Soldier of Fortune

One hand pressed to the plasma wound on his side, Gideon clung to the side of the compost lorry and tried not to inhale the varying degrees of rot infusing the air around him. He had no idea how far they’d traveled but was getting woozy from the fumes.

“Do you even know how to drive this thing?” he yelled forward at the same time the vehicle came to a jerking halt, slamming Gideon against the side.

The lorry’s engine hissed as the power was shut off, then the right-hand door popped open to reveal a widely grinning Mia. “You say something?” she asked, then narrowed her eyes as she got a good look at Gideon. “You look like you could use another bath.”

“I asked if you could drive—never mind.” He shook his head and started to climb out, only to be knocked back into the rubbish by a giddily swooping Elvis, who’d trailed the vehicle the entire way. “Ouch,” Gideon said, then rubbed cheeks with the draco, who’d come to rest atop a mound of rotting greens to hiss his concern at his person.

“He was worried,” Mia said.

“So was I.” Gideon offered the draco one more gentle stroke before gritting his teeth and hauling himself out of the muck. “So should you be,” he added, dropping next to her and tapping his right shoulder, where Elvis immediately came to rest, talons lightly pricking through the fabric of Gideon’s shirt. “The cops won’t be long tracking down a stolen compost lorry.”

“I know. That’s why I drove it here,” she said, jerking her chin to the right.

Gideon followed her prompt but, in the monochrome of Nike’s misty dawn, he could barely make out what he was seeing.

What first came to mind were the blocks his sergeant’s daughter used to play with. She’d build these monstrous structures and then knock them over, laughing like a hyena as they went tumbling.

The buildings in front of him reminded him very much of those blocks . . . after the fall.

“Where is here?” he asked, following her as she headed into what had to be a condemned neighborhood.

“Lower Cadbury, or what’s left of it, after the forty-seven bombings. Best get moving,” she prompted as he seemed hesitant. “It’s safe enough, and the coppers won’t go in past the first two blocks.”

“Because they don’t have a death wish.”

“The suns are never bright enough for you,” she groused.

At that Gideon had to laugh, then he hissed.

“Oy!” She poked at his side, apparently only just noticing what was going on under all the decayed vegetables. “You’re hurt!”

“Ow,” he said pointedly, and she dropped the poking finger. “One of the officers had a jumpy trigger finger.”

“The coppers put that beating on you, as well?”

“No. Look, it’s not so bad if I can get clean.”

“Not sure there’s enough water in the Avon for that,” Mia said doubtfully but started to lead the way.

Gideon took one step after her, then froze as he realized something was missing. “She took it!”

“What?” Mia, already several steps ahead, looked back.

“That murdering wasp took my coat!” he said before realization of the loss hit him like a ton of Lower Cadbury’s bricks.

“What wasp?” Mia started back. “Gideon?”

On his shoulder, Elvis began to croon anxiously.

In the distance, he could hear the wail of the police sirens.

And still Gideon didn’t move—couldn’t—as a kind of fugue settled over him.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He shook his head, the action causing the world to tip uncomfortably enough he had to lean forward and rest his hands on his knees.

“Gideon,” Mia said, creeping up to touch his arm. “We gotta scarp.”

He looked up, met her anxious eyes. “You’ve got to scarp,” he said, forcing himself to stand up straight. “I’m done.”

She blinked, then stared. “What?”

“I said, I’m done. Listen,” he held up his bloodied right hand, the left still pressed to the seeping wound in his side, “it was bad enough when it was just Rand after me, except it wasn’t Rand, or not only Rand because Celia was always there, playing me. Playing him too, I guess,” he rambled, barely aware of Mia watching him the way one would watch a dog with the first hints of foam at its mouth. “The black swan who betrayed them all.”

“Swan?”

“Played the cops, just now,” he said. “Played them so well they’re looking at me for Rand’s murder.”

She stayed where she was, watching. “Did you do it?”

“No. But I can’t prove that.” Any more than he could prove his innocence at Nasa. Rand—no, Celia—no, Odile—was just that good.

“I don’t care what the filth thinks.” Mia gave a shadow of her usual shrug. “I’m not sure I even care if you did for the bugger, I just care you’re honest with me.” She started to turn again.

“Mia.” She stopped but didn’t look back as he continued. “I’m not kidding. I’m done.” She remained still, shoulders slumping in the tunic, which he now saw had a new tear in it. “You should get going,” he said, but it was like talking to a wall—or himself, age thirteen. “Dammit, Mia—”

“What?” She spun around to face him, her hands flying out in exasperation. “What? What d’you want from me? A pat on the back? A handkerchief? What?”

“I—”

“So this wasp of yours . . .” She cut him off with a two-handed wave. “She put them mangy twins after you and had Nahmin dope you and set you up for a killin’?”

Gideon, watching the dodger the way he’d watch a grenade with a popped tab, nodded.

