Soldier of Fortune: A Gideon Quinn Adventure (Fortune Chronicles Book 1) (27 page)

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY

“I BEG YOUR
pardon?” Gideon asked in a voice that said, quite clearly, You’re smogging kidding me, right?

“Hear me out.” The general held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. “The war is over,” she explained, “and for the most part in our favor. But imagine what would happen to the very delicate peace if it became known a Coalition agent had not only been siphoning intelligence from under the Corps’ nose for at least twelve years, but was still doing so. The public wouldn’t stand for it. They would demand action — sanctions at best and renewed conflict at the worst.”

“I’m not a fan of going back to war,” Gideon said, “but do we really want to negotiate with a power that, by their own spy’s admission, doesn’t think the war is really over?”

“No, we don’t,” her admission was rueful. “But even less do we want to risk a renewal of hostilities. We can’t,” she said, her voice dropping lower, “because if we go back to the field against the Coalition states at our current strength, we will lose. The victories at Allianz and Santander were far from decisive, and both cost us dearly. Still, those victories convinced the Coalition we are in far better shape than they, so they sued for peace.”

Which was not what Gideon expected, or wanted, to hear. “What are the chances,” he asked, “that Odile has already passed that information on?”

“It’s not impossible, but given the very small circle of individuals aware of the gravity of the situation — the thinking is, that if the enemy knew, they’d have taken action by now.”

Gideon nodded, though it all felt a little optimistic. “We were really losing?”

“One more major engagement — two at the most — and the Eastern colonies would have started falling like dominoes.”

“And what about them?” Gideon nodded to where DS Hama and Mia were rolling his cycle to a stop under the pier’s lamp.

“They weren’t privy to Odile’s confession. He knows as much as I have been willing to share, which isn’t much.” 

Somehow, Gideon doubted it’d be that simple. “So, if I can’t talk about Odile, what are we saying happened at Nasa?”

The relief on her face was unnerving, and made Gideon realize how very precarious the United Colonies’ position must be. “It was a crime of passion,” she said. “Celia Rand, in revenge for your refusal of her advances, misled her husband into believing you had assaulted her, leading to his actions at Nasa. Tawdry, I’ll admit, but close enough to the truth that we should be able to make it fly.”

“Make it fly?” Gideon said, “Twenty starbucks say it’ll be on the center stage at the Circus inside the week.”

“I don’t believe I will take that bet,” she said with a small smile, which quickly disappeared as she asked, “And will you do it? Will you keep this secret? I can’t say the Corps deserves your silence, but—“

“I won’t tell,” he said, cutting her off. “Anyway, I’m not sure my truth is any more plausible than your fiction.”

Her smile returned and, as one, they turned towards the dock and started walking. “At least you’ll have your freedom, and your reputation.”

But not those six years, he thought. And those five soldiers are still dead. And Dani—

No, best not to think of Dani.

“You also have your rank,” Satsuke was saying, “if you want it. The Corps still needs people who think — differently.”

By now they were at the landward end of the pier. On the dock to Gideon’s left waited Mia, with DS Hama and to his right the general’s staff car. Her driver was already at the door, holding it open.

It would be easy, he thought, to accept Satsuke’s offer. After all, his entire life had been one of following orders. Dodger, soldier, convict — in fact he wasn’t far from the position he’d been in thirty hours and a half-mile back, stepping off the Ramushku onto the Nike airfield.

As he thought this, a fine rain began to fall.

“Thanks,” he said, pausing at the foot of the pier and looking down at the general. “It means something you’d make the offer but, I don’t think this is the kind of war I’m cut out to fight. It may be I’m due for a career change.”

To what, now, that was the question. He could always take ship, like Horatio Alva, and see where he landed. He could do as Jinna had done when she left the Corps, and find a nice normal job — but see how that worked out for her?

His thoughts danced over to the Errant and Pitte’s crew but even if Jagati didn’t shoot him on sight, there was a bit too much history there.

He looked at Hama and thought, copper? But no, too many regulations, and if there was one thing Gideon was sure of, he was through taking orders.

He thought again of Jinna, and her troubles with Minister Del, and of what he’d learned of the local politics. He thought of DS Hama, a decent cop in a very not decent system, then he thought of the issues in Lower Cadbury, where Tiago was fighting the good fight in his own, unique way.

“What sort of change?” Satsuke asked, no doubt thinking along those same lines.

“I’m not sure,” Gideon admitted as they came up even with Hama and Mia.

“Not sure about what?” Mia asked.

“Colonel — pardon me, Mr. Quinn is having something of a career crisis,” Satsuke told her.

Mia opened her mouth.

“I’m trying to decide what to do with my life,” Gideon explained before she could ask.

“Oh,” Mia said, “that’s easy.” All three grown ups stared and she shrugged. “You can do what you been doing since you got here—“

Hama looked a little panicked.

