Soldier of Fortune: Gideon Quinn Adventures Book One

Chapter 1

Morton Barrens
Maximum Security Penitentiary
February 9, 1449 AL

* * *

Gideon Quinn considered the cards in his right hand. Since said cards were so faded he could barely see the original suits, and since what was visible tended to waver in the glare of the setting suns, they required some serious considering.

While he considered, his opponent—a Nikean the outside world had known as Dr. Ephraim Rudd, but in Morton answered to "Doc," "Prisoner 64326," or, "Hey, you!"—shot one finger out to catch the drop of perspiration sliding from his nose, and brought it to his tongue.

Gideon, long since sweated dry by the day's labor, tried not to envy Doc the pittance of moisture.

The two men were perched on opposite sides of the sandstone slab which served as their table. Both were near in height, though Gideon topped Doc's lanky frame by an extra few centimeters. Both were also tanned by the unrelenting suns of the Barrens, and both bore touches of silver in their hair, despite the fact that Gideon was at least a decade younger than Doc.

Though they shared the genetic trait of blue eyes, Doc's were of a soft, lake-like hue, while Gideon viewed the world through eyes as sharp and dangerous as live crystal.

They both also had the look of men who lived on the prison's notorious rations, but where the doctor merely looked underfed, Gideon's spareness was of a harder, more feral nature, as if all excess had been burned away by the same suns that left him covetous of another man's sweat.

"I'll see your bet," Gideon said once said sweat was safely recycled, "and raise."

"Raise with what?" Doc gestured to the pot, composed of two cigarettes, one and a half rolls of toilet paper, and nine salt tablets, piled haphazardly between himself and Gideon on their slab-slash-table. "Since I'm fairly sure I see all of your worldly goods before me. Unless you're willing to put Elvis in the pot?"

Hearing his name, the draco, currently stretched on the hot sandstone next to Gideon's thigh, raised one of his lids.

"Elvis is off the table." Saying this, Gideon scritched his reptilian companion between the folded wings until the half-open eye closed again. "Okay, technically he's on the table, but—you know what I mean."

"Being a fairly intelligent sort, yes, I do know what you mean," Doc replied with a vague smile.

Gideon always found it something of a wonder that the doctor managed to retain a sense of humor, despite having been incarcerated a good five years longer than Gideon.

It no doubt helped that Doc didn't work the crystal fields, where the subharmonic thrum of that volatile silicate could, and often did, drive those harvesting it to pure, frothing insanity.

No one knew when, or if, the madness would strike. A con might harvest crystal his entire sentence and remain untouched, while some drone, fresh off the barge, would be hearing voices and gnawing at his own arm in a week. Sensitives—those with high psionic ratings—were particularly susceptible, to the point the Corrections Board sent only the worst of the worst Talents to the Morton Barrens.

In six years, Gideon had seen two sensitives come through Morton's gates. One disappeared into the desert a month after his arrival.

The second...

Well, he tried hard not to think about the second.

But Doc, being possessed of a top-flight medical degree from Chandrasekhar, spent his days tending to the sick, injured, and mad inside the prison walls, sparing him the potential loss of self so many of his patients suffered.