Soldier of Fortune (2nd ed)

by Kathleen McClure

  Seconds later, Gideon’s head popped up from behind the wreckage. “Everyone all right, here?”

  “And I think it just did,” the young man concluded.

  33

  “Wendell was after his monthly payment,” Tiago, the young man Gideon had theoretically assisted, explained as he poured tea for his guests. “Which wouldn’t normally be a problem, but that the university bursar’s office was closed by the time I arrived yesterday, and now it’s the weekend, so there’s naught I can do until Monday. Wendell didn’t like hearing that,” he added, one hand waving over the bruise on his jaw. “Obviously.”

  Forty minutes had passed, and Mia and Gideon were now seated in the closet-sized kitchen of Tiago’s flat, in one of Lower Cadbury’s more habitable buildings.

  Or rather, Mia and Elvis were seated. Gideon stood in the doorway, slipping one of Tiago’s shirts over the multitude of wounds their host had cleaned and dressed.

  Tiago, it seemed, possessed a great deal of medical experience, along with the spare clothes.

  He wasn’t quite as tall as Gideon, but was also not quite as emaciated, so the clothing fit well enough, even if the shirt’s sleeves didn’t quite cover the ligature marks on the older man’s wrists.

  For her part, Mia was just relieved Gideon no longer smelled of blood and compost.

  She couldn’t tell if Tiago had been impressed or appalled by a savior sporting a prison tattoo, and looking as if he’d just come off the battlefield. Either way, he’d done the needful for Gideon, and in her books that made Tiago a decent sort.

  “I’m guessing this payment has nothing to do with rent,” Gideon said, beginning to button the shirt.

  “Security.” Tiago confirmed the supposition.

  “A security racket? Here?” Gideon asked, looking at Mia.

  “There’s more a’ that in Lower Cadbury than the other neighborhoods,” she told him. “People with less to lose being more eager to keep what little they got.”

  “From the mouths of babes,” Tiago murmured, laying a squashed packet of biscuits before Mia (and thus unknowingly saving himself from a tongue lashing for referring to her as a babe). “I run a free clinic, here in Cadbury.“

  “You’re a doctor?” Mia asked, crumbs spewing forth with the question, much to Elvis’ delight. “Sorry.”

  “Fourth year student at Yousafzai’s Medical College,” Tiago replied with a small smile. “I am one of the three Tenjin Corporation scholarship recipients for the class of 1450. This includes a stipend for housing, but I thought the money would be put to better use helping my neighborhood, so I live here, and use the stipend for medical supplies for those in need.”

  “Damn,” Gideon said.

  “Oy! Language,” Mia chided.

  Gideon gave her a look, then sat down at the little table. “Tell me more about Wendell,” he said to Tiago.

  It was a story as old as Fortune.

  Older, Gideon figured, as every bit of Earth’s history he’d learned supported the notion that crime was as endemic to the human race as war.

  In Wendell’s case, it was a simple matter of being the toughest bully on the block, or blocks, in Lower Cadbury’s case. The neighborhood, in the farthest outskirts of Nike’s Ninth District, had fallen on hard times during the earliest days of the war. A rare airstrike in Avon had hit the area hard, and with most of the city funds supporting the colonial Corps, nothing was allocated for rebuilding.

  Now only those too poor or too stubborn to relocate remained, including, Tiago explained, a number of veterans, mostly those too physically or emotionally damaged by the wars to slide comfortably back into society, and Tiago himself.

  And of course Wendell who, in Gideon’s opinion, didn’t have the stones to compete with the bad boys in the flusher parts of town, so he settled for being the biggest scum in the little pond that was the Lower Cadbury tenements.

  He did this, Gideon learned, by assembling a crew of enforcers, and then promising the honest citizens who lived or did business on their turf protection from burglaries, vandalism, and various other acts of violence.

  Those who paid remained (mostly) untouched.

  Those who didn’t or who, like Tiago, were late on their payments, found themselves experiencing all manner of difficulties, from broken windows, to arson, to armed robbery, to assault.