“— you can facilitate.”

Gideon, already set to protest whatever madness the dodger came up with, shut his mouth. He looked at Mia, then at Elvis, curled around the girl’s neck and then, for no reason he could fathom, to the shadow in the front seat of the general’s car. “I could,” he said, turning back to Mia. “I could absolutely — facilitate.”

The general blinked. “I wasn’t aware such a career existed.”

“Gideon just invented it,” Mia beamed.

“Keepers preserve me,” Hama said, and then explained, "As pleasing as it is to have the likes of Clive Wendell, Erasmus Ellison and Killian Del sharing a cell, never mind the notorious Madame Rand, the paperwork you have generated in one night will keep me busy for a month.”

“Come on,” Mia patted his arm, “it won’t always be that bad.”

Hama didn’t look convinced.

“You’re sure about this?” General Satsuke asked.

Gideon tried on the idea, discovered he liked the fit. “Surprisingly, yes.”

“Then I wish you well,” she said. “May the Corps’ loss be Nike’s gain.” She turned on her heel and started for her vehicle but after three steps stopped and turned back. “Tell me, as a private facilitator, would you be open to the occasional military contract?”

His head tilted as he felt a surge of something too new to recognize. “That depends.”

“On what?”

Gideon’s teeth flashed in not-quite-a-grin. “On whether I like the job.”

“Fair enough,” she nodded. “Goodbye, Mr. Quinn, for now.” She turned again, this time not stopping until she reached the staff car. She climbed in, waited for the Corpsman to close the door, take his seat and start the engine before she spoke to the officer who was sitting shotgun. “You were right. He’s not coming back to the Corps.”

The captain nodded, though she continued to watch Gideon, who was speaking to the detective and the girl.

“I wonder, though,” General Satsuke continued, also watching Gideon, “would he have made the same choice if he knew you were the officer who made his freedom possible?”

“I don’t have to wonder,” Captain Indani Solis, whom Gideon had always called Dani, replied. “He would have returned. Out of gratitude, he would have come back.”

Now her eyes dropped to her left hand, and the wedding band that graced it.  “I don’t see that working out well, for any of us.”

* * *

Outside, Gideon, Mia and Hama waited for the general’s car to drive off before turning for the city, with Mia perched on the cycle with Elvis, while Hama walked it.

As they made their slow way from the riverfront, Mia continued to regale the men with plans for Gideon’s new business, from where to set up shop — near but not in Lower Cadbury, she determined — to the type of jobs he should take to what sort of advertising would best serve Nike’s first ever Private Facilitator.

Hama, for his part, continued to intersperse which laws and statutes would have to be observed to keep Gideon out of the nick and, more importantly, paperwork off Hama’s desk.

Gideon, amused, let them wrangle over the details. For himself, he was perfectly happy to make it up as he went along. Six years back pay from the Corps wouldn’t quite elevate him to the level of a risto, but it would provide a cushion. Enough to keep himself and Elvis and — he glanced sideways at the animated dodger on the bike — his assistant, fed and under a roof while he worked it out. 

In the meantime, and for the first time in his memory, Gideon was free to do as he would.

Chances were what he did would be messy, skating the edges of legality and, if the past thirty hours were any indication, worthy of at least the box theatre at the Circus, but it would also almost certainly be interesting. And who knew but while he was making interesting messes, he might also manage to help a few people out — people like Jinna and Tiago and, Mia and, admit it, himself — people the system had somehow overlooked or left behind or simply turned its back on.

He thought about how hard it might be to find homes for the dodgers currently sheltering with the Keepers at the Elysium, and whether the Ohmdahls had gotten their radio back and what sort of charges Killian Del might be facing. Thinking of Del made him think they should get word to the Errant that it was safe for Jinna to return to Nike if she chose (possibly breaking Rory’s heart) and if she did, what were the chances of her still having a job to return to?

He thought all of that as he walked along with Mia and the detective, and then he thought maybe they should grab some grub, as he was at least a quarter past starving and Elvis was looking a bit grey as he hunched away from the despised rain.

The one thing he didn’t do, as they turned onto the main road to the city, was count how many steps he was taking.

* * * * *

Continue reading for an excerpt from

OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE

An Errant Enterprise

by

Kathleen McClure

with

Kelley McKinnon

Coming soon to your favorite booksellers

JOHN PITTE DUCKED
a sizzling bolt of plasma then straightened, observed the smoking hole the bolt had left in the canyon wall and experienced a sudden surge of anger. Less for almost being killed than for the damage done the multihued strata for which Dyar’s Canyon was famed.

Admittedly, Dyar’s Canyon was also famed for its inhospitable terrain, lack of water and pernicious fauna, but John had always felt a perverse fondness for the place. It was dangerous and beautiful and defiant and didn’t give a lick for the humans who’d created it.

