Soldier of Fortune: Gideon Quinn Adventures Book One

Chapter 20

What eventually came to be known as the Nasa Incident—a designation Gideon always thought too clean, as if it referred to nothing more dire than wearing one's combat uniform to the Regimental Ball—was, to most of the United Colonies, no more than a blip in the wartime annals, at worst a smattering of crystal dust, swept quickly into containment, where it could pose no threat to the well-tuned machine of the Colonial Infantry.

But when he let himself think about it, even Gideon had to admit the—incident—hadn't lasted long.

Minutes only, he'd remember; a handful of minutes to see half his team dead and the rest, along with himself, in detention.

It had been shorter even for Gideon, who'd missed the last of that handful of minutes after a shot of plasma took out a nearby cypress, a small chunk of which had struck him in the head.

He'd woken to the prodding of a boot, and a voice, high-pitched from nerves, demanding he rise and surrender arms.

* * *

At first Gideon didn't understand what the voice was saying, a little because his ears were still ringing, but mostly because he was lying on his side, facing Corpsman Estelle Carver, also on her side.

Carver's eyes were open wide, and staring, as if in surprise.

He figured she must have been at least a little shocked to find that big-ass splinter of cypress spitting from her chest.

The staring contest, such as it was, might have continued indefinitely, had not the sensation of someone pulling Gideon's sword from its sheath likewise pulled his gaze away from the very young (and very dead) radio operator.

"Treason?" He heard himself echo the only word that had sufficiently penetrated the fog.

Then, by dint of sheer stubbornness, he got himself to his feet.

"Treason," he said again, focusing on the also very young (but very not dead) Air Corps provost pointing a fully charged crysto-plas rifle at him. "What, and please, feel free to be specific, are you talking about? And where's Captain Ravine, no..." He shook his head, which surprisingly ached (Tree. Exploding. Right). "Not Ravine," he corrected himself. "Gorge—Chasm—Pitte," he said at last with a dark sort of triumph before starting to move forward. "Where is Captain Pitte, because I want a word with the murdering son of a—"

"Colonel Quinn, you will stand down," the prov snapped, stepping back and bringing the rifle to his shoulder, which might have been more imposing if the kid's Adam's apple hadn't been bobbing with nerves.

As it was, the only thing keeping Gideon from ripping the weapon aside was the fact it was already live, and the prov's finger was tense on the trigger.

"Fine," Gideon said, rocking back on his heels. "I'm standing down. See?" He held his hands out at his sides. "This is me, standing down."

The trigger finger relaxed, ever so slightly, and Gideon took that as an okay to look around, hoping against hope that he'd already seen the worst, with Carver.

He hadn't.

The apiary was a mass of blackened stumps.

The soft Nasa air was thick with smoke, and sharp with the odor of blood, and the ozone-heavy stench unique to crystal plasma weaponry.

The thrum of bees, disturbed from their rest, and the distinctive creak of an airship's tie ropes underscored the otherwise unnatural silence.

Amid the flickering hand torches, he could make out a score of airmen, moving through the smoke-filled night.