Soldier of Fortune

Detective Sergeant Ishan Hama was, as Mia had surmised, a decent cop.

He took no bribes, believed in justice for all classes, and did his best to keep the peace in a city that had been under the cloud of a war that had taken not only his home but his husband, Paolo, who had gone down with the UCAS Tenochtitlan.

Even now, years after the fact, Ishan could too easily recall the numbing cold he’d felt the day he returned to the precinct, fresh from tamping down a potential riot, to see a captain of the Air Corps in his dress blues waiting by his desk.

Ishan was recalling that moment right now, in fact.

Probably because the young man seated next to his desk was the very image of a young Paolo.

“You okay, Dad?” Tiago asked.

“I am quite . . . okay,” he said, hoping his son couldn’t see the old distress. He cleared his throat, tapped his pencil, and shoved his untouched tea a bit to the left. “So, you believe you have seen the man we are looking for?”

“Yes, like I told Officer Prudawe ten minutes ago and DS Couerliane when she knocked on my door at home.”

“Home.” The word came out more as a derisive snort.

“Don’t start,” Tiago said.

“Of course not.” Ishan waved his hands in parental frustration. “After all, what business is it of mine if my only son chooses to dwell in a derelict building, putting his life in danger every day for the sake of—”

“For the sake of our neighbors,” Tiago said. “The same people who used to join us for tea in the morning, and to celebrate First Landing Day, and who came to Pai’s funeral—”

“Don’t start,” Ishan echoed his son’s earlier directive. He glanced around at the nearby desks, where other detectives and officers were suddenly very busy with the paperwork they usually avoided like a plague. “This is not the time,” he added.

“It never is.” Tiago sighed, slumping back in his chair as if he were fourteen and not twenty-four.

The two men sat so for another moment before Ishan moved his chair slightly, the squeak of wood against wood reminding him of the purpose of this interview. “About the suspect. Can you give me the description?”

“I already—”

“Told Prudawe and Couerliane. I know, but every time you tell the story, you may include another detail, and so we paint the picture one telling at a time, yes?”

“I’m sorry. Yes,” Tiago said, then he took a long slow breath and began.

Dutifully, Ishan recorded that the man Tiago had seen was tall and thin and looked a right mess.

Riding in a compost lorry after being shot whilst jumping from a second-story window could do that. Ishan looked up when his son paused. “Is there anything else?”

“Right, umm.” Tiago closed his eyes. “His hair was sort of undecided,” he said at last. “Not quite brown, not quite blond, but with some silver at the temples. I think there was a tattoo, here.” He pointed to the back of his own right hand. “And his eyes were blue.”

Which matched the man Ishan had seen at the Rand townhouse, along with the description from the Elysium Inn.

Then he thought of the body of General Rand and the distraught widow . . .

“. . . but he didn’t seem like a bad sort.”

“I’m sorry?” Ishan said, realizing with a start he’d been doodling rather than listening to his son’s statement.

Tiago’s mouth quirked in a slight smile. “I was saying, the man I saw, he was a mess, but he didn’t seem like a criminal. He seemed decent.”

“Perhaps he is,” Ishan said, taking a sip of tea that hadn’t been hot for nearly an hour. “But decent sorts are seldom found on the windowsill of a murder scene.”

“He could have been framed,” a new voice cut in.

Both men turned to see a young girl dressed in a roughly made tunic.

Ishan’s eyes narrowed as he recognized her as one of the dodgers the Nike police were forever chasing. Before he could ask what she wanted, his eyes fell upon the draco riding on her shoulder. The beast had done an admirable job of camouflaging itself in her coiled hair but was now peering out of the dark curls and tasting the air with quick licks of its forked tongue.

It took everything Ishan had to suppress the childish glee the creature’s presence elicited.

Tiago, meanwhile, hopped out of his chair. “Mia,” he said, staring down the child. “What are you doing here?”

“Did you get it?” she asked, ignoring his question as her eyes darted from Tiago to Ishan. “About him bein’ in the window, so’s maybe he was framed. Window? Frame?”

Neither man said anything.

“Pfft.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Why do I bother?”

A few short but significant blocks from Lower Cadbury, Gideon was settling into a chair in the flat Mia had directed him to, watching a short, slender woman with dark hair bustle from the kitchen.

“Here.” Sonja Ohmdahl, mother to the Ohmdahl triplets, pressed a Stolichnayan-style cup with a tooled allusteel holder into Gideon’s hands.

“Thanks.” He took hold of the metal holder and sniffed the tea with gratitude as he sat on a sturdy chair in the Ohmdahl’s front room. He warmed his hands against the clear glass and tried not to stare at the Ohmdahl matriarch.

Apparently, Sonja Ohmdahl was used to this sort of speculation. “They don’t come out that big, you know,” she said with a knowing smile. “Especially triplets.”

“I’d hope not,” Gideon said, looking to where Rolf, Ulf, and Freya all stood in various states of bedhead—a wall of sleepy blond muscle at their mother’s back.