“What the fecking comb are you waiting for?” Jagati O’Bannion asked, slapping him upside the head as she raced past.

“Sorry,” he said, racing after her, “but some people have no respect for nature.”

“Report it to the Keepers,” she called over her shoulder, fogging the desert’s icy air with her breath.

John assumed she was being facetious, and might have said so, but then a series of shouts, followed by more bursts of plasma and a round of crossbow bolts had Jagati spitting out a blistering curse as both she and John turned to lay down a quick burst of suppressive fire.

Thankfully, they were in a particularly narrow section of the canyon, and the bottleneck it formed prevented their pursuers from spreading out to surround them.

The fleeing pair was also aided by the steadily increasing smoke and dust raised by both sides of the firefight. As soon as it reached a sufficient density, John and Jagati, in silent agreement, held their fire and backed quietly away.

Several paces later, the enemy were still shooting at their previous position, so John nodded and they started running again, weaving single file through the jagged crevasse.

“Come on, come on, come on!” Jagati began to chant softly as she clambered over a tumble of fallen stone, her long legs finding purchase with the speed and agility of a mountain goat.

“I’m come onning,” he replied, also softly, one hand on the satchel he wore cross-wise over his jacket.  

He was almost to the top of the rock pile when another shot had him diving the rest of the way over, resulting in an awkward rolling-falling-bruising affair. He continued to roll to his feet with a fresh spate of twinges. “It’s entirely possible,” he said as he continued after his partner, “that taking this job was a mistake.”

From the steady stream of epithets drifting back his way, he could only assume Jagati shared his opinion. He took it as an example of her constant training regimen that she could continue to swear so prolifically while keeping up such an impressive pace. 

“—ing, smog-eating, spawn of a hornet,” Jagati finished off as he came even with her. A sideways glance showed her gilded umber skin was matted with the same yellow dust which coated their clothes. Combined with Jagati’s fierce expression, the end result was rather demonic.

At least she looked threatening. If the back of his hand was any indication, John figured he came off like a victim of Exxon fever.

“We’re close to the LZ, right?” she asked, slowing as the canyon they traversed narrowed to a few inches less than the width of an airship’s crawlspace.

“Almost certainly,” he agreed, nudging her onward while he removed the satchel, which he’d have to carry in one hand in order to fit through the cramped fissure.

“Almost?” Stuck sideways with her head turned forward, he could only imagine her glare. “
Pitte
.”

“Keep moving,” he prompted, not wanting to think what would happen if their pursuers caught up with them. Even more, he didn’t want what he
thought
would happen to
actually
happen.

She hissed, but she kept moving and in minutes that passed like only a few years they squeezed through the other side, where Jagati came to a halt and looked around the wider space uncertainly.

“Pitte,” she said again which, in Jagati shorthand, meant something along the lines of,
‘Tell me we aren’t lost. And if you can’t tell me we aren’t lost, at least tell me we have a plan to become unlost. And if we don’t have a plan to become unlost, feel free to present your ass for me to kick all the way back to the shadow traders’ camp.’

Jagati’s shorthand was an incredible time saver.

“We’re not lost,” he told her.

“Good.”

“Except I think we should already have passed the column that looks like a mastodon’s—“

“
Pitte!
”

“Oh wait,” he held up a hand before her shorthand became punching hand. “There it is,” he pointed to the right, where the distinctive geographic feature had been rendered shadowless in the cold blaze of the noontime suns. “Come along, then.”

Jagati would have counted to ten — no, a hundred — but there wasn’t time.

Instead, she followed John, eyes locked on the rock formation in question. It wasn’t that she needed to stare at the thing now they knew which way to go, it was more that she couldn’t take her eyes off it. “
Overcompensation
,
”
she muttered to herself.

As if in response to her observation, rapid-fire series of plasma bursts cut the suggestive formation down to size.

Jagati ducked, looked back and cursed anew as a heavily armed shadow trader emerged from the crevice.

“Someone should do something about all those guns left over from the war,” she said, following John past the rock formation’s neutered remains.

“Report it to the Keepers,” he threw her own suggestion back at her, his voice oddly muffled as he added. “Almost there.”

“Can’t be soon enough.” She started to jog past him as he kept watch over their seven, then noticed the smoke curling up from the fresh plasma score on his right thigh. “Bees knees, Pitte, you’re h—“

“Heads!” he warned.

She ducked as another burst burned through the air where her head had been, then spun and fired on the foremost outlaw, pleasantly surprised when the distant shape let out a short squeal and dropped.  “Should give them something to think about,” she said, backing away and tucking herself under John’s shoulder. Thus linked they turned and ran for it, each sending random shots back as they did.