“She did all that, and now you’re all ‘boo-swarmin’-hoo, she has my coat’—”

“I don’t believe I used those exact—”

“So you’re done?” The hands, which had been continuing to flap in exasperation, dropped to her sides. “That’s not done. That’s quitting!”

“Well—”

“But all right. Fine. Quit. Be done.” She shoved her hands in her pockets and glared with enough disdain he almost couldn’t see the disappointment. “Done and dusted, and rotting inna nick because if you can’t be bothered to get your own coat back from some fancy-pants upper-comber risto wasp—”

“Did I mention she’s a fancy-pants upper-comber risto wasp spy?”

“Fancy-pants upper-comber risto wasp spy,” Mia amended, “then what good are you?” Then she paused.

Gideon waited.

She looked at him. “Did you say spy?”

He opened his mouth to answer but didn’t get a chance because just then, from somewhere nearby, they both heard a cry for help.

A cry that was suddenly truncated as if the one calling had been violently silenced.

“That way,” Gideon said, gritting his teeth and launching himself past Mia. Elvis was already airborne, flapping his way deeper into the bombed-out tenements.

“We’re not done with this,” Mia called, but Gideon, with his long legs, was outpacing her, adrenaline doing its bit to make him forget his recent trials.

Mia, her own teeth gritted to the point of aching, raced after Gideon, catching up just in time to see him flying at a large, mean-looking tough. He tackled the bastard so hard they both went rolling over a pile of street rubble, so all Mia could see of the fight was the occasional fist or elbow.

The entire scene was punctuated by the odd grunt, curse, or screech—that last courtesy of Elvis—who was circling wildly above the fight.

Figuring Gideon had things under control, she turned to a young man who, from his prone position and ghost-pale face, was the one who’d called for help, and offered him a hand up. “You okay there, mate?”

“I . . . Yes. I think.” The youth patted himself absently as if making sure all his parts were still there. “I hope he doesn’t hurt Wendell. That would only make it worse.”

Mia looked at his bloodied lip, torn shirt, and scraped shoulder. “It could get worse?”

From behind the pile of rubble, a rough tenor shriek was followed by a significant thud, then Gideon’s head popped up from behind the wreckage. “Everyone all right here?”

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

“Wendell was after his monthly payment,” the young man, who had introduced himself as Tiago, explained.

Forty minutes had passed, and Mia was now seated in Tiago’s kitchen, in one of Lower Cadbury’s remaining habitable buildings, while Gideon stood in the door, buttoning the clean shirt Tiago had loaned him—after cleaning and dressing his multitude of wounds.

Lucky break, he thought, coming to the rescue of a medical student. “I’m guessing this payment has nothing to do with rent,” he said, beginning to roll up the sleeves.

“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 which, Gideon had no doubt, was why Mia let that “babes” statement pass. “But, yes, Wendell’s been running his protection scheme since about a year after the Adians dropped a payload on Lower Cadbury. And I pay him because if I don’t, he’ll burn my clinic down.”

“I thought you was still a student?” Mia asked, crumbs spewing forth with the question, much to Elvis’s delight. “Sorry.”

“Fourth year,” Tiago replied with a small smile. “But I was born in this neighborhood, so rather than pay more rent to live elsewhere, I live here for nothing and use my 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 in Lower Cadbury, which had fallen on hard times when the enemy forces made their first and only successful attack on Avon’s capital city. Theory had it they were trying for the Corps Tactical Division to the city’s north, but for reasons no one would ever know, had dropped their payload on the unsuspecting residents of the Lower Cadbury neighborhood.

Some of the survivors moved out, but there were many in Lower Cadbury too poor or too stubborn to relocate.

These were the people Wendell, with his crew of enforcers, promised to protect from burglaries, arson, and various other acts of violence.

Those who paid remained mostly untouched.

Those who didn’t, or who were late on their payments, found themselves experiencing all manner of difficulties.

“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 biscuit 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 golden 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.

Gideon huffed, stared at his tea. “What if someone could make Wendell go away?” he heard himself say.

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

“Oh, Gideon didn’t kill no one,” Mia assured the young man.

“Anyone,” Gideon muttered.

“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. “Maybe they take murder more serious than lifting’ 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.”

“He didn’t,” Mia promised.

“It’s complicated,” Gideon added.

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 garden tunnels that are stable. I often use them during winter to get around.”

Gideon looked at Mia, who nodded. “I’ve used ’em.”

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

“Thanks,” Gideon said.

“One more thing,” Tiago said, then dashed from the kitchen, returning bare seconds later with his medical bag in hand. “You’ll want these,” he said, offering Gideon a stack of pain-patches. “I’d give you something stronger but—”

“But I need to stay sharp.” Gideon accepted the patches. “Thanks.”

Mia slapped Tiago on the arm, which Gideon assumed was her version of a thank you, then dashed for the front door of the flat.

Gideon clicked for Elvis and 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 promise I’ll do what I can to—facilitate—your situation. 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.