Soldier of Fortune: A Gideon Quinn Adventure (Fortune Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

2100 HOURS FOUND
Gideon in the prison's gate yard, along with the handful of other souls granted parole that day.

The suns had long since set, taking the life-draining heat with them and leaving in its place a soul-sapping cold. Above the chill desert, the sky glimmered with optimistic stars and a glow over the Eastern wall presaged the imminent appearance of Ma'at, the first of Fortune's three moons.

The other soon-to-be-ex-cons stood scattered about the holding area, overtly or covertly adjusting civilian clothing not worn since the day of their arrival in the Barrens. Clothing, Gideon noted, which now hung loosely on bodies pared down by years of labor in the crystal fields, giving the impression of a company of scarecrows, awaiting field assignments.

Of the scarecrows present, Gideon was on friendly terms with only one — Horatio Alva. Horatio was a grifter, and something of an anomaly as, being both a first-time offender (which is to say, this was the first time he'd been caught) and a non-violent, he technically didn't belong in Morton.

Gideon had come to know Horatio after stepping between the grifter and one Pavel Escavilla (who absolutely
did
belong in Morton) when the latter thought the former was 'looking at him, funny'.

The resulting throw-down had earned Escavilla solitary and Gideon another trip to the infirmary and then solitary.

Horatio caught Gideon's roving gaze and gave him a nod and a quirk of a smile. Gideon returned the nod — he didn't know what it said that he felt more reassured by Horatio's impending freedom than his own.

"Is this all your kit?"

He glanced to his left, surprisingly unsurprised to see General Satsuke at his side, apparently engrossed in studying his scant personal effects.

"Didn't have much, coming in."

Her eyes dropped to the pack at his feet, then rose to his right shoulder, where Elvis crouched on the scarred pauldron, his tail twined around Gideon's upper arm, bisecting the twin suns of the Colonial infantry tooled into the leather. "I don't imagine you had him coming in, either."

Gideon looked as well, giving the draco a habitual tickle under the chin. "Elvis came along two years ago," he said, not elaborating further. He doubted Satsuke would care how Elvis had imprinted him on after Gideon (stupidly, Doc later told him while administering the anti-venom) put himself between the draco hatchling and a hungry desert viper.

"Elvis," he said, gesturing to Satsuke, "say hello to the general."

Elvis tilted his head up and bobbed it down long enough to make it seem a genuine bow before raising it up again with a low, trilling sound.

Satsuke's brow raised slightly, then she nodded back to the draco before returning her attention to the draco's human. "You kept the coat," she observed.

"It's a good coat," he shrugged, but gently because of Elvis. "And, I don't know if you've noticed, but it's balls shriveling - it gets cold in the desert at night."

She favored him with a glare he felt certain was meant to mimic those desert nights. "I'd like a word in private." She turned and strode towards a corner of the yard unoccupied by any but two Corps warrant officers. As he and Satsuke came near, her escort moved out of hearing range, but remained close enough to deal with Gideon, should he prove troublesome.

Gideon wasn't feeling troublesome; he was feeling curious. "So, I’m guessing it's you I have to thank for," he gestured to the gate, "all this?"

"Not me," Satsuke said. "But it was my division that started the ball rolling."

Gideon said nothing, but the skepticism must have shown on his face.

"That surprises you?"

"I'm just trying to imagine a world where CIOD gives a comb about an infantry colonel convicted of treason," he said, perversely pleased he could speak the word aloud and not choke on it.

"And normally we wouldn't," she said shortly. "But one of my officers was chasing a ghost in the ranks—" here she hesitated.

"Ghost?" he prompted.

"Odile."

Hearing the name, Gideon kept his expression as blank as — a really blank thing. He had to because, as far as the Corps was concerned, Odile had been convicted and incarcerated six years ago, in the person of Colonel Gideon Quinn.

"Exactly," Satsuke sounded almost pleased as she responded to his silence. "A fool's errand, and one I refused to authorize."

At which point Gideon couldn't even pretend to hide his confusion. "Then, why are you here?"

