Soldier of Fortune (2nd ed)

by Kathleen McClure

  “If I were you,” she said, “I’d avoid any contact at all with General Rand. Ah.” She nodded as the scrape of metal on stone drew her attention to the main gate. “It seems your transport is ready.”

  “All aboard!” the guard on the gate called out, and the other parolees began to line up.

  One by one they stepped up to the guard, each presenting the back of their right hand. Once the guard matched the ident number tattoo’d on the backs of each hand to those on his list, they were allowed to pass through to the other side where, theoretically, they became free men and women of Fortune.

  In reality, there were still over fourteen thousand kilometers of desert and ocean between them and any tangible freedom, but even so, Gideon could see a change as each parolee passed under the gateway arch.

  On one side, they were cons, crooks, humanity’s dregs, and fodder for the crystal fields in which they labored, day in and day out.

  Two steps later they stood straighter, their shoulders settled and broadened, as if the Morton Barrens possessed a higher gravity, one that crushed them down to less than their given size and strength. But once outside those walls, they could again expand, and take up their requisite amount of space.

  “It’s good you kept the coat,” he heard Satsuke say. “This time of year there’s still some significant weather in Nike,” she answered the unasked question in his eyes.

  Nike, Gideon thought, where General Rand was stationed. “I can’t help but feel I’m getting some mixed messages,” he said aloud.

  Satsuke’s expression was as bland as Morton’s rations. “I doubt that.”

  “66897!” Gideon’s number echoed through the gate yard. “Quinn, Gideon!”

  “Here!” Gideon called out, but he was still looking at Satsuke, and now he asked the question he’d been wanting to ask, all along. “Don’t suppose you’d care to share the name of your investigating officer? The one who pushed for my release?”

  “I don’t suppose I would,” she agreed, then nodded toward the gate. “Better get a move on.”

  He stared at her another moment, then he got a move on.

  “This is your second chance, Mr. Quinn!” he heard her call as he strode towards the open gate and the CAS Ramushku, which would take him, it seemed, to the city of his enemy. “Don’t waste it.”

  He did not look back.

  Half an hour after the Ramushku lifted off from Morton Barrens with the newly-paroled Gideon Quinn aboard, a valet (he had other skills but nonetheless was an excellent valet) entered an elegant study where General Jessup Rand and his wife were relaxing in front of the fire.

  In his hand he bore a silver-chased tray upon which sat a folded piece of paper.

  “What is it, Nahmin?” the be-robed Rand asked.

  “A tel-gram, sir, from a Mr. Finch.”

  Rand looked up sharply, took the note, and read it through. Though his expression remained easy, his eyes were hard indeed.

  “Problem, darling?” his wife asked from where she lounged on the mammoth-hide sofa, reading one of her favorite Old Earth classics.

  “No,” he lied, smoothly, “not a problem. I’ve just received word of an old friend coming to town, on very short notice.”

  “Will there be a reply, sir?” Nahmin asked, with barely a flicker of a glance towards Madame Rand.

  “I believe there must,” Rand said, regretfully foregoing his port and rising. “If you’ll excuse me, dear?”

  “Of course,” she said, her nose already buried deep in the book, where Jacob and Edward were once again at odds.

  Only the fingers of her right hand moved, tapping away to some unheard rhythm as Nahmin followed her husband out of the room.

  4

  The first thing that struck Gideon was the water.

  Not just that of the Avon River, flowing sluggishly a hundred meters from where Gideon stood transfixed on the Ramushku’s gangplank, but also the droplets of condensation sliding from the gondola to patter onto the tarmac, or hiss to vapor on the cooling engine pods.

  There was even a mist rising from the river as the overcast sky darkened to twilight.

  Moisture heavy air filled his lungs and tickled his nose with a bright, mossy odor, before escaping again in the warm fog of his own breath.

  Gideon wasn’t a believer in the Old Earth concept of Heaven, but if such a place did exist, he wouldn’t argue if it felt just like this.