  “So you can see how it might not look good for me,” Tiago said, “you bashing the comb out of Wendell just now.”

  “And if he hadn’t?” Mia, a study in indignation and cookie crumbs, asked. “Wendell would’a bashed you proper, for sure.”

  “Physician, heal thyself,” Tiago replied.

  “Which might work, assuming Wendell didn’t go for your hands,” Gideon told him, causing Tiago’s face to go ashen. “But I get your point. Wendell isn’t going to go away.” He looked at the young man. “Can you? Go away?”

  “And leave my clinic? My patients?” Tiago shook his head. “I’ve got two elders with chronic cardiopulmonary distress, and a child about Mia’s age with asthma. And every day brings a new trauma patient.”

  Probably, Gideon thought, because most every day someone’s flat collapsed. Or they forgot to pay Wendell. Or both. “What if,” he said, after staring at his cooling tea for a spell, “someone could make Wendell go away?”

  “I…“ Tiago seemed momentarily flummoxed. “I can’t condone murder, if that’s what you are asking.”

  “He thinks you’re a killer,” Mia told Gideon. “Probably ‘cause o’ your bloody clothes. And maybe the prison tat. And all them scars. And—”

  “Yes. Thanks. I get it,” Gideon said.

  “But it’s all right,” Mia said brightly, “because Gideon didn’t kill no one.”

  “Anyone,” Gideon said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Gideon didn’t kill anyone,” she said. “But you can see how he facilitated the comb outta Wendell. And he did the same with the Ohmdahl triplets, last night, and some wanker named Ronan and his sis. Gideon’s Alpha Grade crystal when it comes to facilitating.”

  Both men found themselves staring at the chipper young dodger.

  “What she means is, what if Wendell were to be… facilitated… out of the neighborhood?”

  “Well,” Tiago said, clearing his throat, “as long as there’s no killing.“

  Which, of course, was when the first sirens started to sound.

  “Police?” Tiago rose from the table. “They never come out here.”

  “Funny, that’s what she said.” Gideon glared at Mia.

  She was already climbing out of her chair. “May be they take murder more serious than liftin’ wallets?”

  “Probably,” Gideon agreed as he, also, rose, reaching automatically for his coat, which would normally have been draped over the chair.

  “Wait,” Tiago said, “you said you hadn’t killed anyone.”

  Gideon’s hand closed over his chair’s naked back. “It’s complicated.”

  The sound of vehicles coming to a halt had them all freezing.

  Sure enough, the next thing they heard were boots on the street, followed by some fairly vigorous thudding.

  “They’re knocking on doors,” Gideon observed.

  “They won’t get a lot of answers, ” Tiago said. “Not too many folks living here, and those who are have little use for coppers who won’t even walk a beat in this neighborhood.”

  “Time to scarp?” Mia asked.

  Gideon looked at Tiago.

  “If you head down to the basement, there’s a gate to some old keeper garden tunnels that are stable. I often use them during winter to get around.”

  Gideon looked at Mia, who nodded. “I’ve used ‘em. We all have.”

  We, Gideon assumed, meaning her fellow dodgers.

  “You’ll need this, though,” Tiago said, turning to pull a hand torch out of a drawer.

  “Thanks,” Gideon said, then clicked for Elvis.

  Mia nodded her thanks, and dashed for the front door of
the flat.

  Once the draco was settled, Gideon followed. He could hear Mia’s feet racing lightly down the stairs, but he paused and looked at Tiago, still standing in the kitchen archway, “Assuming I don’t get sent up for a crime I didn’t commit in the next few hours, I’ll come back and—facilitate—your situation.”

  It was a big if and Tiago’s expression wasn’t terribly optimistic.

  Gideon couldn’t blame him. “Until then, be smart and let these cops get you out of Cadbury. Tell them you saw me. They’ll want you to come in and swear out a statement.” He held up a hand as Tiago began to protest. “Your patients need you, I get that, but how much can you help them if you end up crippled, or a corpse?” He waited just long enough to see his argument take effect, then dove through the door, down the steps, and into the basement, hot on Mia’s heels.

