***
Francesca stared into the blackness of the night sky as the flyter streaked across the city. Please, she thought, please don’t let Ran-Del be dead. It wouldn’t be fair. She had already lost Pop suddenly, with no warning. It couldn’t be the same for Ran-Del.
“There’s the bridge, Baroness,” the pilot called from her compartment. “I don’t see anywhere I can set down.”
Francesca peered down into the darkness. The harsh cone of light from the belly of the flyter illuminated a scene from her nightmares. Someone lay flat on a stone bridge, surrounded by a still, unmoving mass of people. An ambulance approached, claxon blaring, and people moved out of the way so it could park at the edge of the crowd.
“Send me down with the transport pad,” Francesca ordered, rushing to the rear of the flyter.
She rode down with only Marina Quinn and Merced for company. People dashed out of the way as the flyter lights illuminated their descent. Francesca clenched her hands. Neither of her companions spoke except when Quinn warned her to wait for the platform to stop moving before jumping down.
“What’s wrong?” Francesca demanded, rushing forward to where Georges Rangoon and a gray-haired woman stood looking down at a med-tech who knelt next to Ran-Del.
The med-tech ignored her and looked up at Georges Rangoon. “How long has he been dead?”
The Sixth Discipline Page 72