  Less enthralled with the climate was Elvis.

  The draco crouched in his habitual perch on Gideon’s right shoulder, tongue darting and triangular head tilting almost upside-down as he tried to make sense of an atmosphere utterly unlike the desert of his hatching.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Gideon murmured, still entranced by a landscape that didn’t burn his eyes.

  He could stand here forever, soaking in the damp.

  “Anytime, mate,” a gruff voice growled from behind.

  Or he could get out of the way, which he did, before the crewman behind him escalated from gruff to surly.

  Once off the gangplank, he stepped away from the barge, slinging the pack containing all his worldly belongings over his left shoulder. “Well, Elvis,” he said to the draco, “now what?”

  Elvis gave a deep croon.

  “Yeah, me neither.”

  At a loss, Gideon remained still, scratching his draco’s head and staring out towards the city.

  After a time, he became aware of a number of airfield crew pausing in their labors to study him. He assumed it was Elvis holding their attention.

  Dracos, or, domesticated dracos, were a rarity.

  While his speculation was not entirely wrong, it was also not entirely correct.

  After all, this was the Nike airfield, a major hub for air trade in the United Colonies (and beyond, with the recent Peace Accords), and source of a thousand odd stories of what might come off a docking airship.

  Rumors of anything from contraband crystal to smuggled antiquities to stowaways (or rather, the remains of stowaways) in the bilge-keel circulated from ‘ship to ground and back to ‘ship on a daily basis.

  All of which meant that, as interesting as a tame draco might be, it was the man standing on the tarmac—tall and lean and solitary—who drew the queen’s share of the attention.

  And then there were his eyes.

  Wolf eyes, one passing rigger thought, whimsically, until those very eyes passed over hers, leaving her a great deal less whimsical and a great deal more sad.

  Gideon, however, missed the rigger’s empathetic response. All he’d seen was a woman walking away, and so turned from the reminder of departures past to hear a handful of the Ramushku’s crew swearing they smelled rain in the air.

  Rain.

  Gideon hadn’t experienced a drop of rain in over six years. At the mere thought, he felt himself go weak at the knees.

  Maybe there would be a downpour.

  Maybe he could just lay down on the open airfield and bask in the sheer wetness of it all.

  Or maybe that would be weird.

  Probably it would.

  He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to imagine how it would feel to be utterly drenched.

  “It had to be Nike.”

  He opened them again to see Horatio Alva, theoretically reformed grifter and fellow parolee, joining him.

  “All the cities in all the colonies and they decide to dump us in bleedin’ Nike.”

  Gideon looked at Nike’s skyline, then at the native Nikean. “Not anxious to see the hometown?”

  “More it ain’t anxious to see me.” Horatio glowered at the nearby city but, as the airfield’s lights began shimmering to life, Gideon thought he spied a flash of quiet yearning in the other man’s eyes.

  “Bugger this,” Horatio said, ignorant of Gideon’s speculations. “I’m for the river. I’ll lay odds there’s at least one steamer shipping out tonight.” He glanced at Gideon. “You want to come along? You got skills, and like as not one of them boats will be hea
ding Tesla way.”

  “Thanks,” Gideon said, “but I doubt Tesla would be too happy to see me, either.”

  Besides, if Gideon read Satsuke’s murky intentions correctly, Gideon had business in Nike.

  “You can never find Earth, again,” Horatio quoted, still staring at the city.

  “Who’d want to?”

  Horatio’s response was a bark of a laugh. “True enough,” he said as he shouldered his own, recently restored possessions, and turned for the riverside wharf. “Good luck to ya’, Quinn.”

  Because luck and I are on such good terms, Gideon thought. “You too,” he said, but Horatio was already moving.

  In moments, he was little more than one shadow amidst many, and soon lost to sight.

  Gideon turned his back on the river to find himself alone at the base of the gangplank.

  From here, he could see the Ramushku’s crew disappearing into the airfield’s control center. Of the other ex-convicts returning to society, there was no sign.

