Soldier of Fortune: Gideon Quinn Adventures Book One

Chapter 6

Stepping off the tram onto the Lipton Street station, Gideon glanced around to see where he should go next. And to make sure none of the other passengers had any particular interest in him.

After the scuffle at the airfield, he didn't feel inclined to take any more chances.

His glance caught the eye of a sergeant of infantry who'd boarded at the third stop with another noncom. From their speculations on the best places to get a drink, get laid, or, for preference, both, he guessed they were on furlough.

She gave him an assessing top-to-bottom review, hesitating over the draco tucked around his neck, and moving downward with military precision.

The sergeant was a tall woman, he noted, the sort with lots of curves overlaying the muscle, and the interest in her light brown eyes was palpable.

So palpable, Gideon could feel certain parts which hadn't palped in some time coming to attention.

Then her eyes fell on his right hand, and his right hand's tattoo, at which point the interest about-faced to disgust, and she favored him with one last withering glare before taking her companion by the arm and retreating into the rain-drenched streets.

Gideon watched them go, telling himself it was just as well, that he had more pressing issues, that he wasn't a one-night-stand type of guy and—

And that was complete and utter aurochs' crap. Six years in the stir, he'd have gone for a one-hour stand, assuming he could stand for a full hour after such a prolonged drought.

And that, he thought, while true, was also not why the sergeant's rejection had struck him with the force of a fist to the gut.

It was the look in her eyes, the first eyes from outside Morton to have seen the tattoo, and recognize it for what it was.

So, he told himself forcefully, you can stand here in the rain, whinging over a stranger's judgment, or you can take the next step.

Okay, he asked himself, so what's the next step?

I dunno, dumbass, but maybe the map will tell you.

Sometimes his self could be a real pain in the ass.

"What ma—? Oh," he said aloud, realizing he was, in fact, standing directly in front of a map, tacked to the kiosk outside the tram station.

An incredibly detailed map, Gideon discovered, as its borders stretched well beyond the city proper, displaying the city's wind farm to the south, the keeper-protected salt marshes and Oracle Ocean in the west, and the Corps Tactical Division Headquarters in the northeast. To the east was the airfield from which he'd come, and on the opposite side of the river from the airfield sat the mag lev train station.

Turning his focus towards the city's interior geography, Gideon saw that, like his home city of Tesla, Nike followed the wheel plan, with the colonial and city government offices housed in the center of the wheel, and twelve main avenues running from that center like spokes. The spokes created eleven wedges of real estate which were, themselves, connected by streets which circumnavigated the city like variegated hoops.

Each wedge between the spokes was a district and each district had its own district minister, as well as its own park and agri-center, overseen by keepers assigned to the city.

There were some differences from Tesla, he saw.

In Nike, for instance, the university was located in the Second District, near the city center, while most of the manufacturers were in the outer rings of the Eighth, Ninth and Tenth, making use of the river which bounded the city to the north and east.