  The tunnels were stable, as Tiago said, and the cops apparently didn’t know they existed.

  Or the cops knew they existed but didn’t want to deal with the chill, the dark, or the vermin that had taken over when the gardens were abandoned.

  Gideon didn’t particularly want to deal with them, either, and since the bombing had collapsed the light shafts which had once illuminated the tunnels, their progress was hampered by the limited vision Tiago’s torch provided.

  Still, he figured it was better than dodging the coppers above ground.

  “Why’d you stop?” he heard Mia ask.

  “What?”

  “You stopped moving,” she said. “You were counting again, and then you stopped.”

  “Did I hit 7,852?”

  “I think… yeah. Why?”

  “Long story.”

  She looked as if she wanted to ask about the long story, but Gideon started moving again, leaving her little choice but to follow.

  Eventually (another 223 steps) Mia came to a stop.

  “Here we are,” she said, pushing through a permanently half-open door.

  “And here is?” Gideon asked, following into a basement that looked pretty much like Tiago’s, except here there was a sliver of window letting in just enough light to see all but the most distant corners.

  Not that there was much to see. Mostly just dust, rat droppings, and gnawed up bits of paper and wood.

  “Old school,” she said. “Ain’t been used since the blitz.”

  Something in her voice had him looking more closely at her. “How do you know about it?”

  She looked at him. “Long story.”

  Had that coming, he thought. “How safe is this place?” he asked, peering through the window to see any feet that might be passing by. There were none.

  Mia found a dry spot on the floor and hunkered down. “Safe as houses.”

  He looked at her. “Have you seen the houses around here?”

  “Double-double-ain’t no trouble gonna find us here, safe,” she clarified.

  He decided that would have to do. “In that case,” he said, crouching down in front of where she’d folded herself into a small, hunched, knot, “it’s time to come up with a plan.”

  “For Wendell?”

  “For everyone.” He looked down at his hands, bruised and scraped and marked as a traitor, then up to see her watching him, her dark eyes uncertain in the dim light. “Starting with Celia Rand.”

  “The one who’s a spy?”

  “The one who’s a spy. And then, of course, there’s Killian Del, and the Fagin Ellison issue is still pending.”

  There was a silence as she stared, then looked down at her own, grubby hands. “I thought you said you was done.”

  “Were done, and I thought I was.” Had thought so, for too many years. “Guess I was wrong.”

  34

  Of course it wasn’t going to be simple.

  Gideon’s intention, to net Celia, Del, Wendell and Ellison, would require several elements each.

  First, an irresistible lure, second, no possibility of collateral damage and, third—

  “—more than just you, me, and Elvis to execute properly,” Gideon explained, dropping the stick he’d been using to sketch scenarios into the dirt-encrusted floor.

  The two had hunkered down near the window, but to the side, so no one peering in from the street should be able to see them.

  “I thought there weren’t to be no killing,” Mia said, her face splitting in a yawn.

  “Wasn’t, and any,” Gideon corrected before he caught the yawn contagion himself. “In this case execute meant… facilitate. We need a team if we’re going to facilitate the plan,” he clarified, then fought off another yawn. “And maybe a nap.”

  “You go ahead, I’m fine.”

  Gideon looked at Mia, whose eyes were at half-mast. “Uh huh.”

  “Well, I am. And anyway, don’t you want someone t’keep watch?”

  “Elvis will let us know if anyone gets too close. He has ears like a draco,” Gideon pointed out.

  She stared.

  Gideon sighed. “Yes, the joke is lame, but he does. Come on,” he patted the floor as if it were a nice, comfy mattress. “It’s been a long night for both of us, and you didn’t even get a morph nap like I did.”

  “Fine!” She threw her hands up in the air. “But don’t blame me if the bad guys come upon us all unawares and like that.”

  “I promise, if any bad guys come upon us unawares and like that, I’ll take full responsibility.” He leaned against the wall and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing at the ankle.

