Geneva’s tour guide sat beside her, swaying gracefully with the carriage’s bumpy progress. Julia Reginald wore an elaborate smoke-gray evening gown tiered in black lace. Jet earbobs swung at her ears, while a matching jet necklace looped around her neck and draped over her impressive breasts.
Dona wondered how the guide had secured invitations for all of them to the ball Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Northram were hosting at their rice plantation. According to her dossier, Reginald had an impressive network of plantation social connections she could call on whenever she needed to indulge some rich client’s fantasy. In this case, Geneva Kamil wanted to experience the life of a plantation deb, right down to the carriage ride.
“This should be a pretty boring trip,” the guide had told them before the Jump. She seemed a little puzzled at Alerio’s insistence about providing them with an escort. “Especially compared to my usual jobs.”
Well, yeah. According to her dossier, Julia’s main business was conducting tours of Civil War battlefields—during the battles. True, the groups were sheltered by a camo shield that rendered them invisible while they watched what had actually happened, but that didn’t make the tours precisely safe. An invisible tourist was as vulnerable to a rifle bullet as anyone else.
Abruptly the guide stiffened. “Lose them!” Leaning forward, she fisted her hands in her skirts, twisting the fabric in agitation. “Whip the horses up and outrun the bastards!”
Must be using a com unit to talk to the carriage driver, Dona realized.
“You . . . might want to go easy on the whip,” Alerio murmured. “The horses won’t like it.”
Geneva stared at the guide in dawning horror. “Outrun who?” When she got no answer from Julia—whose expression now verged on outright terror—the actress turned to Alerio. “Gods and devils!” she exploded. “Who are we running from?”
“Highwaymen,” Dona told her absently as she scanned their pursuers. To the chief, she added, “I count twenty-four. Twenty with shard pistols, two with tritium rifles, two more with Winchesters. And what’s with the gunpowder tech?”
Alerio shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t have enough guns to go around.” He frowned. “Scans make them as Xerans, none with horn implants.”
“Not priests, then. Monks, maybe. No battleborgs, either, which evens the odds a little.”
The chief snorted. “Considering we’re going up against twenty-four of them, we need every advantage we can get.”
“At least there’s no sign of Ivar either.”
“Actually, I’d feel better if he was here. Instead of say, getting ready to ambush us from behind a camo field.”
Dona grimaced. “Good point.”
Over the rumble of the wooden wheels, a whip snapped once, then again and again as the coachman roared curses at his laboring team. Their pounding hoofbeats drummed faster, as the animals ran with everything they had.
Bracing both hands against the vehicle’s jouncing walls, Dona breathed deep, readying herself for the fight she knew was coming. The carriage rattled over ruts and rocks in the wake of the four-horse team. A particularly hard bounce clicked her back teeth together. She tasted blood and braced her feet, wedging herself deeper into a corner.
A hard jolt flung Geneva across the carriage. She choked off a scream as Alerio caught her with casual Warlord strength and stuffed her back into her seat. Julia absently steadied her wild-eyed client while listening to her coachman, who was evidently giving her a play-by-play.
A blast of fléchettes hissed overhead, punctuated by a male scream. Alerio swore as the carriage rocked wildly and the thunder of hooves began to slow.
“What was that?” Geneva demanded, one hand clamped over Julia’s with a white-knuckled grip.
“Shard pistol,” Dona told her, frowning as she scanned through the carriage’s wooden walls. The tritium shards had sliced into the driver’s torso, leaving him slumped and bleeding in his seat, the reins dropping from his lax hands to flap loose over the team’s sweating backs.
“Jorge?” Julia snapped. “Jorge, dammit, answer! Jorge!” She turned to stare at Alerio. “They shot my coachman. I don’t think he’s conscious.” One hand shot out to grab the chief’s knee, nails digging in painfully. “You’re supposed to protect us, Enforcer!” she spat. “Do something. Jorge’s dying!”
“I will if I can.” Alerio’s eyes flicked back and forth as he swept sensor scans over the carriage’s surroundings. “Unfortunately, I’m about to have my hands full keeping the rest of us from joining him.”
“But he’s been shot! Jorge could be dying while you sit on your . . .”
“Calm down,” Dona snapped coldly, silencing the woman in mid-rant. “Look, once we’re all safe, I can Jump him back to the Outpost. Our doctor can bring him back from the dead if she has to.”
“How?” the guide demanded, her voice spiraling into a wail. “Our return Jump isn’t scheduled until Monday! And if the coach is damaged . . .”
“It’ll be fine, Julia.” Dona flipped up her gold skirts to reveal the gleaming blue scales that covered her thighs to the knee. The abbreviated suit of temporal armor was designed to be worn under civilian clothes; the ball gown’s layers of fabric provided the perfect camouflage. “It doesn’t have sleeves or boots—and wearing it with this corset is a pain in the ass—but it’ll get me and your man to the Outpost. Five minutes later, he’ll be in regen.”
The two women gaped at her T-suited legs. “How did you . . .” Geneva began.
“I suspected we’d run into trouble,” Alerio explained. “We’ve got courier bots, of course, but I like to hedge my bets.” A gesture indicated his trousers. “Unfortunately, this getup is a little too snug for armored underwear.”
The guide laughed, the sound high-pitched with hysteria. “If I lose Jorge . . . I don’t think I could stand it.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
“I’ll get him into regen, Julia. He’ll be okay.” Dona braced herself as the carriage jolted to a stop. Her sensors painted a vivid image of the four horses snorting and stamping, tossing their heads, tack jangling. One bay mare half-bucked, kicking out at the carriage as if panicked by the scent of the coachman’s blood. The big white horse harnessed beside her snaked out his neck and nipped her hard on the shoulder. She squealed and shied away before subsiding, cowed by her teammate’s teeth.
As the team heaved and blew, the highwaymen began to steal closer. One of them flipped down the hinged carriage steps . . .
Dyami surged from his seat, ducking his head to accommodate the carriage’s low roof. One foot slammed into the coach door, kicking it open with a screech of rending wood. It crashed into the highwayman who already had one foot on the carriage steps, sending him tumbling with a startled yelp. As he hit the packed dirt of the road, the shard pistol flew from his hand to disappear into the thick brush.
Alerio leaped from the carriage, producing a derringer-sized shard pistol from his sleeve with a flick of his right hand. A quantum combat knife chimed in his left. In the same blurring, graceful move, he shot the first highwayman, kicked another in the face, and whirled to slit a third’s throat.
As the chief charged his next target, Dona sprang from the coach, skirts wadded in one hand. Jerking one of the quantum stilettos from her coiled braids, she sent the thin knife flying. The weapon thunked into a fourth killer’s barrel chest. Gasping, he clutched at the blade and collapsed. His shard pistol thumped to the dirt beside his dying hand.