  Maybe, like Horatio, they’d all decided to take ship elsewhere. Or maybe they were simply anxious to see something of the world before their recidivistic nature got them pulled out of it again.

  Either way, they’d all moved on, while Gideon remained standing in the middle of the airfield with no clear plan of action.

  Possibly his uncertainty came from the fact that, for the past six years, his life had belonged to the corrections officers of Morton, and before that to the Corps, and before that to Fagin Martine. And while Martine was a thief-maker, the Corps military, and Morton a prison, each possessed their own rigid structure, and crystal-sharp discipline.

  Now, here he was, and no one was telling him where to be, when to sleep, what to eat, or who to kill, and maybe, just maybe, it was more independence than he could handle.

  Except, if he were being honest with himself, he’d never been the most compliant dodger in Martine’s hive, and his Corps personnel file held half again as many reprimands as citations—and he didn’t want to count how many hours punishment labor he’d pulled in Morton.

  And no one had ordered him to love Dani…or to send her away.

  For her own good, his ever so helpful self reminded him.

  Gideon, tired of himself already, shook free of the introspective chatter with a hiss, which Elvis echoed, and focused on the dark, wet (Wet!) airfield.

  Unless he really wanted to bunk on the tarmac (and he was pretty sure someone in the dock master’s office would take issue with that), he needed to get going.

  Which naturally brought him back around to the question of, where to go?

  All he knew of Nike was it housed the Tactical Division, and that Dani enjoyed the Shakespeare Circus.

  She’d promised to take him if they could get a long enough furlough. But that was long ago, and they’d never quite made it to the Circus.

  In the now, all he had was himself, and Elvis, and the few starbucks handed to each of the parolees as they debarked.

  Oh, and questions. He had plenty of questions.

  Those questions had him, (for about the 10 gazillionth time since the Ramushku raised anchor) chewing over Satsuke’s intentions in setting him free.

  Not only free, but free in the same city that housed Jessup Rand, a man Gideon was not supposed to get within spitting distance of.

  Then, as he had the other 10 gazillion times, Gideon reminded himself that Satsuke’s intentions were none of his concern.

  For now, for the first time in a very long time, his intentions—and the actions which followed—were the only ones that mattered.

  All he needed to do was define said intentions, at the same time trying to adjust to living in a world with no guards, no Corps, no prospects, and no woman.

  Even as he thought this last, a woman stepped out from behind a stack of crates bearing the logo of Tenjin R&D.

  “Gideon Quinn,” the woman said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  5

  Gideon took in the woman’s clothing (merc-for-hire grey), the way her hand rested on the hilt of her sidearm (crysto-plas pistol, very high-end and, last time Gideon was in the world, prohibited for civilian use), and her stance (balanced, forward on the feet, ready for action).

  He was also forced to admit (later, and only to himself), he only registered the gun after he spent some quality milliseconds on her eyes (green) and face (deep, velvety brown, full lips, prominent cheekbones).

  It was just enough time to note that face was very attractive, despite its all-business expression.

  Or maybe because of it.

  “When you say ‘we,’” Gideon said at last, “are you suggesting what I really hope you’re suggesting?”

  Even as he spoke, her partner appeared in Gideon’s peripheral vision.

  He studied the newcomer—male, slightly taller than the woman, but with the same grey clothing, same coloring, same eyes, even a similar facial structure—all making him, in Gideon’s estimation, her brother; probably a twin.

  Interesting.

  Of greater interest was the live shock baton he held, similar to those used by Morton’s guards.

  “Guess not,” he answered his own question.

  “You’ll come with us,” the she-twin said.

  Gideon considered the statement. “Is that a request?”

  “No,” the he-twin raised his ominously humming baton, “it’s a fact.”

  “Yeah,” Gideon’s shoulders slumped, “I was afraid of that.”

  Then he moved, ducking left while Elvis leaped right, and it didn’t matter the he-twin was already in motion.

