out of control. Her body jerked and bounced, and she had to cross her arms over her chest.
Gripping the injector in one hand, the apprehensive physician eyed her uncertainly. “She’s experiencing some kind of violent side reaction. Hold her still, please.”
Manz grabbed her arms and pulled them to her sides. “Try to relax, Vyra. We’re trying to help you.”
“You’re … telling … meeee!” she roared, tears streaming down her cheeks and ruining her makeup. Unfulfilled, the cluster of onlookers began to mutter and drift away.
Injector in hand, the physician hesitated. After a while he glared hard at Manz. “Is this your idea of a joke, friend?”
For once Manz didn’t know how to respond.
“What are you talking about? That thing got her good. I saw it happen. Its remains are up on the table, if you don’t believe me. She was dying! You checked her yourself.”
“I don’t know what she ‘was.’ I’m only sure of what she is now.” Vyra seemed to find this observation extremely amusing, as it launched her into another spasm of uncontrolled jollity.
Manz watched the doctor carefully unload the injector and place the intact vial back in its holder. “You’re not going to treat her? What if the condition relapses?” He had released Vyra’s arms. She was rolling back and forth on the floor now. Her face was flushed, but somehow it didn’t seem an extension of the redness in her right arm. A redness that was already beginning to fade. “Couldn’t she still die?”
“Die?” His tone and expression cold now, the physician snapped his instrument case shut. “She’s already dead. Dead drunk.”
“What?”
The doctor stood and smoothed his suit. “You’re lucky I’m with someone and don’t want to bother with the paperwork. Otherwise I’d call the police. There are penalties for this sort of thing.”
“What … what sort of thing?”
“Attempting to defraud a physician.”
Manz took a deep breath. “Look, she got stung by this alien gruesome on the table. Maybe her condition’s changed but…
“‘Changed’?” The doctor’s tone and expression showed what he thought of that opinion.
“But she was dying. Surely you could see that, even in an offworlder.”
“Offworlder. That was immediately apparent from the arms, but my attention was differently focused … yes, it makes a certain sense. You have to understand that while I often treat offworld patients in the course of my work, offworld venomites are another matter entirely. My assumptions when I got here, her initial reactions, all were consistent with …” As his voice trailed off he smiled.
Manz found it sufficiently reassuring to say, “Then she’s not in any danger?”
“Would you be in any danger after chugging a liter of good bourbon? It would depend on your body’s ability to process the sudden rush of alcohol.” He was passing the first instrument he’d used over Vyra’s body. “I’d say the only thing she’s in danger of is one hell of a hangover. This is her system’s reaction to and way of handling the toxin. The uncontrolled hysteria’s a side effect. Hang on a minute.”
While Manz waited, no longer feeling the need to hold his companion’s hand, the physician checked the medical encyclopedia he kept in his other jacket pocket. Subsequent to that he handed Manz half a dozen tiny gelcaps.
“Here. Try to get two of these down her now. Give her two more when she wakes up tomorrow and the rest four to six hours later. They should help.”
Manz took the string of pills. “If she’s not dangerously ill, why the medicine?”
“To suppress the hangover. It won’t be toxic, but it’ll feel like it. I’m sorry I wrongly accused you, but symptoms can be faked and some people have a peculiar sense of humor. Especially where doctors are concerned.” He looked at the table. “Could I have the remains of that Qamaca thing?”
“Qaraca,” Manz corrected him. “Sorry. I think we’d better leave that for the police.”
“I miss the chance to do lab work. Ah, well.” He turned and made his way across the dining room floor, back to his table.
Moses tracked his progress while Manz levered the stillchuckling Vyra back into the booth. Her laughter was now interspersed with uneasy hiccoughs.
As the humaniform’s scanners swiveled back to his employer and companion, they caught sight of a slim figure peering hesitantly from the entrance to the main kitchen. It was staring intently in their direction. Moving silently on his precision trackball, Moses began edging in the waiter’s direction.
Unfortunately, the two-hundred-kilo, four-armed mechanical was about as inconspicuous as ketchup in a Belgian restaurant. The man spotted his approach and vanished into the kitchen. Inviting litigation, Moses forcibly shoved several humans out of his path as he made a rush for the doorway.
