Soldier of Fortune: Gideon Quinn Adventures Book One

Chapter 4

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 in 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 gruff 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, or, domesticated dracos, were a rarity.

While his speculation was not entirely wrong, it was also not entirely correct.

After all, this was the Nike airfield, a major hub for air trade in the United Colonies (and beyond, with the recent Peace 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—tall and lean and solitary—who drew the queen's share of the attention.

And then there were his eyes.

Wolf eyes, one passing rigger thought whimsically, until those very eyes passed over hers, leaving her a great deal less whimsical and a great deal more sad.

Gideon, however, missed the rigger's empathetic response. All he'd seen was a woman walking away, and so turned from the reminder of departures past to hear a handful of the Ramushku's crew swearing they smelled rain in the air.

Rain.

Gideon hadn't experienced a drop of rain in over six years. At the mere thought, he felt himself go 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.