blood for adrenal levels?” asked Freeman.
“Why would we do that?” asked the tech.
“Harris is a Liberator. If these guys attacked him, his combat reflex would have activated.”
“Adrenaline and testosterone,” the tech said, sounding impressed. “Easier to test for testosterone. From what I hear, Liberator testosterone levels are off the charts.”
With Freeman following behind him, the tech scanned the walls, the bathroom floor, and the carpets. He knelt beside the neg lying in the shower and took more data. He took his equipment into the brightly lit dining area and read the results.
“There’s plenty of adrenaline in this sample,” said the tech. “This one’s from the shower. The man in the shower was beaten to death; his jaw, nose, and neck were all broken. That probably accounts for the adrenaline level. His testosterone levels are fairly standard.
“At first glance, I’d say this blood came from the clone in the shower.”
Freeman said nothing.
The tech played with his computer. He said, “This reading is from the bathroom floor. It’s got fragments of glass in it.”
Freeman had noticed the shattered shower door and assembled the sequence of events in his head. He imagined Harris showering as the assassins entered. Maybe he’d hit the first one with the shower door, then pulled him into the shower and killed him.
The second one, the one on the bathroom floor, Harris would have had to cross the broken glass to attack him.
The blood from the floor is Harris’s,
Freeman decided.
It has to be Harris’s.
The tech looked at the computer readout and smiled. He said, “You know, I never really believed in Liberators. I knew about the Mogat Wars and all, but I always thought Liberator Clones were a myth. I mean, clone soldiers with glands that flood their blood with hormones during combat . . . how about unicorns and griffins?
“This blood came from a Liberator.” He shook his head. “There’s enough adrenaline to give a guy a heart attack. This bleeder had five times the testosterone level of a normal man.”
He looked up at Freeman, and said, “Whoever bled this shit might be more comfortable dead than alive. Do you have any idea what he’d be going through if he was alive?”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Freeman and Watson sat in a small office in the transitional police station—a building that might once have been a cheap hotel. The chief had set up shop in the manager’s office, giving himself more space but less privacy than he would have had in one of the rooms.
The makeshift station didn’t have cells or interrogation rooms. It had a lobby, which the officers used as a cafeteria. They used guest rooms to store equipment. The New Olympian police had been issued very few guns, but they had plenty of computers, handcuffs, riot gear, and patrol cars.
Watson used his traveling workspace to catch up on messages. He placed it on the table and typed in a security code, then entered his communications address. Seeing he had a message from Major Alan Cardston, Watson tapped a key and called the major back.
As the head of Pentagon Security, Cardston carried a lot of authority for an officer of his rank. He lived in a world populated by colonels and generals, yet he seemed to carry as much clout as the men around him.
Watson didn’t like dealing with Cardston; he considered the major a bigoted prick. Cardston referred to Freeman and Watson as “civilian contractors” and treated them as if they were lower than enlisted men.
When Cardston came on the line and saw Watson, he seemed to sit on his hands. Had it been a general on the line, Cardston would have saluted. Had it been a civilian politician, he would have asked a friendly question. Instead, he merely said, “Watson, what have you found?”
Having worked with Wayson Harris and Ray Freeman, Watson had learned not to give information easily. He said, “They found three corpses in the hotel room. All three of them were
“Why would we do that?” asked the tech.
“Harris is a Liberator. If these guys attacked him, his combat reflex would have activated.”
“Adrenaline and testosterone,” the tech said, sounding impressed. “Easier to test for testosterone. From what I hear, Liberator testosterone levels are off the charts.”
With Freeman following behind him, the tech scanned the walls, the bathroom floor, and the carpets. He knelt beside the neg lying in the shower and took more data. He took his equipment into the brightly lit dining area and read the results.
“There’s plenty of adrenaline in this sample,” said the tech. “This one’s from the shower. The man in the shower was beaten to death; his jaw, nose, and neck were all broken. That probably accounts for the adrenaline level. His testosterone levels are fairly standard.
“At first glance, I’d say this blood came from the clone in the shower.”
Freeman said nothing.
The tech played with his computer. He said, “This reading is from the bathroom floor. It’s got fragments of glass in it.”
Freeman had noticed the shattered shower door and assembled the sequence of events in his head. He imagined Harris showering as the assassins entered. Maybe he’d hit the first one with the shower door, then pulled him into the shower and killed him.
The second one, the one on the bathroom floor, Harris would have had to cross the broken glass to attack him.
The blood from the floor is Harris’s,
Freeman decided.
It has to be Harris’s.
The tech looked at the computer readout and smiled. He said, “You know, I never really believed in Liberators. I knew about the Mogat Wars and all, but I always thought Liberator Clones were a myth. I mean, clone soldiers with glands that flood their blood with hormones during combat . . . how about unicorns and griffins?
“This blood came from a Liberator.” He shook his head. “There’s enough adrenaline to give a guy a heart attack. This bleeder had five times the testosterone level of a normal man.”
He looked up at Freeman, and said, “Whoever bled this shit might be more comfortable dead than alive. Do you have any idea what he’d be going through if he was alive?”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Freeman and Watson sat in a small office in the transitional police station—a building that might once have been a cheap hotel. The chief had set up shop in the manager’s office, giving himself more space but less privacy than he would have had in one of the rooms.
The makeshift station didn’t have cells or interrogation rooms. It had a lobby, which the officers used as a cafeteria. They used guest rooms to store equipment. The New Olympian police had been issued very few guns, but they had plenty of computers, handcuffs, riot gear, and patrol cars.
Watson used his traveling workspace to catch up on messages. He placed it on the table and typed in a security code, then entered his communications address. Seeing he had a message from Major Alan Cardston, Watson tapped a key and called the major back.
As the head of Pentagon Security, Cardston carried a lot of authority for an officer of his rank. He lived in a world populated by colonels and generals, yet he seemed to carry as much clout as the men around him.
Watson didn’t like dealing with Cardston; he considered the major a bigoted prick. Cardston referred to Freeman and Watson as “civilian contractors” and treated them as if they were lower than enlisted men.
When Cardston came on the line and saw Watson, he seemed to sit on his hands. Had it been a general on the line, Cardston would have saluted. Had it been a civilian politician, he would have asked a friendly question. Instead, he merely said, “Watson, what have you found?”
Having worked with Wayson Harris and Ray Freeman, Watson had learned not to give information easily. He said, “They found three corpses in the hotel room. All three of them were
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