Soldier of Fortune: A Gideon Quinn Adventure (Fortune Chronicles Book 1) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Kathleen McClure
him, it seemed, to the city of his enemy. "Don't waste it."
He did not look back.
* * *
Half an hour after the Ramushku lifted off from Morton Barrens with the newly paroled Gideon Quinn aboard, a valet (he had other skills but nonetheless was an excellent valet) entered an elegant study where General Jessup Rand and his wife were relaxing in front of the fire. In his hand he bore a silver-chased tray upon which sat a folded piece of paper.
“What is it, Nahmin?" Rand asked, though his attention remained fixed on the book in his hand — a non-fiction treatise making the rounds on the origins and practices of the ancient Earth church of Football.
“A telgram, sir, from a Mr. Finch.”
Rand looked up sharply, took the note and read it through. Though his expression remained easy, his eyes were hard indeed.
"Problem, darling?" his wife asked from where she lounged on the sofa, reading one of her favorite Old Earth classics.
"No," he lied, smoothly, "not a problem. I've just received word of an old friend coming to town on very short notice."
"Will there be a reply, sir?" Nahmin asked, with barely a flicker of a glance towards Madame Rand.
"I believe there must," Rand said, regretfully setting aside Clash of the Titans and rising. "If you'll excuse me, dear?"
"Of course," she said, her nose already buried deep in the book, in which Jacob and Edward were once again at odds.
Only the fingers of her right hand moved, tapping away to some unheard rhythm as Nahmin followed her husband out of the room.
C HAPTER F OUR
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.
Less enthralled with the climate was Elvis. The draco crouched on his habitual perch on Gideon's right shoulder, tongue darting and triangular head tilting almost upside-down 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 voice growled from behind.
Or he could get out of the way, which he did, before the crewman behind him escalated from gruff to surly.
Once off the gangplank, he stepped away from the barge, slinging the pack containing all his worldly belongings over his left shoulder. "Well, Elvis," he said to the draco, "now what?"
Elvis gave a deep croon.
"Yeah, me neither."
At a loss, Gideon remained still, scratching his draco's head and staring out towards the city.
After a time, he became aware of a number of airfield crew pausing in their labors to study him. He assumed it was Elvis holding their attention. Dracos — domesticated dracos — were a rarity.
While his speculation was not entirely wrong, it was also not entirely right. After all, this was the Nike airfield, a major hub for air trade in the United Colonies (and beyond, with the recent Accords), and source of a thousand odd stories of what might come off a docking airship.
Rumors of anything from contraband crystal to smuggled antiquities to stowaways (or rather, the remains of stowaways) in the bilge-keel circulated from 'ship to ground and back to 'ship on a daily basis.
All of which meant that, as interesting as a tame draco might be, it was the man standing on the tarmac who drew the queen's share of the attention.
He did not look back.
* * *
Half an hour after the Ramushku lifted off from Morton Barrens with the newly paroled Gideon Quinn aboard, a valet (he had other skills but nonetheless was an excellent valet) entered an elegant study where General Jessup Rand and his wife were relaxing in front of the fire. In his hand he bore a silver-chased tray upon which sat a folded piece of paper.
“What is it, Nahmin?" Rand asked, though his attention remained fixed on the book in his hand — a non-fiction treatise making the rounds on the origins and practices of the ancient Earth church of Football.
“A telgram, sir, from a Mr. Finch.”
Rand looked up sharply, took the note and read it through. Though his expression remained easy, his eyes were hard indeed.
"Problem, darling?" his wife asked from where she lounged on the sofa, reading one of her favorite Old Earth classics.
"No," he lied, smoothly, "not a problem. I've just received word of an old friend coming to town on very short notice."
"Will there be a reply, sir?" Nahmin asked, with barely a flicker of a glance towards Madame Rand.
"I believe there must," Rand said, regretfully setting aside Clash of the Titans and rising. "If you'll excuse me, dear?"
"Of course," she said, her nose already buried deep in the book, in which Jacob and Edward were once again at odds.
Only the fingers of her right hand moved, tapping away to some unheard rhythm as Nahmin followed her husband out of the room.
C HAPTER F OUR
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.
Less enthralled with the climate was Elvis. The draco crouched on his habitual perch on Gideon's right shoulder, tongue darting and triangular head tilting almost upside-down 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 voice growled from behind.
Or he could get out of the way, which he did, before the crewman behind him escalated from gruff to surly.
Once off the gangplank, he stepped away from the barge, slinging the pack containing all his worldly belongings over his left shoulder. "Well, Elvis," he said to the draco, "now what?"
Elvis gave a deep croon.
"Yeah, me neither."
At a loss, Gideon remained still, scratching his draco's head and staring out towards the city.
After a time, he became aware of a number of airfield crew pausing in their labors to study him. He assumed it was Elvis holding their attention. Dracos — domesticated dracos — were a rarity.
While his speculation was not entirely wrong, it was also not entirely right. After all, this was the Nike airfield, a major hub for air trade in the United Colonies (and beyond, with the recent Accords), and source of a thousand odd stories of what might come off a docking airship.
Rumors of anything from contraband crystal to smuggled antiquities to stowaways (or rather, the remains of stowaways) in the bilge-keel circulated from 'ship to ground and back to 'ship on a daily basis.
All of which meant that, as interesting as a tame draco might be, it was the man standing on the tarmac who drew the queen's share of the attention.
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