CHAPTER ONE
The dark, narrow stairway stank of murder. The reek seemed to coat her tongue with rot and terror, turning each breath into a bloody assault. Dona Astryr ignored the nauseating taste. She was too busy listening for the killers who’d butchered everyone in the house.
In the crowded town square beyond the house’s neat white shutters, a crier read the American Declaration of Independence in a rolling baritone. The Philadelphia crowd hooted and stomped for the more inflammatory lines, bellowing support for the Continental Congress. If there were any Tories among them, they had the good sense to keep their snarls to themselves.
A fist-sized evidence bot zipped past Dona, riding the blue glow of an anti-grav cushion as it searched for murder victims. She snatched the bot out of the air in a blur of cyborg speed. If there was a killer on the second floor, she didn’t want the device giving her away. The bot lit up, about to beep a protest, but Dona thumbed a button to mute it. Bot in one hand, shard pistol in the other, she cocked her head and scanned with every sensor implant she had.
Just below the roar of the crowd, a female voice whimpered pitifully in despair and pain.
Somebody’s still alive. Dona thumbed off the shard pistol’s safety. And they’re damned well going to stay that way.
Had to be Lolai Hardin. According to her dossier, the temporal guide owned this house, using it as a hostel for the time-traveling tourists who hired her to show them life at the time the Declaration was signed. The United States was considered the direct ancestor of the Galactic union , and its historic milestones were major tourist attractions.
Hardin’s latest tour group had gotten a hell of a lot more than they bargained for. A vicious attack by forces unknown had left thirteen people dead or injured. Hardin’s two twenty-third-century employees were among them. Only Lolai herself was unaccounted for—a bit surprising, since she’d been the one to send the courier bot that had alerted the Enforcers that her tour group was under attack. She’d suffered at least one minor wound before she sent the bot; a bloody thumbprint had marred its smooth, white surface. Hardin’s fingerprint.
Damn, I wish we could have gotten here before the bastards attacked. Unfortunately, nobody had ever managed to prevent this kind of massacre—and plenty of people had tried. You just couldn’t change history no matter what you did.
Of course, Lolai could have been working with the attackers. Could have been bought off or intimidated into cooperating. She could have been the killer. But that whimper suggested otherwise.
Maybe Dona could save her. Victim’s condition? Dona started up the stairs in a padding rush, soundless as a ghost.
Extremely serious, replied the computer implanted in her brain. Sensors detect multiple stab wounds and extensive blood loss. She must have medical attention in the next 3.2 minutes, or she will die.
Which wouldn’t necessarily end the poor woman’s life. If Dona could get Lolai into regen at the Outpost infirmary within seven minutes of the time her heart stopped beating, she could be brought back. After that, brain death would be too extensive for regeneration, and she really would be dead.
Victim’s location? Reaching the top step, Dona paused for another scan.
First bedroom on the left.
Any sign of the attackers?
No.
That meant nothing. The killer or killers could be sensor-shielded, invisible to both Dona’s eyes and implants.
The evidence bot jerked in her hand, trying to escape. She stuffed it into one of the pouches on her armored belt and padded silently toward the bedroom door. Damn, I wish I had backup.