Soldier of Fortune

“Oy, Mister! You okay, then?”

The small person—girl, Gideon’s slowly focusing mind told him—drove away the last whispers of the dream, though her voice still sounded muffled, like it came to him through a lake.

Or fog.

Gideon had experienced such a fog more times than he cared to count, in an assortment of medical facilities.

“Mister?” the girl asked again.

Gideon held up a “just a minute” finger or three, then leaned over the bathtub’s edge and shoved said finger(s?) down his throat until he could successfully puke up what had been mostly a very nice dinner, with the small exception of the morph included somewhere in the meal.

“Oy! That’s disgusting.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” he croaked, falling back into the tub.

The girl’s head tilted inside the hood of her tunic. “Then why’d you do it?”

“Because unless you’re under the surgeon’s knife, morpheus is better out than in.”

“And how d’ye know . . .” she began, then stopped herself. “Because you’ve been under a surgeon’s knife.”

“A time or three.” He reached out and grabbed the towel draped over the edge of the bathtub. Once he’d covered as much as possible, he leaned back again and closed his eyes, because seeing was still an unpleasant proposition.

“You gonna die?”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t open the eye. “Not presently, I don’t think.”

A moment of expectant silence passed, but what the kid expected he couldn’t say.

He also couldn’t say why there was a kid in the bathroom in the first place, or why a stiff, cold breeze shivered over his skin, or why he heard the steady sound of rain.

He should probably ask about that.

He didn’t, not even when he heard the sound of water running from the sink’s tap or felt a hot, damp cloth pressed to the talon marks in his shoulder.

Talon.

Draco.

Elvis!

If the window was open . . .

But then he felt the distinctive touch of the draco’s head against his cheek and relaxed.

“He sure likes you,” the girl said.

“We’ve been through a lot together.”

“Looks like you’ve been through more,” she observed. “I ain’t never seen so many scars.”

He thought she shouldn’t be seeing them now, except it wasn’t that big a towel.

“How’d you get so messed up?” she asked.

A childhood in occupied Tesla, half a lifetime soldiering, six years in hell . . .

“It’s complicated,” he said to the backs of his eyelids.

This statement was met with another silence, followed by more running water, followed by the slopping, scraping, swooshing sounds of someone cleaning up.

He cracked an eye open to see the girl using the last clean towel to dump the broken shards of his teacup in the waste bin before moving over to the—aha!—busted window to clean up those shards.

At least now he knew why it was so cold.

He looked over the side of the tub and noted she’d used the second-to-last clean towel to wipe away his regurgitated dinner. He didn’t ask where said towel had ended up.

“Who on toxic Earth would ruin a nice dinner with enough morph to knock out a mammoth?” he asked instead.

“Someone what wants you dead?” The girl shoveled window glass into the bin.

“Guess that rules you out,” he commented. “By the way, I’m Gideon. Thanks for saving my life.”

She shrugged, but rather than offer her own name, dropped the glass-filled towel into the bin with a shake of her hand, sowing the bright white fabric with a field of tiny red drops.

“You’re bleeding.” Alarmed, Gideon tried to stand and instantly regretted the attempt, not just because of the lingering dizziness but because he almost dropped the towel.

That earned a snort from his damsel to the rescue. “So are you.” She pointed to the cloth on his shoulder, stained with long red streaks.

“Still, you should clean that hand.”

“Already did, mother, but thanks.” Though she did take a moment to pat it dry with a bit of tissue, but only, Gideon felt certain, to keep him from fussing.

“How’d you cut yourself, anyway?” he asked, then answered his own question. “You cut yourself when you broke the window. But why did you break the window? Right, because you were outside,” he continued the trend.

She stared. “You talk to yourself a lot, then?”

He stared back. “You were outside?”

“Well, I wasn’t hiding in the loo, was I?”

“Okay. But . . . why?”

“Would you rather I left you to drown?”

“Absolutely not. But you know, most folks would wonder why a kid your age would even be in the position to break a second-story window so she might come to the assistance of a drowning man in the first place. Then again, I’m not most folks, and neither are you, I’m guessing. Just like I’m guessing you’re the one who started tailing me at the tram station.”

He enjoyed a brief flash of triumph in being able to surprise the seemingly unflappable girl.

The enjoyment was quickly squashed as she shoved a loose coil of black hair behind her right ear. The sleeve of her tunic fell back, revealing the livid bruise around her wrist.

That got him to his feet.

“Who did that to you?”

“What? Who did what?” She looked around herself, startled.

“That stinger of a bruise you’re sporting,” he said, one hand on the wall and the other gripping the towel firmly in place.

“It ain’t nothing,” she said, yanking her sleeve down.

“Isn’t anything,” he corrected automatically and almost laughed at the look she shot him. “Sorry, but seriously, did your fagin do that?”

She bit her lip, then shrugged. “What would you know about fagins?”

“Only what I learned from mine, back in the day.”

“Your . . . you had a fagin?” That got her interest. “Nah.” She dismissed the idea immediately. “No way you was a dodger.”

His head tilted as he considered the kid. “Why not?”

“Because,” she said with the air of one pointing out the obvious, “you’re old.”

“Well, ouch.”

“I mean, you know, you’re grown up, is all.”

“I didn’t start that way.”

“Fine,” she shrugged again, “but not many who start as dodgers sign on to the Corps, do they?”

“They did if they were dodging during the Tesla occupation,” Gideon countered, then frowned as he habitually avoided reminiscing over his days in Tesla during the occupation.

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

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

“Good boy,” Gideon said. “It’s okay, you did okay.” He’d be feeling the slices from Elvis’s 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? I mean, it’s kind of obvious I’m not rolling in starbucks.”

The girl didn’t answer, but her eyes darted to Elvis, then to the floor.

“You wanted Elvis,” Gideon realized. “You wanted my draco.” He thought about that. “Why did you want my draco?”

“Not me,” she said quickly. “Fagin Ellison’s the one who 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 a crowded city with Elvis perched on his shoulder.

The smart thing 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.

“Okay,” he said as, with some care, he stepped out of the tub. “Let’s start with you don’t have to worry about me calling the filth. 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.”

“But then I’ll be out!” she protested in a voice sharpened by fear. “That’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 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. I won’t let that happen.” From her expression, he figured his promise sounded as asinine as his previous statement. “I know there’s no reason to trust me—”

She snorted, he presumed in agreement.

“—but you’re going to have to trust me. Mostly because, even if I were willing to 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 leave me to drown?”

She shrugged, scuffed her feet. “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. 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? Do you know who dosed me?”

“I don’t know, know. I just seen this bloke leaving while I was out there.” She pointed to the window. “Poison-green jacket and 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, then went on to describe her rival’s actions, from the way he’d changed his clothes in the alley before entering the inn’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.”

“Okay,” 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. 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 overreached, missed the trousers, and almost fell over.

She sighed, loudly, then grabbed a handful of clothing and handed it to him.

“Thanks.” He took the clothes, straightened up, and waited.

She crossed her arms over her chest and waited too.

“Do you mind?” he asked, making a “turn around” gesture.

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

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

“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 gotten blood on his clothes.

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 his 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 leaped 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 toward the coach and four pulling into the square.

That there was a horse-drawn carriage at all was impressive, as most city dwellers used public transpo. The moderately well-off might spring for a crystal-batt car or cycle, but only ristos had enough of the ready to support livestock that had no purpose other than to look good.

More impressive still, the four horses drawing the carriage were perfectly matched blacks, and the carriage itself 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.”

“They are.” Gideon nodded toward the family crest emblazoned on the glossy black door. “That’s the Rand family crest.”

“So what does that mean?”

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