“That’s the last tunnel,” he jerked his chin forward, towards an inverted V of a passage which connected to the canyon where their airship was moored. 

An airship their crew-mates should have fired up and ready to fly the second John and Jagati hit the gangplank.

She nodded and urged him faster. “This is a lot more resistance than I expected. Do we even know what it is we’re retrieving?”

“The client chose not to disclose that information.” He disengaged his arm from her shoulder and limped into the tunnel. “When I asked she said it was sensitive, then she started to cry.“

“I hate when they cry,” she followed him into the passage. “Wait! I mean, don’t wait, but, the client’s a
she?
”

“Of course. Didn’t I say?”

“Nooo…” The single word seemed to stretch through the darkness ahead of her before looping back in an echo.

“Well, then, yes, the client is a woman,” he said. “Typical spoiled risto with more money than sense. I’ve no doubt we’re risking life and limb for her great-grandmother’s 7-Up reliquary.”

“Could be worse,” Jagati said. “Could be another one of those ancient torture devices.”

“I believe that was a shoe. An original Louboutin, as I recall.”

“You say shoe, I say spiky pain delivery device.”

“At any rate,” he continued, “whatever is in this satchel meant enough for the client to offer treble the usual rate for a recovery.”

“It’s not enough.”

“At the time, I thought she was overestimating its value.”

“Seems more like she underestimated it,” Jagati said, following. “At least, these guys sure don’t seem too happy to let it go.”

He thought that a profound understatement. “I can see light ahead.”

“Just fifteen minutes,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer, but lengthened his stride, bracing one hand against the side of the cavern until he stepped out into the bright light of day — and froze in his tracks.

Behind him, Jagati came rushing out, only stopping when she ran into his back.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, squeezing past him. “Shouldn’t we be boarding, about now?”

“It was here,” he said, shaking his head as he looked over the wide, flat and (most importantly) empty, space before them. “It was right
here
.” He looked up, shielding his eyes from the suns and she followed suit.

What she saw was nothing. No sign of the Errant, anywhere.

“Son of a — Rory!” Jagati’s hands raised and her boot stomped. “Eitan! This! Isn’t! Funny!” She paused and looked up, as if her shouts would bring the ‘ship crawling back down like a recalcitrant child, seeking momma’s forgiveness.

As John watched, she ran forward into the empty place the ‘ship had been moored, perhaps hoping it would give her a better vantage point, but apparently all it gave her was room to stomp more vigorously, raising a veritable yellow fog. Then she — yes — cursed some more.

“Feel better?” he asked, limping up to join her.

“What do you think?”

“Just asking,” he said, giving the tunnel they’d just exited a meaningful glance.

She growled, then gave him a punch on the shoulder, then led the way to a craggy outcropping at the base of the canyon’s northern wall. It wasn’t much, but it would provide both higher ground and at least a little cover. “I am going to kill them,” she said matter of factly, beginning to climb. 

“Duly noted.” He holstered his shooter and prepared to follow, apologizing to his leg as he did.

“Here,” she called down, “toss me the case.” 

He unslung the satchel and heaved it up.

Jagati caught the strap and slung the bag the over the top edge of the ridge, leaving John hoping whatever was in that satchel survived the trip in one piece.

“There’s level ground up here,” she told him, peering over the top of the ledge. “It’s as defensible as it’s going to get.”  

John simply nodded and started to climb, but a sudden rattling of stone from the canyon wall to his right had him stopping cold. Turning, he clung to the face with one hand and shaded his eyes with the other as he searched for the sound’s origin. What he saw had him releasing his grip on the outcropping and dropping back to the canyon floor. His leg almost buckled under him, but he kept his feet.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jagati asked from on high.

John, in the act of raising his hands, jerked his chin upwards.

As he had, she shielded her eyes from the suns and looked in the indicated direction.

There was a telling silence from above. It told him Jagati had also spied the sniper perched at the canyon’s upper edge.

Just in case there were any doubts, a splat of plasma seared the rock less than a meter from her shoulder.

“It just gets better,” she said, slithering down  to land at his side. “Remind me, again — what made us think this was a good career choice?”

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” John said, “except without the us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked as the first of their pursuers emerged from the triangular tunnel.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing when you mean something!”

“Fine,” he shrugged, then went still as a warning shot from the sniper sizzled to his left. “What I mean is I was doing fine before you came hunting me down in Nike.”

“I did not hunt you down.”

He looked at her.

“Okay, maybe I hunted you down, but you were
not
doing fine.”

“I had a decent job—

“You were an airfield cargo drone.“

“It was good, honest labor,” he insisted. He stared at the oncoming shadow traders a moment, then repeated. “I was doing fine.”

“Sure you were,” she squinted, trying to make out individual shapes in the approaching group, “if by ‘fine’ you mean ready to drink yourself into an early grave.”