Scan McMullen - Alone in His Chariot

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Alone in His Chariot

Sean McMullen

Vuner was shaking so much as he signed in at the laboratory that his signature was barely recognisable.

A bullet graze on his upper arm was throbbing, reminding him of how close his escape had been.

Normally he never took a hit at work, but today had to be an exception. He could not afford to call

attention to himself by dropping glassware all day.

Schilden, the Senior Research Officer in the institute, was already in, and had just brewed some coffee in

the staff room. Vuner slipped a capsule into his mouth as he sat down at the table, then accepted a mug

from Schilden and gulped a mouthful of coffee.

"Young man, you look terrible, if you will pardon my saying," Schilden said in his thick Swiss-German

accent.

"I was out in the park with my telescope last night," admitted Vuner sheepishly. "I just lost track of the

time."

"But the sky was clouded last night."

"Most of the time," agreed Vuner, "but if you wait long enough there's always a few breaks to see

through to the stars."

Schilden poured himself another mug of coffee, shaking his head and smiling. "Ach, you should have been

in a bar, looking at girls."

Vuner had no telescope, but having a reputation as an amateur astronomer was a perfect cover for being

up late on most nights. He fingered the graze that the bullet had left. It was level with his heart. If the

Artery's hit man had been closer . . .

"Piss on the Artery," he muttered under his breath. He had put a dose of an experimental drug in with the

last amphetamine batch that he had sold to them - just for a joke. Some user probably died of it. Users

had neither identity nor humanity for Vuner and the thought of possible deaths from his experiments

moved him very little. He would have to sell his drugs directly to the local pusher cells now, but that was

not a problem.

Vuner always smuggled his own chemicals into the laboratory. Ever since he had been employed as a

temporary technician he had taken it for granted that the place had chemical audits and hidden cameras,

so he never dared to steal his supplies from there. He had a legally acquired supply of chemical

precursors, and needed only the right equipment to turn them into something marketable.

Originally he had worked in the bedroom of his flat, with improvised equipment that could be quickly

dismantled and hidden. Late one night he had been making methamphetamine, and was heating hydriotic

acid, ephedrine and red phosphorous. He had heard the siren of an approaching police car, and by the

time it reached his street he had the lights out and was dismantling his apparatus. While fumbling with hot

glass, he dropped a beaker. The police drove past.

Presence of mind had saved his life. Holding his breath against the toxic fumes he switched on the fan

above the stove and opened all the windows. For the next two hours he had cowered in the bathroom,

toilet paper stuffed into the gap under the door. At 5am he went outside and collected a dozen dead

birds in the street and carpark, the only victims of his toxic cloud. He flushed the bodies down his toilet,

swearing that now he would work only in proper laboratories.

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Scan McMullen - Alone in His Chariot

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