Soldier of Fortune: A Gideon Quinn Adventure (Fortune Chronicles Book 1) (4 page)

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

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', are you suggesting what I really hope you're suggesting?"

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

He tallied the newcomer — male, 5'10", same grey clothing, same coloring, same eyes, similar facial structure, leaning more toward the angular and making him, in Gideon's estimation, her twin. 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 other man’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 fore-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 the 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. Gideon then 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?"

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, his shooter
and
a short sword from his belt, and threw all his kit in the opposite direction from his sister's.

"Tell the general I said hello," he told her. He then grabbed his pack, (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 but here and now he only had space to wonder how Jessup Rand knew he'd be arriving on the Ramushku when he, Gideon, hadn't known 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 a 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 Ronan, her unconscious brother, 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 center 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?"

The hood turned back towards the gate. "Then, my dear, you may hurt him."

C
HAPTER
S
IX

STEPPING OFF THE
tram at the Lipton Street station, Gideon glanced around to see where he should go next, and to make sure none of the other passengers had any particular interest in him. After the scuffle at the airfield, he didn't feel inclined to take any more chances.

His glance caught the eye of a Sergeant of Infantry, who had boarded at the third stop with another non-com. From their speculations on the best places to get a drink, get laid or for preference, both, he guessed they were on furlough. She gave him an assessing, top to bottom review, hesitating over the draco tucked around his neck and moving downward with military precision.

She was a tall woman, he noted, the sort with lots of curves overlaying the muscle, and the interest in her light brown eyes was palpable.

So palpable, Gideon could feel certain parts which hadn't palped in some time coming to attention. Then her eyes fell on his right hand, and his right hand’s tattoo, at which point the interest about-faced to disgust and she favored him with one last, withering glare before taking her companion by the arm and retreating into the rain-drenched streets.

Gideon watched them go, telling himself it was just as well, that he had more pressing issues, that he wasn't a one-night stand type of guy and...

And that was complete and utter aurochs' crap. Six years in the stir, he'd have gone for a one-hour stand — assuming he could stand for a full hour after such a prolonged drought.

And
that
, he thought, while true, was also not why the sergeant's rejection had struck him with the force of a fist to the gut.

It was the look in her eyes — the first eyes from Outside to have seen the tattoo and recognize it for what it was.

So
, he told himself forcefully,
you can stand here in the rain, whinging over a stranger's judgment, or you can take the next step
.

Okay
, he asked himself,
so what's the next step?

I dunno, dumbass, but maybe the map will tell you.

Sometimes his self could be a real pain in the ass.

"What ma—? Oh," he said aloud, realizing he was, in fact, standing directly in front of a map, tacked to the kiosk outside the tram station.

An incredibly detailed map, Gideon discovered, as its borders stretched well beyond the city proper, displaying the city's wind farm to the South, the Keeper Protected salt marshes and Oracle Ocean in the West and the Corps Tactical Division Headquarters in the Northeast. To the East was the airfield from which he’d come, and on the opposite side of the river from the airfield sat the mag lev train station.

Turning his focus towards the city's interior geography, Gideon saw that, like his home city of Tesla, Nike followed the wheel plan, with the colonial and city government offices housed in the center of the wheel, and twelve main avenues running from that center like spokes. The spokes created eleven wedges of real estate which were, themselves, connected by streets which circumnavigated the city like variegated hoops.

Each wedge between the spokes was a district and each district had its own District Minister, as well as its own park and agri-center, overseen by Keepers assigned to the city.

There were some differences from Tesla, he saw. In Nike, for instance, the university was located in the 2
nd
District, near the city center, while most of the manufacturers were in the outer rings of the 8
th
, 9
th
and 10
th
, making use of the river which bounded the city to the North and East.

Tesla's university had been scattered throughout nine of the city's fifteen districts, each area of study having its own, unique space, and the manufacturers were mid-city, where the Folger River flowed through, dividing the city in half.

None of which mattered, he reminded himself, as right now he was in Nike.

Nike where, as with most of the wheel cities, residences nearer the center were claimed by individuals of influence — individuals such as full system Generals of the Corps, currently in command of Tac HQ.
Yeah
, he thought,
Jessup Rand would keep a house in the center of town.

Thinking this, Gideon had to force his right hand — the one which had just now turned a woman's eyes against him — to remain unclenched as he imagined wrapping it around Rand's throat.

Last resort
, he reminded himself, giving Elvis an absent scritch. First, he'd try the mostly legal way — the way that led to the truth — and if
that
didn't work...

"Oy, need a lift?"

Gideon and Elvis both started at the rickshaw driver's call. "No, thanks," he said, in part because he was mindful of the need to preserve his small amount of cash and in part because he was not quite over the thrill of actual water falling from the sky. The driver shook his umbrella-hatted head at the wet nutter and rode on, the wheels on his bike spraying Gideon's shins.

Gideon turned back to the kiosk map, where another moment's study showed him what he was looking for and, with his pack on one shoulder and an unhappy Elvis on the other, he headed out into the downpour.

* * *

"That one," Fagin Ellison pointed with his chin to the man who'd just stepped from the airfield tram and was looking somewhat lost.

Mia peered around the fagin's bulk to see who he meant. Though Ellison's chosen mark was on the other side of Lipton Street, she had to squint through the rain to see him. "Don't look rich," she said. But he did, to her experienced eye, look dangerous, even with that weird hump on his shoulder.

That comment earned her a clap on the side of the head that left her ears ringing. "Don't question, girl," Ellison snapped. "You're in enough of a stew, ain't ya?"