  It didn’t matter his sister was drawing her weapon.

  What mattered was, they’d initiated their assault under the assumption that two armed and fit mercs against one underfed and unarmed ex-con meant easy.

  It was an assumption that proved false.

  It was also a very short fight.

  Not even a fight, more, an encounter.

  An encounter Gideon controlled the moment the brother lunged with that baton, giving Gideon the chance to take hold of the he-twin’s extended wrist.

  A catch, a twist, a push in just the right spot, and the he-twin’s harsh bellow confirmed his elbow was in a world of pain.

  The baton dropped, sparking, to the tarmac. Elvis swooped down to claim the weapon in his hind-claws, flapping off with it while Gideon swung its owner around to block the she-twin’s shot.

  Lucky for her brother she pulled the gun to one side in time for that shot to go high and wide, crackling in open air, and unnerving a pigeon roosting atop a stack of crates.

  Gideon used the next half-second to bring the back of his fist to the brother’s temple, rendering the he-twin inert before throwing him into the she-twin with enough force to knock her to the ground.

  Joining the prone siblings, Gideon placed a careful boot on her wrist, and applied just enough pressure for her to know he could apply more, if she didn’t release the shooter.

  She released the shooter, and he kicked it across the tarmac.

  “Backup?” he asked.

  She grimaced, possibly because being weighed down by he-twin made it hard to breathe. “Right boot.”

  Gideon nodded, checked the boot and, sure enough, found the knife she’d have thrown into him as he walked away.

  He tossed the blade after the gun, checked the brother’s boot and found a (ha) twin to her own, took that and the short sword from he-twin’s belt, and threw both in the opposite direction from his sister’s.

  “Tell the general I said hi,” he told her.

  He then grabbed his pack, which he’d dropped during the not-a-fight, and started across the empty airfield towards the gates where, if he recalled correctly, there should be a mag-tram into the city.

  Another time he might have enjoyed the exercise of the brief encounter. Here and now, he only had space to wonder how Jessup Rand knew he’d be arriving on the Ramushku when he, Gideon, didn’t know he was being paroled until
about two hours before the air-barge lifted off from Morton.

  He considered asking the twins, but if they were in Rand’s employ, any further interaction with the pair would be skating dangerously close to violating his parole before he was prepared to violate it.

  So rather than attempt an interrogation, he made a slight clicking noise in his throat, waited for Elvis to swoop down to his accustomed shoulder perch, and left the mercenaries tangled on the ground.

  He looked up as the soft rain began to fall, muting the airfield’s lights, and sheening the tarmac to a mirror finish.

  It seemed the Ramushku’s crew had been right about the rain.

  Gideon spared the glistening pavement one look—enough to see his own foreshortened image—before he strode off towards the airfield gates, shattering his reflection with each deliberate step.

  Several minutes after Gideon’s silhouette passed through the main airfield gate, a third figure, cloaked and hooded, (against the rain or any watching eyes could not be determined) emerged from behind the crates where Rey (the female half of the mercenary twins) had lain in wait for Gideon.

  “That could have gone better.” The newcomer looked down at Rey, currently crouched over her unconscious brother, whose name was Ronan, then to the airfield gate, where the city-bound mag-tram had just arrived.

  “I can find him again,” Rey said. “I want to find him.” She lay a gentle hand over Ronan’s cruelly wrenched arm. “I want to hurt him.”

  “Commendable, but unnecessary.” The hooded one gestured towards the gate, where another figure detached itself from the bulk of the control tower, and made its way towards the waiting tram, which Gideon would already be boarding. “Nahmin will take it from here.”

  “Nahmin.” Rey’s eyes narrowed. “And will he be serving in his capacity as valet or assassin, tonight?”

  The cloaked figure turned to Rey who, under that regard, ducked her head in apology.

  “Neither,” she was told. “At least, not just yet. His assignment is the same as yours, to contain Quinn.”

  “And once Quinn is contained?” Rey asked, though with sufficient respect. “What then?”