“Parnesh niyep fra prodem,” gurgled Vyra in a most undignified manner. Drool oozed from her perfect mouth. Manz couldn’t unravel the offworld dialect and didn’t press for explication. His companion’s condition had metamorphosed with incredible speed from one of near death to outright hilarity to its present state of slovenly indifference. Diners who had previously looked on with concern were now staring in his direction with undisguised contempt.
“Wheee!” Escaping his grasp and climbing atop the table, Vyra proceeded, with fortuitous clumsiness, to try to remove her clothes. It set Manz to wondering what might have happened had the Qaraca stung her more than once.
He tried to drag her back down into the booth. Drunk or not, she was all lean muscle and difficult to restrain. One hand smacked him playfully across the chops.
Frustrated and out of patience, he glared up at her. “Look, I don’t want to belt you, Vyra, but if you try that again …” He managed to pin one arm behind her back. She gleefully swatted him with the other, no problem for someone with arms jointed at shoulder, elbow, selbow, and wrist.
He finally succeeded in getting her off the table and staggering more or less in the right direction. She was now discoursing loudly and belligerently in her home dialect.
“Just keep it unintelligible and maybe we won’t get asked to leave the hotel,” he warned her, well aware from previous experience of her uninhibited proclivity for inventive obscenity. “Moses!” A quick survey showed that the mechanical was nowhere to be seen. “Damned unreliabled … probably off conducting ‘research’ somewhere.”
Vyra halted suddenly, swaying, and turned to squint at him, as though he were standing far away and not right up in her face. “I feel dizzy again, Broddy.”
“Good,” he growled. “One thing I know for sure: you’re not hurting anymore.”
“Nope. Not hurting. Not …”
He never found out what else she wasn’t, because for the second time that evening she collapsed in his arms. With a quick duck-and-flip she went up and over his left shoulder, head and feet facing the floor, derriere aimed in the approximate direction of her distant homeworld. In that fashion he conveyed her to their newly assigned rooms, ignoring the stares of fellow hotel guests distinguished and otherwise.
Startling mechanicals and humans alike, the infiltrator had stormed through the kitchen, obliterating two orders of Venison Wellington and a damned good cheesecake in the course of his flight. Ripping at his appropriated waiter’s attire as he ran, he ducked down a narrow service corridor, through a storage area, and out into a clean but feebly lit alleyway. Without hesitating he raced for the distant street, slowing only when he found himself back among ordinary pedestrians. The hotel lay far behind him, facing the main boulevard that ran through this part of the Port District.
He was sauntering along unconcerned and deep in thought when two flexible metal limbs as thick as his arm slapped around him to pin his arms to his sides. Wide-eyed, he looked back over his shoulder. Plastic and metallic glass gazed coldly back at him.
“Put me down! Right now, or I’ll see to it that you’re flatwiped! Who the hell do you think you are?”
Pivoting on his trackball, Moses ignored the stares of passersby as he accelerated down the street toward the hotel. “A few moments ago you tried to murder my employer and possibly also his companion. You will tell me who engaged you to do this and for what purpose, please.”
The man struggled futilely in the constraining tentacles. His tone was strained, dripping with outrage. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Put me down!”
“I will do so when you have complied with my requests.”
Relaxing, the trapped figure struggled to gather his thoughts. “I have no intention of saying anything else to you.”
“It will go easier for you if you comply.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly as his captor left the main boulevard and turned down a dark serviceway. “Are you threatening me? You’re a mechanical; you can’t hurt a human.”
“Want to bet? You don’t know who’s been programming me.” Moses slowed. It was nearly pitch black in the serviceway.
“You’re bluffing.” The man was breathing hard now, acutely conscious of his isolation. The main street with its fellow human beings suddenly seemed very far away.
A powerful tentacle wrapped itself delicately but irresistibly around the imprisoned figure’s face. “Am I? On the contrary, I consider this merely an instructive extension of my research.”
“I can’t tell you. It’d mean my life.”
“Your perceived threat is not here, with you. Whereas I am.” The tentacle began to squeeze, ever so slightly.
Abruptly the man’s jaws clenched as he bit down on something. Moses forced his mouth open, but it was too late. His prisoner was already going into convulsions. Unlike Vyra’s, these did not give way to laughter.
It took less than half a minute. Probing for a heartbeat, the humaniform found none. Disappointment was something an advanced mechanical could experience acutely. It suffused Moses’ cogitations as he slowly lowered the lifeless figure to the pavement.
