Soldier of Fortune

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.

Elvis, meanwhile, crouched on Gideon’s shoulder, hissing 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 gruff voice growled from behind.

Or he could get out of the way, which he did, before the aeronaut behind him escalated from gruff to surly.

Slinging his pack over his left shoulder, he cleared the stepped and moved away from the Ramushku. “Well, Elvis, now what?”

Elvis gave a deep croon.

“Yeah, me neither.”

As he studied the deepening gray of the airfield, another pair of crew passed by.

“Smells like rain,” one of the pair said.

“Rain in Nike?” her companion snorted as they walked on. “Must be a day of the week.”

For Gideon, who hadn’t experienced a drop of rain in over six years, the mere mention of rain had him going weak at the knees.

Maybe there would be a downpour.

Maybe he could just lie 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.

“All the cities in all the colonies and they decide to dump us in smoggin’ Nike.”

The declaration had Gideon turning to see Horatio Alva stopping at his side. “Didn’t you have friends in the theater here?” he asked, recalling Horatio’s stories of the troupe he’d belonged to before the Barrens.

“The Rogues are a traveling company,” Horatio explained before adding, “We were doin’ a show in Nike when I got nicked.”

“Ah,” Gideon said and left it at that. Rumor in the stir was that Horatio had been arrested after running a short grift on the wrong risto.

“Yeah.” Horatio huffed, still staring at the nearby city. “No swarming clue where the Rogues would be now. Or if they’d want—” He cut himself off.

“Sorry,” Gideon said, knowing it was inadequate.

“No worries, mate,” Horatio said with a shrug, the show of indifference belied by a flash of quiet yearning in his eyes. “Smog it,” he cursed as the airfield lights flickered to life, their glow making the gray skies seem darker. “I’m for the river,” he decided. “I’ll lay odds there’s at least one steamer shipping out tonight.” He glanced at Gideon. “Want to come along? Like as not one of them boats will be headin’ to Ford.”

“There’s nothing for me in Ford,” Gideon said.

Horatio nodded. “They say you can never find Earth, again.”

“Who’d want to?” Gideon wondered.

“True enough,” Horatio agreed with a dry laugh before shouldering his pack. “Good luck to you, 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.

With a strange weight in his chest, Gideon turned his back on the river to find himself alone with the gently bobbing Ramushku.

The crew had long since dispersed, and there was no sign of the three other ex-cons who’d flown with them.

Focusing on the wet (Wet!) airfield, he considered his options because, unless he really wanted to bunk on the tarmac, he needed to get moving. Except there remained the question of where to go.

In the now, all he had was himself, Elvis, and the stack of starbucks handed to each of the parolees as they debarked.

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.

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, the only intentions that mattered were his.

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 Dani.

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.”

Gideon took in the woman’s simple clothing, the way her hand rested on the hilt of her crysto-plas shooter, and her stance.

He was also forced to admit, later and only to himself, he only registered the gun after he spent some quality milliseconds on her velvety brown face, green eyes, and prominent cheekbones.

“We?’” Gideon asked.

Even as he spoke, her partner appeared in Gideon’s peripheral vision.

“We,” she repeated.

“Ah,” Gideon said, studying the newcomer, who was male, slightly taller than the woman, but with the same nondescript clothing, same coloring, same eyes.

A brother, Gideon assumed, and likely a twin.

Interesting.

Of greater interest was the live shock baton the he-twin held, similar to those used by Morton’s guards.

“You’ll come with us,” the she-twin said.

Gideon considered the statement. “Is that a request?”

“No.” The he-twin raised his ominously humming baton. “It’s a fact.”

“Uh huh,” Gideon said, but rather than comply, he let out a short whistle and ducked left while Elvis launched to the right.

The he-twin lunged—too late, as the side-stepping Gideon grabbed his attacker’s extended arm by the wrist, continuing to pivot and twist until the he-twin was forced to drop the baton, which bounced over the tarmac in a flurry of sparks.

Elvis swooped down to claim the weapon in his hind claws, flapping off with it while Gideon swung the he-twin around to block the she-twin’s shot.

Lucky for her brother, the she-twin pulled her gun to one side in time for that shot to go high and wide, crackling in the open air and unnerving a pigeon roosting atop the stack of crates.

Gideon used the next half-second to bring the back of his fist to the brother’s temple, stunning him before throwing him directly into the she-twin with enough force to knock her to the ground.

Joining the prone siblings, Gideon placed a careful boot on her wrist, applying just enough pressure for her to know he could apply more if she didn’t release the shooter.

She released the shooter, and he kicked it across the tarmac.

“Backup?” he asked.

She grimaced. “Right boot.”

Gideon nodded, checked the boot and, sure enough, found the knife she’d have thrown into him as he walked away.

He tossed the blade after the gun, checked the brother’s boot, and found a—ha—twin to her own, took that and the short sword from he-twin’s belt, and threw both in the opposite direction from his sister’s.

Gideon looked down at the woman. “Tell Rand I said hi.”

Then he grabbed his pack, dropped during the not-a-fight, and clicked for Elvis.

Once the draco had come to land on Gideon’s shoulder, he started toward the airfield gates and the rest of the passengers boarding the city-bound tram.

He looked up as a soft mist began to fall, muting the airfield’s lights, and sheening the tarmac to a mirror finish.

It seemed the Ramushku’s crew had been right about the weather.

Perhaps it was the novelty of the rain, or the simmering haze anger left by the fight, but when another figure slid from the shadows of the control tower to join the queue of inbound travelers, Gideon didn’t notice.