"I refused to authorize an investigation into Odile at the time," Satsuke clarified. "But then, as the months passed, we became aware of a continued hostile presence within the Corps."

"Presence?"

She grimaced, clearly unhappy. "Mission objectives leaked, research facilities sabotaged, mobile units attacked with enough precision to tell us the enemy knew where they could be found. A steady stream of intelligence was being broadcast to the enemy up to the moment the Peace Accords were signed last Quaitember."

"Sorry, I can't take credit for it, this time — been busy culling crystal for the past few years."

She gave him another of those 'night in the desert' glares. "Sarcasm doesn't become you."

"But it's so slimming."

"I can now understand why your records include a disciplinary packet as thick as an Amazonian redwood."

"Misunderstandings, most of them.” He shrugged, causing Elvis to flutter, hissing. "Sorry."

"Can we at least attempt to stay on problem?" Satsuke asked.

"To be honest, I'm not sure what the problem is," he said, unable to hold back the exasperation. "The war is over, the good guys won in spite of whatever ghosts you people think you have, so — why are you here? Why are we even having this conversation?"

"I am here because, despite serving a brutal sentence for treason against the United Colonies, you still consider us the good guys," Satsuke told him. "And because, as my investigating officer pointed out, a man whose childhood home was destroyed by the Coalition, a colonel with over twelve years of service — a man who, in fact, uncovered the existence of the spy designated Odile in the first place — is unlikely to commit treason, regardless of what he confessed."

"Maybe that man was a lie," Gideon suggested, oddly diverted by the conversation. "Maybe his life was a fiction. Maybe he didn't uncover anything because he was laying a false trail that would lead anywhere but towards himself?"

"He might have been," she agreed. "In which case I've just made a terrible mistake by arranging this parole. Were you aware," she added, "General Rand has taken command of the Corps Tactical Division in Nike? A sinecure, you might think, since the war's end, but Tac is still the hub from whence all military dispositions are determined."

Non-plussed by the non-sequitur, Gideon took a mental step back. “They don't keep us apprised of Corps Command assignments down here."

“I shouldn’t think. Of course, given your history, I wouldn't recommend looking him up," she continued. "In fact, the reason I'm speaking to you at all is because I wished to confirm your understanding of the conditions of your parole."

"Conditions?" He frowned, going over the lengthy list he'd signed on exiting the warden's chambers.

Do not bear arms.

Do not cross colonial borders without first being cleared by Colonial Security.

Do not attempt to cross into foreign territories... a slew of do nots he eventually mentally compressed into 'be nice and don't rock any boats'.

"Can you be more specific?" he asked.

"I am referring to the condition that, should you be seen so much as within spitting distance of General Jessup Rand, your parole will be immediately and permanently revoked."

His expression shifted, minutely.

In response, her mouth quirked, also minutely.

"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, "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 for ident check. Once the guard matched their ident number 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 sixteen 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 and, once Outside, they could again expand and take up their requisite amount of space.

"It's good you kept the coat," he heard Satsuke say. "You'll need it when the Ramushku drops you 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."

Satsuke's expression was as bland as Morton's rations. "I doubt that."

"66897!" Gideon's number echoed through the 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?"

"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?" Rand asked, though his attention remained fixed on the book in his hand — a non-fiction treatise making the rounds on the origins and practices of the ancient Earth church of Football.

“A telgram, 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 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 setting aside
Clash of the Titans
and rising. "If you'll excuse me, dear?"

"Of course," she said, her nose already buried deep in the book, in which 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.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

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 on 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 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 — domesticated dracos — were a rarity.

While his speculation was not entirely wrong, it was also not entirely right. After all, this was the Nike airfield, a major hub for air trade in the United Colonies (and beyond, with the recent 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 who drew the queen's share of the attention. Tall, lean, wary as the draco on his shoulder, there was something in his solitude that compelled one to take a second look.

And then there were his eyes.

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

Not that Gideon noticed the rigger's empathetic response. All he'd seen, all he'd let himself see, was a woman walking away, and so turned from the reminder of departure's 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 heading 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 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 even 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 their 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 ten 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 ten 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."