Soldier of Fortune (2nd ed)

by Kathleen McClure

  Even Gideon could see Maurian, who’d recently lost her parents to the Coal-fart slave docks, wasn’t talking about their long-dead ancestors.

  “This is true,” Martine agreed, speaking only to the surface topic. Maurian’s underlying loss was something to be dealt with privately. “Though it is also true the Earther’s had a reason for this. Do you know what it is?”

  Maurian’s only response was a single-shouldered shrug.

  Which somehow kindled Gideon’s own anger. “Because,” he said before Martine could speak, “once Fortune was cooked enough to populate, they made sure none of the knowledge that got them off of Earth in the first place made it to Fortune. None of the tech, none of mechs. They even destroyed the ships that brought them here.”

  Martine nodded, encouraging him as she asked, “And do you know why they did this?”

  “Because,” he said, again, “if we know we can’t ever leave, we’ll take better care of Fortune than our ancestors took care of Earth.”

  “So the keepers tell us.” Martine beamed.

  “And how,” he asked, holding his fagin’s gaze, “do the keepers think that’s working out so far?”

  At which Martine’s expression slammed shut, and Gideon, ashamed, turned away.

  This time, when he headed for the ladder, she didn’t attempt to stop him.

  Soon enough he heard an undaunted Yribe asking if the Earthers engineered crystal to be Fortune’s version of the old melted dinosaur bones, and why it only grew in so few areas, which led to Martine beginning the primary school edition of the Great Crystal Debate.

  There, see, it’ll be okay, he told himself. The younger ones’ curiosity would cheer the fagin and, for his part, he’d stick to pilfering stores, make sure there was enough food to last the hive out a few days. And during those days he’d stay close to the tower, help with training and—hells, he’d just make it up to her.

  At least, that was what Gideon meant to do.

  In fact, he’d just reached the lower section of the ladder when the attacks began.

  It seemed the Coalition Forces, having filled their slave barges and cargo freighters, and tired of the constant thieving and sabotage, had chosen to level Tesla once and for all.

  Two days later, Gideon woke in a keeper-aid tent with three cracked ribs and a few new scars to add to the livid gash over his collarbone.

  The keeper tending his wounds told him how lucky he was to be alive, as the blast which had tossed him from the ladder had decimated the teleph tower, killing all those within.

  Because of their neutral status, the keepers were allowed to go anywhere they wished, no matter who was fighting over what, so only a few days after he woke, they set sail up the Folger River, delivering Gideon and a handful of other survivors to the relative safety of Edsel.

  By then, Gideon was on his feet so, after thanking the keepers who’d helped him, he went in search of a recruiting station, where he convinced the Infantry sergeant he was of age to enlist in the Corps.

  Because the someday he thought he’d wanted, the someday Martine tried so hard to forestall had arrived.

  Gideon had become a soldier.

  12

  “You were dodging during the Occupation?” the girl said, clearly impressed. “You’re even older than I thought.”

  This time he did laugh, but the laugh was wet and turned to a cough, and Elvis, disturbed by his chosen person’s obvious distress, crawled along the edge of the tub to press his head against Gideon’s leg.

  “Good boy,” Gideon said, stroking the draco’s head. “It’s okay, you did okay.” Yes, he’d be feeling the slices from Elvis’ talons for a month, but it beat drowning.

  He glanced up, saw the girl watching their interaction.

  “So, one dodger to another, why did you target me?” Because it should have been obvious to the rawest thief he wasn’t rolling in starbucks. What could he possess that she’d have wanted enough to scale a building in the rain?

  Even as he thought this, her eyes darted to Elvis, then to the floor, and the bruise deepened with her flush.

  It was the blush that told him. “You wanted Elvis.You wanted my draco.” He thought about that. “Why did you want my draco?”

  “Not me,” she said quickly. “Ellison’s the one wants it and he only wants it because ain’t no one else in Nike has one, they’re that rare.”