  Thankfully, Mia gave up the argument, which only proved to Gideon how tired she must be, and curled up next to him.

  Elvis, who’d been roosting on the spindle of a broken chair propped in a corner, hopped over and stretched himself out on Gideon’s leg.

  Gideon let his head fall back against the chill wall, while Mia’s breathing slowed, and Elvis’ tail ceased to twitch, and really, it was almost homey.

  Except for the creeping damp.

  And the fact he was being hunted.

  And that Celia had his coat.

  Gideon felt a shiver at his side and, without thinking, draped an arm over the sleeping dodger and was surprised when she burrowed deeper under his shoulder.

  It was the sort of thing he thought a daughter might do, if he and Dani had ever…

  “How long will you be away, do you think?” Dani asked, leaning her chin on her crossed arms, her hair spilling over the pillow.

  Like black rain, Gideon thought, as he always did, and curbed the urge to reach out and touch that hair. “No more than a month. Less if there are no Midasians involved. What about you?”

  “One week out to the drop zone, we do what we do in a day.”

  “Cocky.“

  “Confident,” she corrected. “Another two days for the ‘ship to scour the region, and a week back for resupply.”

  “Which means you’ll be out on another mission by the time I get back.”

  “Life in the Corps,” she said, turning to her side so they were eye to eye. “At least during war time.”

  “And when hasn’t it been war time?” he asked.

  “It won’t last forever,” she told him. “Eventually, the Coalition will run out of crystal to power their weapons, or they’ll get tired of beating their regiments against the wall of our Corps. It won’t last forever,” she repeated with a quiet fierceness.

  Gideon wished he could borrow some of the determined optimism but he’d been up close and personal with the enemy for far longer.

  Dani’s home colony of Fuji lay too far west for the Coalition forces to easily reach, meaning she’d grown up far from the conflict. Her childhood, at least, had been unclouded by air strikes and occupations and reprisals…

  “Hey,” she tapped the pillow, “Fortune to Quinn.”

  “Sorry,” he said, but he did push down thoughts of endless battles to focus on the woman currently sharing his bed. It was still difficult for him to believe she was here. “You were saying?”

  “I was saying when
it’s over, you could come home with me.”

  “Home,” he repeated the word, which felt foreign on his tongue.

  His last true home had been a radio tower in Tesla. Since then he’d had a bunk in the infantry barracks, a tent, the sky, an occasional berth on whichever airship was transporting his company.

  Only since his promotion to colonel had he known the luxury of a private room in the officer’s barracks.

  “You’ll like Tendo,” Dani was saying. “All of Fuji is beautiful, but Tendo’s tree line goes all the way to the ocean, and we have snow in the winter. Kids,” she added meaningfully, “really love snow.”

  Home, he thought, staring, and kids.

  Practically in the same breath.

  “Why,” she said, scooting closer, “are you looking at me that way? And if it’s because you don’t want children—”

  “What? No,” he said. “I mean yes. I mean,” he paused, because he wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “Gideon? You’re staring.”

  “Because you’re not real.” The words fell out before he could stop them. “I keep looking at you because I can’t believe you’re real,” he admitted in a rush, and then backtracked when he saw the flash of hurt spark across her features. “Not like there’s anything wrong with you. What I mean is, you couldn’t—shouldn’t—be here. Not with me, I mean.

  “Keepers!” He flung himself onto his back and pressed his arm over his eyes. “Never mind. Just shoot me now and put me out of your misery.”

  “No, I think I understand,” she said, pulling his arm down. “I’m just too good to be true, is that it?”

  “You’re too good for me,” he said, meaning it. She was, after all, an accomplished, educated woman from a high-ranking family. A family he’d never met, and doubted he should.

  “True,” Dani said, though she was smiling as she said it, “but I believe you’ll eventually come to see that, while a truly shining example of womanhood—brave, intelligent, and a crack shot—I’m also only human, and therefore as flawed as the next person.”