Angela Knight: Unbound

Every one of those attempts had failed.

Every single time.

Eventually, temporal physicists had finally worked out the equations that explained why history could not be changed. Alerio even understood the math. He didn’t like it, but he understood it.

So when he’d received the bot with Lolai’s hysterical plea for help that morning, he’d summoned his team and Jumped to the moment after the courier had left. Not before. Never before.

“Ready to record,” the bot said in a smooth, androgynous voice.

Jolted back to the moment, Alerio told his neurocomp to send the report to the courier. The implant obediently transmitted both the report and its assorted attachments: trid recordings of the crime scenes, a few gigs’ worth of data on the blood, sperm, and fiber evidence, his comp’s recording of Ivar making his threats.

“Message received and logged,” the bot said. “Recipient?”

“Colonel Elana Ceres.”

The bot acknowledged his command and vanished with a deafening crack and retina-searing flash. Alerio grunted and sat back to await the colonel’s response. It wouldn’t be long. Ceres could take her sweet time considering all the angles and still program the courier to arrive within five minutes of the time it left. Time travel could be either damned convenient or a huge aching pain in the ass.

While Alerio waited, he started wrestling with the problem of how to protect the scheduled temporal tours with the personnel he had available. Ivar is damned well not going to claim any more victims on my watch.

He’d barely settled down for some serious plotting when the courier made its thunderous reappearance. “I have the colonel’s response,” it announced in its prissy Galactic Capital accent.

“Proceed.” Alerio braced one elbow on his desk and waited to see what beefershit his superior would bury him in. He’d commanded the Outpost for five years now under the direction of three different TE colonels. They’d all been career politicians who viewed Alerio and his agents as stepping-stones to some more significant post.

Elana Ceres was the worst of the lot.

What’s more, she’d just decided to run for the Terran Regional Governor’s office. A victory would make her the leader of five planets, fifteen moons, and a couple of asteroid belts, besides giving her a seat on the Galactic Union Council of Governors.

All of which was a long step up from Temporal Enforcement. Luckily for Ceres, she was a member of a politically well-connected family, backed by all the money that came with that kind of power. She was generally considered the odds-on favorite in the governor’s race.

Unfortunately, the mess Alerio had just dumped in her lap could complicate that easy jog to victory. She won’t like that one bit. He braced himself for an icy chewing-out delivered in Ceres’s silken drawl.

The courier beeped, and projected the colonel’s trid just above his desk surface. As always, there was no expression on the woman’s beautiful face, as if she feared creating creases in her flawless skin. Hair the color of champagne tumbled in shimmering curls around the dark blue shoulders of her Temporal Enforcement dress uniform. Huge eyes stared from a screen of thick, dark lashes, their irises a brilliant shimmering green streaked with amber. Every bone of her delicate face looked as if it had been mathematically plotted for perfection.

Alerio had known combat droids with more personality.

Fortunately for Ceres, she could fake character well enough if a trid camera was aimed her way. But today there was no larger audience than Alerio, so she didn’t bother to fake humanity, much less civility. Not for a mere Vardonese Warlord.

“I have discussed your report with my fellow Temporal Enforcement regional commanders,” Ceres announced. “We’re all of the opinion that informing the public of this . . . terrorist’s threats would do more harm than good.”

Alerio snorted. “Especially when it comes to your gubernatorial campaign.” He wasn’t recording a response—she’d be shocked to receive one—so he could say whatever the hell he wanted. Not that he’d ever hesitated to tell Ceres what he thought, though he usually tried to do it with some pretense of diplomacy.

“Making the public aware of Terje’s attempted blackmail could have a negative impact on temporal tourism,” she continued with the cold objectivity of a combat droid. “Considering the licensing fees involved and current Galactic Union budgeting constraints, we simply can’t afford to start a panic. However, if the situation becomes more fluid . . .”

“In other words, if more people end up dead,” he muttered, grinding his teeth so hard they creaked as if on the verge of cracking.

“We will certainly reevaluate our decision. In the meantime, you’re ordered to do everything possible to apprehend these killers while preventing further collateral damage.”

“‘So don’t let anyone else get dead.’” He clenched his jaw again. It was starting to ache from the pressure. “Believe it or not, I didn’t need that last bit spelled out.”

“Please know we take this situation very seriously, Chief Dyami. However, I have faith in your ability to prevent further losses and apprehend those involved.”

Ceres paused. The corners of her lips lifted slightly. By her standards, it was the equivalent of a sadistic grin. “However, you should be aware that a number of my fellow commanders have raised concerns. Some still think you should be reassigned, especially in light of Terje’s treason.”

Yeah, he’d figured the bastards would want to strip him of his command. He supposed he was lucky they hadn’t fired him already. Fortunately—or not, depending on your point of view—he’d make a highly convenient scapegoat if the public should somehow learn of the scandal.

“I, however, argued that given the . . . volatility on the Xeran home world, it was best to leave you in place.”

So you can toss my bleeding corpse to the media wolves and run like hell if anything goes wrong.

Ceres’s lovely eyes narrowed to blazing green slits. “Don’t make me regret that clemency, Chief Dyami.” Her image vanished, revealing the courier floating serenely on a blue cushion of antigrav energy. “Is there a response?”

“Such as, ‘You’re a gutless political hack, and you’re going to find yourself in a media shit-storm if this gets out?’” Alerio rubbed his aching forehead. He knew from past experience that nothing he could say would move Ceres one millimeter once she’d made up her mind. He looked up at the bot. “No, courier, there is no further message. Return to your charging station.”

As the bot disappeared back into the wall, Alerio stared sightlessly at his desktop. Within the desk’s gleaming dark surface, lists of temporal tour groups rolled like the credits of some ancient movie in glowing greens and blues. Men, women, and children, all targets for Ivar and his vicious ilk.

Alerio’s main priority now was the same as it always had been: the safety of those people. Making sure they all made it home.

According to the Outpost’s main comp, there were a dozen tours scheduled for the next week. Each would require the protection of between three to six agents. Which left him with a serious manpower problem.

To make matters worse, a number of his Enforcers were on leave back home in the twenty-fourth century. He could recall them, of course, but some of those agents really needed the break. Temporal Enforcement tended to extract a heavy toll, particularly on good people who cared about solving cases and protecting the public. Because sometimes you found yourself fighting history’s infinite inertia.

Then you were just fucked.