Good humor aside, Sonja was still standing in front of Gideon, obviously waiting for him to drink his tea.

He raised the cup and smelled an abundance of lemon, typical of Stolichnayan tea, and took a tentative sip.

Bitter, bright . . . tasted like tea.

Just like the soup had tasted like soup, and the liqueur had tasted like liqueur, he reminded himself.

Yeah, but these are the Ohmdahls, his self said back. The Ohmdahls don’t do subtle.

He drank half the cup in one swallow. “It’s very good,” he told Sonja.

“Of course it is,” she said. “There is nothing like Kopernek tea to cure what is ailing you. Even if what ails is too much vodka, yes?” This last she addressed over her shoulder to her offspring.

“Yes, Mama,” Freya replied, hefting her own cup and slurping enthusiastically.

“But it is not too much vodka ailing you, I think.” Sonja turned back to Gideon. “I think what ails you has more teeth?”

“Actually,” he said, setting the cup aside and leaning forward in the comfortable chair, “that’s what I wanted to talk to your children about.” Sonja’s head tilted curiously, and the triplets, as if tuned to their mother’s mood, became very attentive. “I wondered,” he said to the three of them, “if you’d be interested in a job.”

“A job?” Ulf perked up.

“What kind of job?” Sonja asked, giving her son a quelling look.

“A potentially dangerous job,” Gideon admitted. “One that’s unlikely to pay anything, but if it goes well, will put some very bad people away for a long, long time.”

“This sounds like a terrible job,” Sonja said. She looked at her children and sighed. “And you had them at ‘dangerous.’”

“When do we leave?” Freya asked, confirming her mother’s suspicions.

Gideon smiled. “Two things first,” he said. “One, do you have a city directory, and two, would you happen to know where I could get my hands on a two-way radio set?”

In an unprecedented instance of good luck, they not only had the directory but also the radios, a holdover from the triplets’ days in the Stolichnayan infantry.

“The solar pack is pretty old,” Freya said, putting the radios in a carryall for Gideon. “It may only work for a few minutes.”

“If this plan works the way I hope, a few minutes is all I’ll need,” Gideon assured.

“That,” Sonja observed, “is a very big ‘if.’”

Mia wouldn’t say DS Hama’s reception was particularly honey-like, but at least he wasn’t looking to clap irons on her.

And finding Tiago here had been a nice surprise.

“You know this girl?” Hama asked Tiago.

“I—it’s complicated,” Tiago offered weakly.

“Funny.” Mia picked up the noticeable slack. “That’s what Gideon always says.”

“Gideon?” Hama looked at her.

“Does Gideon know you’re here?” Tiago asked.

“Gideon?” The detective echoed himself, rising to stare at Tiago. “You know Gideon Quinn?”

“Not know so much as . . . we’ve met.”

“When Gideon saved Tiago here from a thug what was asking protection money,” Mia said brightly.

“Protection?” Hama turned on Tiago. “You said your lip was split by a fevered patient.”

“Not helping,” Tiago murmured. “Dad,” he began, turning to Hama.

“OY!” Mia jumped on that. “DS Hama’s your dad?”

“It’s—”

“Stop! Both of you! Be silent,” Hama snapped.

Mia and Tiago shared a glance, but they remained silent, as did everyone else in the room.

“You,” Hama pointed to Mia, “wait your turn. You,” he said, turning to Tiago, “why did you not say you’d met Quinn? You know he is dangerous.”

“You’re right about that. He is dangerous,” Tiago said, ignoring Mia’s warning hiss. “But I don’t believe he is a murderer.”

Hama closed his eyes for a moment, and his lips moved.

Mia, staring at him, realized he was counting.

“Very well,” he said upon reaching the number ten, “what makes you believe—despite having been found at the scene, covered in the blood of the man who put him in prison—that Quinn is not a murderer?”

“Because he’s . . .” Tiago seemed to flounder a moment before landing. “Because he really is decent.”

Mia smiled.

Hama stared at his son for a moment, his face devoid of expression, then he turned to Mia. “Your turn,” he said. “Why did Quinn send you to the police?”

“Not the police,” she shook her head, “you.”

“Me?” Though why that should surprise him more than any of the other revelations, he didn’t know. “Why?”

“Because,” she said, looking from Hama to Tiago and back, “you’re decent.”

Hama stared. Possibly counting again.

Then Hama sighed. “Perhaps you should tell me what your Msr Quinn wants.”

Once in possession of the radios, and the addresses he needed from the directory, Gideon laid out the Ohmdahls’ portion of the plan.

Once he had, and Sonja had promised to reinforce both the instructions and the timing, repeatedly, he took his leave, heading back to the Elysium Inn. He entered through the back door and strode into the kitchen as preparations for tea were underway.

“Msr Quinn?”

He looked left, to where the young keeper who’d delivered his dinner was up to his elbows in potato peelings.

“Hi,” he said brightly. “Keeper . . .”