  “And rare means pricey,” he said, quietly furious with himself for not giving a second thought to traipsing the streets of Nike with Elvis perched on his shoulder.

  By doing so, he’d basically invited every thief in the city to come after the draco. The smart thing to do would have been to let Elvis take flight and tail Gideon to the inn.

  Of course, had he done that, there would have been no dodger at the bathroom window when the morph took effect and he wouldn’t be standing here, in a tub, with a towel wrapped around his middle, making himself dizzy playing what-if.

  He looked at the girl who was watching him, balanced forward on the balls of her feet, ready to run.

  “Tell me about Ellison,” he said.

  “Naught to tell,” she said, looking away.

  But not running, which was something.

  “Okay,” he said as, with some care, he stepped out of the tub where he imagined he looked the utter dodo. “I get where you’re coming from, but this is where we are now. First, don’t worry about me calling the cops. After all this?" He indicated the tub he’d likely have drowned in without her, “There’s no way I’d swear a complaint. I also won’t let you go back empty-handed, but your fagin’s going to have to make do with whatever cash I can spare because taking Elvis is not an option.“

  “Then I’ll be out!” she protested in a voice sharpened by fear. “S’what he said when he marked you. To come back with the draco or not at all. If I don’t bring Elv—that draco—then I’m as good as dead.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Not gonna happen? Is that what you think?” She lifted her chin, all youth and defiance. “Maybe you was a dodger, maybe you wasn’t, but you ain’t one of Ellison’s—”

  “Aren’t,” Gideon murmured.

  “—hive,” she continued over his grammatical distress. “Ain’t a dodger in Nike ever left Ellison’s protection before graduatin’ and lived to tell it.”

  “It’s not supposed to work that way.” Even as he said it, Gideon knew it was an asinine statement because obviously—

  “That’s how it is,” she confirmed his thoughts with a weary certainty. “I do what he says, or I’m done.” She gave Elvis, peeking from behind Gideon’s leg, another look. “Guess I’m done.”

  “No, you’re not,” Gideon said. “I won’t let that happen.” From her expression, he figured his promise sounded as asinine as his previous statement. “I know I can’t ask you to trust me—”

  She snorted, he presumed in agreement.

  “—but you’ve got to trust me. If only because, even if I did let him go, Elvis wouldn’t leave me. You’ve seen what he can do when he’s motivated,” he pulled the damp cloth from his shoulder to display the evidence. “And he likes me.”

  Something in her eyes told him she thought it might be worth the risk. Or maybe she’d just like to see Elvis have a go at her fagin. Either way, there was still something he didn’t understand, and he found he needed to. “If you’re so sure this Ellison will put you out, why didn’t you just let the morph finish the job?”

  She shrugged, scuffed her feet and, for once, looked her age. “I may be a dodger, but I sure as comb ain’t no killer.”

  A distinction Gideon could appreciate, but it also got him thinking. “I’m not sure whoever dosed the soup was, either,” he said. “Morpheus is a sedative, not a poison.”

  “And?” she asked, then slapped herself on the forehead, “And no way the fop would know you’d be nutter enough to eat your dinner inna tub!”

  “Yes. Not exactly how I’d put it but, yes. Wait,” he held up his hand. �
��What fop? I thought you didn’t know who did it?”

  “I don’t know, know. I just seen the bloke leaving while I was out there.” She pointed to the window. “Poison green jacket and sick yellow pagri. Couldn’t miss ‘im.”

  “And his fashion sense makes you think he did it?”

  “No.” She huffed, he presumed at the idiocy of adults. “I think he done it—”

  “Did it,” Gideon corrected automatically.

  “—because he was following you, too.”

  “Huh,” Gideon managed. For a guy less than two days out of prison, he was proving awfully popular.

  “Bugger tried to warn me off’a you, too,” the girl continued, puffing up some at having been able to shock the seemingly unflappable man. “Gave me a ‘hands off’ sign,” she said, then went on to describe her rival’s actions, from the way he’d changed his clothes in the alley before entering the hotel’s front door, to his departure just as she’d reached Gideon’s window. “I wasn’t planning on coming in so soon,” she admitted, glancing at Elvis, then the tub. “But then I did.“

  “Huh,” Gideon said. Then he tilted his head. “Are you hungry? Because I’m hungry.”