She hunched in on herself, which she'd long ago learned was the only safe response to her fagin when he was in a mood and, since he'd discovered her Marlowe Street book cache a few hours past, he was in a truly smogged mood.

“I told you time and again, readin' ain't nothing but a distraction,” he said now, indicating he was still thinking about those books. “and dodgers lookin' for a distraction ain't challenged enough t'keep their head inna game so
that,
" he jerked his chin towards the tall man's apparent deformity, "is gonna be your challenge."

Looking closer, Mia was astonished to see the deformity move, stretching out first a head and then a pair of long, articulated wings.

"Oy!" she said, then before he could thump her again dropped her voice to whisper, "
He's got a draco
!"

"Not for long," Ellison said, glaring down, paying no mind to the rain sluicing from his bald head. "Once you nick it, it's gonna be
my
draco." He laid a hand on the girl's shoulder and gave it a squeeze she felt down to the bone. "You bring that winged bugger back to me and it'll be double rations and a quarter the take once it's sold. If you
don't
bag it," he continued, leaning down so the rainwater dribbled from his head onto hers, "you'll be onna streets and
these
," he patted the inner pocket where lay the much-thumbed books he'd confiscated earlier, "are goin' inna river. You savvy?"

"Yeah— yes, sir," she amended, wincing as the heavy hand began to squeeze deeper. The tears that pricked, however, weren't for the pain, that she was accustomed to. The tears for her books, which were the only things that made life in Ellison's hive bearable.

"Good. Now he’s movin’, so get on with ya’, and remember," he added, "you don't bring me that draco, you'll be out your books
and
your place."

He didn't add, because he'd long ago beaten it (often literally) into every one of his dodgers, how easy it was for a child to disappear in Nike.

What he did add was a slap on the back to start Mia on her way, nearly sending the girl face first into a muck-filled puddle. "And mind your feet," he hissed, as though it were her clumsiness and not his abuse that had caused the misstep.

Once Mia was on her way, Ellison remained in place, watching the mark until he rounded the corner and was lost to sight. There was no point watching Mia. Mia had already blended into the rain-drenched dark as if she were no more than a shadow herself, and not just a practitioner of the shadow trade.

Which made it all the more pity he'd have to be rid of the girl, whether she succeeded at tonight’s task or not. Sure, she was one of the best dodgers he'd ever brought up, but that didn't make up for the fact the girl had Ideas, all picked up from them books she was so keen on.

Books, he'd discovered — having trailed her to a little shop on the corner of Marlowe and Deckard — that she'd bought.

With
money
.

His
money, cadged from her nightly takes for who knew how long.

And when he'd followed her a mite further, he found she had a regular little library, tucked away in a Keeper's shed in Rosalind Park, and was usin' them books to teach Ellison's other dodgers to read!

His ears were getting hot again, just thinking on it.

As if a dodger had any need of posh learning. If they could dip twenty customers in one round of Shakespeare Circus, tell the difference between a genuine Stolichnaya and a fake Coca-Cola and how to count the starbucks the fence offered, then they'd all the education they'd ever need.

At least, it was all they needed until they were too old to dodge. Once they hit that age — when they was too tall, too noticeable and too independent — they'd follow the long tradition of dodgers on Fortune by graduating from the hive.

Not the kind of graduation the dodgers expected, mind, the one that included walking away with shares from their years of earnings. Sure, that was tradition, and how Ellison's own fagin, Dixit, had operated back in the day. The end result of that arrangement had been Ellison deciding he'd be better at running Dixit's turf than Dixit, and Dixit disagreeing, vehemently.

The disagreement ended when Ellison countered Dixit's argument with an inarguable point (in that Dixit had stopped arguing once Ellison's knife was stuck through his ribs), whereupon Ellison took over the turf, the dodgers, and their shares. And because Ellison knew he wasn't the only selfish bastard in Nike town, he made sure none of his dodgers would get the chance to do unto him as he'd done unto Dixit.

At first he made sure of this by simply eliminating any potential competition before they had the chance to become
actual
competition, but he soon realized there was a greater profit in encouraging a lateral career move for those mature enough to leave his hive.

So, with the help of an independent contractor (slaver being such an ugly term), who docked in Nike twice yearly, he laterally moved several dodgers into the domestic, agrarian and pleasure trades in the Coalition states. A few, the strongest and most cunning, were taken for the Adidan cage matches.

On the whole, the practice had served Ellison well for going on thirteen years, with only the occasional hornet to muddy the waters. Hornets — troublemakers — tended to move on rather sooner than graduation, though as far as their mates in the hive were concerned they’d just up and run away.

And Mia, despite being a top earner, was a hornet in the hive — always at them books, her head in the clouds, thinking about a future what didn't include her fagin —and there was every chance the other dodgers would catch Mia's ambition and that would mean being washed of the entire lot.

All of which meant Mia would be 'running away' in the near future.

Her talents, while considerable, weren't worth an entire hive of dodgers, and it was gettin' close to the time of year the slaver — sorry, independent contractor — docked in Nike. And in the meantime, there was every chance he'd be getting an honest to comb draco out of her before she moved on.

Feeling particularly good about his business acumen, Ellison turned away from the tram station, thinking to head in-town. It was still early enough Antonio and Cara should be working the Shakespeare Circus, and Ellison wanted to be sure they weren't usin' the rain as an excuse to slack off.

And because he turned away in that moment, the fagin missed a second shadow, this one taller than Mia, also following in the footsteps of the draco-bearing mark.