“Bren,” Bren filled in automatically, shaking peel from his hands. “And that’s Keeper Thalia. Or it was,” he added as Thalia, the middle-aged keeper who’d been sautéing onions at the grill, had left the room.

Hopefully not to teleph the coppers, Gideon thought.

“Keeper Bren,” he said, smiling. “I don’t suppose my room is still available?”

“What? Oh! Yes. You’re paid up through tomorrow, but—”

“Great, that’s great. With any luck, I’ll be needing it tonight.”

“Only did you—”

“I also wondered if there’s a Hive Master in the inn I could speak to?”

“There is, and he’s here,” a deep voice boomed across the kitchen.

Gideon turned to see a man of medium height, burly build, and a no-nonsense expression enter the kitchen, Keeper Thalia at his side.

“I’m Master Donal. And you’d be Gideon Quinn, would you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

Donal’s eyes narrowed.

“I told you,” Bren began, then closed his mouth so fast Gideon heard his teeth clack as Donal shot him a look.

“Tell me,” the Hive Master addressed Gideon, “what were you doing in my winter wheat last night?”

“I wasn’t in your winter wheat last night,” Gideon said. “I did mess with your composter, so I guess I owe you some damages to the wall,” he added. “And then there was an issue with my bathroom window for which . . . okay, I don’t have any cash left, but maybe we could work something out?”

“Never mind that, for now.” Donal waved it aside as Bren’s face split into a grin.

“I told you,” the youth said again. “That Ellison fellow was off the mark.”

“Ellison was here?” Gideon asked, then shook his head before muttering, “It really is a comedy of errors.”

“I love that play,” Bren beamed.

“Bren . . .” Donal shot the youth a warning glance, then focused on Gideon. “Msr Ellison was hiding in the wheat field and accused you and a dodger of having attacked him.”

“From what I’ve heard of him, that tracks,” Gideon said. “He’s a fagin,” he explained to the waiting keepers. “And he abuses his dodgers—I’ve seen evidence of it,” he added, his gaze going dark. “I mean to stop it.”

“Interesting,” Donal said, his own expression shifting. “You do know the police are looking for you?”

“And I intend to let them find me,” Gideon said. “Eventually.”

“Eventually?” Donal’s brow arched in curiosity.

“Yes, sir,” Gideon said. “But before then, I wanted to ask a favor. I’ve been out of the world a while, but I’m hoping keepers still offer sanctuary?”

“We do,” Thalia said before Donal could respond.

“As my wife says,” the Hive Master echoed. “Though if you’re requesting sanctuary from the police—”

“No—well, yes—but not for me,” Gideon said.

“All right,” Donal said, arms crossing over his barrel of a chest. “Let’s hear what it is you’re wanting.”

Erasmus Ellison was cooling his heels in the outer lobby of the Ninth Precinct building, something he tried to avoid at all costs. But that Hama fellow had insisted Ellison needed to swear out a warrant against his alleged attacker, Gideon Quinn.

Now here it was, well into the day, and his dodgers would be back at the hive, unsupervised, where Ellison was sure they’d be helping themselves to a portion of the night’s takings, leaving him just enough to avoid a beating.

Bad enough Mia was running loose with that thrice-damned draco, he’d not lose an entire night’s take just to help the constables search for this Gideon bleeding Quinn.

Disgusted, he rose from the narrow slice of bench he’d managed to hang on to, fully meaning to scarp when he spied Mia in the company of half a dozen coppers from the Elysium, including Hama and Prudawe.

Oddly, Mia wasn’t being hauled in by the filth, but rather leaving the building in their company, chatting easily with a civilian youth and, most damning of all, that bloody draco on her shoulder.

Ellison was shocked, not so much by her presence, but by the way she stood tall, her hands moving expressively, her face open and relaxed in a way he’d never seen.

It never once occurred to him this was what happiness looked like.

What did occur to him, once he was able to see past the red haze, was that she was going somewhere with the coppers.

Not twenty seconds later, he was out the door, watching her climb on the back of DS Hama’s mag-cycle, while the youth straddled Officer Prudawe’s vehicle. All around them, officers were hopping on their rides, checking their weapons, all practically glowing with eager efficiency.

Ellison hated every bleeding one of them.

As cycles hummed to quiet life, he glanced around and, oy! It looked as if some honest citizen had left their Edsel Comet right in front of the station, mistakenly assuming their property would be safe in front of the coppers’ house.

What honest citizens never thought was how many criminals passed through the precinct on a daily basis.

Less than half an hour after meeting Gideon, Donal, Bren and two other keepers departed the Elysium, carrying one of the Ohmdahls’ radios.

Gideon followed a few minutes later with the other radio, and the faintest hope that his plan might actually work.

If, that is, Mia had been able to persuade DS Hama to follow her lead, and if the Ohmdahls played their roles effectively, and if the targets responded as Gideon expected.

A lot of ifs, he told himself.

If you have any better ideas . . .

Not surprisingly, his self had nothing to offer.