  Her mouth actually dropped in surprise. “Didn’t you just eat?”

  “Temporarily.” They both looked at the trash bin. “Besides…” he stepped around the girl, to where his clothing lay neatly folded, “whoever dosed me might be coming back.”

  “But whoever dosed you would be thinking you’re out cold,” she turned to watch him. “Why not stay here and, you know…” She punched a fist into her hand as she added, “Give ‘em a good pounding for their trouble?”

  “Because as much as I’d enjoy it, I’m not in full pounding form just now.” He reached down to pick up his pants and, as if to prove his point, he overreached, missed the trousers, and almost fell over.

  He didn’t look, but was fairly certain she was rolling her eyes.

  “Here.” She grabbed the pants and handed them to him.

  “Thanks.” He took them, straightened up and waited.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, and waited, too.

  “Do you mind?” he asked, making a “turn around” gesture with the pants, so the trouser legs seemed to perform a little jig.

  “Mind what?” The girl looked confused, then the crystal flared. “Ohhh.” She drew the word out into three syllables, then grinned. “Afraid to show off the goods? Ain’t you never been to the Fujian baths?”

  “Often enough to know they have age restrictions. How old are you anyway? Eleven? Maybe?”

  “Thirteen,” the girl responded, unoffended. “Best guess, any road.” Still, in deference to what she obviously considered unnecessary modesty, she did turn around to stare out the window where the rain had finally ceased.

  Since Gideon was already dry (and cold… so cold), he dressed quickly, hands still shaking somewhat as they buttoned up the trousers. He ditched the padding over his shoulder before donning the shirt—it wasn’t the first time he’d have gotten blood on his clothes—and, anyway, it didn’t look as if stitches would be necessary.

  By the time he got to the boots, he could tell right from left, which was nice, and soon he was sliding his arms into the coat and clicking for Elvis.

  The girl turned in time to see the draco land on his right shoulder. “So,” she said, “where we going?”

  He was encouraged by the we. “Don’t have a clue. Got any suggestions?”

  She considered him, then seemed to come to a decision. “I know a place, nothing too posh, mind, down on Marlow-oy!” The street name turned into a squeak as Elvis gave a massive leap from Gideon’s shoulder, wings brushing the girl’s hood on the down-sweep.

  In one flap, he was at the window, where he scented the air briefly before turning his eyes downward and letting out a low keen that was the draco equivalent of a canine’s warning growl.

  “Keepers!” the girl said, obviously impressed.

  Gideon said nothing, but moved to the window himself, where he stood carefully to the side so anyone looking up wouldn’t see him. “Ah,” he said. “Of course”

  “What?” The girl joined him, trying to peer around the tall man and the draco. “Of course what?”

  “That.” He nodded towards the coach and four pulling into the square.

  That there was a horse-drawn carriage at all was impressive as, while equines were numerous in rural areas, in the cities most citizens used public trams or rickshaws. The moderately well off might spring for a battery powered car or cycle, but only ristos had the ready to support livestock that had no purpose other than to look good.

  So the fact the four horses drawing the Rolls were perfectly matched blacks was additionally impressive, as were their deep red traces, and the carriage itself, which was big enough to hold six comfortably, eight if you weren’t prudish.

  “Nice,” the girl said, standing on her toes to better see the vehicle, “if you’re into that sort of thing.”

  Looking at the family crest emblazoned on the glossy black door, Gideon could say with absolute certainty, “They are.”

  “That’s a Rolls,” she pointed out. “A Rolls Royce with the Rand family crest on it.”

  He glanced down at her. “You know the Rands?”

  “Everyone knows the Rands. Family own’s a good bit of Avon.”

  “Of course they do.”

  “What’s it mean, them being here?”

  “It means,” he said as the horses rounded the square to pull up at the hostel’s entrance, “it’s time to find the back door.”

  13

  They found the back door by the simple act of looking for the kitchen.

  “Why the kitchen?” Mia had asked, following Gideon down the back stairs (the front stairs already being occupied by the sound of boots. Very purposeful sounding boots, at that).

  “Because,” Gideon said, leading the way into the Elysium’s cooking area, still redolent with the remains of the night’s offerings, “kitchens need doors for deliveries and to take out the garbage, making them the emergency exit of choice for those in need of a quick and discrete departure.”

  Mia, whose attention had drifted to the savory smells of masala from the stove, looked over at that. “You callin’ us garbage, then?”

  He grinned, and led the way past the keepers in the kitchen, who didn’t blink an eye—Mia guessed they were used to the odd emergency exit—and kept at their various tasks of dishwashing, grill scraping, and composting as she, Gideon, and Elvis passed through.

  One young fellow did look up long enough to ask Gideon how his dinner had been.

  “Better going down than coming back up,” Gideon said.

  Mia snorted, and dashed past him.

  As she darted through the door to the narrow mudroom, she heard Gideon ask the keepers to hold his room for the time being, and then he was behind her, and then in front of her, gently setting her to one side so he could peer out the mudroom door and into the alley which linked Carroll Square to Bard Street.

  After a moment, he slipped through the door, waving for her to wait.

  She thought that a bit uppity, as it was her supposed to be leading him. Maybe it came from the soldiering?

  Either way, even if she wanted to push past, there wasn’t room. She had no choice but to wait until he was fully outside before following through the door, which opened right next to the compost bin she’d used to climb up to Gideon’s floor.

  She’d just hit the threshold when she saw him come to a sudden halt, hissing a gutter curse popular among dodgers.

  She took it as a warning and, rather than step straight out, slid to the right, and tucked herself between the hotel’s wall and the bulk of the waste bin, in time to hear a woman’s voice say, “If you or the draco so much as twitch, I will kill it.”

  “Understood,” Gideon replied, without hesitation.

  Whoever this woman was, Mia thought, she was trouble.

  She was also
still talking.

  “I have to say, I am surprised to see you standing upright. We were expecting you to be sound asleep in your room. Nahmin’s dosing isn’t usually so far off.”

  Nahmin, Mia thought, that must be the ponce. She had no idea who the woman was, but it seemed the people after Gideon were also aware of the general handiness of kitchen exits.

  “Nahmin’s dosing wasn’t off,” Gideon said. “It knocked me pretty well out. Almost drowned me, in fact.”

  “That would have been a shame,” the woman said.

  Mia didn’t think she meant it.

  “I’m not sure you mean that.” Gideon seemed to agree.

  “But I do,” the woman insisted. “You and I, we have unfinished business.”

  “We do? Oh, you mean because of the thing, back at the airfield.”

  Mia almost snickered at Gideon’s exaggerated tone. Was he trying to make the woman mad?

  “Yes,” the woman replied, sounding pretty mad, “because of the… thing.”

  “How is your brother, anyway? He is your brother, right?”

  “My twin, Ronan,” she said. “And I am Rey.”

  “Gideon Quinn, but you knew that. Where is old Ronan, anyway,” Gideon continued in a “we’re just mates, catching up on old times,” fashion.

  Mia wondered if it was a typically Teslan style of conversation, or unique to Gideon.

  “Recovered enough to seek you in your rooms.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Gideon said.

  “I’m not sure you mean that,” she echoed his earlier opinion.

  “Seems to be a lot of that going around.”

  Odd, Mia thought, how she could hear the man’s smile.

  He was a stranger, a mark, and yet in the roughly half an hour since she’d saved his life (well, she and Elvis had saved his life), she’d come to know his voice, his expressions, as well as any of her mates—not that she had many mates.

  “You know what else is going around?” the woman asked, and Mia now heard the distinctive hum of live crystal, which meant a gun.