Like the rest of the warriors gathered around the table, Gideon knew about the bad blood between Lucan and Tegan. It centered on a female--Tegan's long-dead Breedmate, Sorcha, who'd been taken from him back in the Order's early days. Tegan lost her first, tragically, to an enemy who turned her Minion and left her worse than dead. But it was by Lucan's hand that Sorcha perished, an act of mercy for which Tegan might never forgive him.
It was a grim but potent reminder of why most of the warriors refused to take a mate. Of those currently serving the Order, only Rio and Conlan had Breedmates. Eva and Danika were strong females; they had to be. Although the Breed was close to immortal and very hard to kill, death was a risk on every mission. And worry for Breedmates being left behind to grieve was a responsibility few of the warriors wanted to accept.
Duty permitted no distractions.
It was a tenet Gideon had learned the hard way. A mistake he couldn't take back, no matter how much he wished he could.
No matter how many Rogues he ashed, his guilt stayed with him.
On a low, muttered curse, Gideon yanked his thoughts out of the past and entered the last string of his programming code into the computer. He flipped the switch that would execute the commands, and waited.
At first nothing happened. Then...
"Bloody brilliant!" he crowed, staring in triumphant wonder as the red LED lights on the front panel of the processor illuminated in an undulating wave pattern--just as his program had instructed them to. The warriors all looked at him with varying expressions, everything from confusion to possible concern for his mental wellbeing. "Will you look at this? It's a thing of f**king beauty."
He spun the processor around on the table for them to see the technological miracle taking place before their eyes. When no one reacted, Gideon barked out an incredulous laugh. "Come on, it's remarkable. It's the bloody future."
Dante smirked from his seat across the table. "Just what we needed, Gid. A light-up bread box."
"This bread box is a not-yet-released tabletop computer." He took the metal lid off so everyone could see the boards and circuitry inside. "We're talking 8-bit processor and 256-byte memory, all in this compact design."
From farther down the table, Rio came out of a casual sprawl in his chair and leaned forward to have a better look. There was humor in his rolling Spanish accent. "Can we play Pong on it?" He and Dante chuckled. Even Con joined in after a moment.
"One day, you'll stand in awe of what technology will do," Gideon told them, refusing to let them dampen his excitement. No matter how big of a geek he was being. He gestured to an adjacent closet-like room where years earlier he'd begun setting up a control center of mainframes that ran many of the compound's security and surveillance systems, among other things. "I can envision a day when that room full of refrigerator-sized processors will be a proper tech lab, with enough computer power to keep a small city up and running."
"Okay, cool. Whatever you say," Dante replied. His broad mouth quirked. "But in the meantime, no Pong?"
Gideon gave him a one-fingered salute, smiling in spite of himself. "Wankers. Bunch of hopeless wankers."
Lucan cleared his throat and brought the meeting back on track. "We need to start ramping up patrols. I'd like nothing better than to rid Boston completely of Rogues, but that still leaves other cities in need of clean-up. Sooner or later, things keep going like they are, we're gonna need to evaluate our options."
"What are you saying, Lucan?" Rio asked. "You talking about bringing on new members?"
He gave a vague nod. "Might not be a bad idea at some point."
"The Order started with eight," Tegan said. "We've held steady at six for a long time now."
"Yeah," Lucan agreed. "But things sure as hell aren't getting any better out there. We may need more than eight of us in the long run."
Conlan braced his elbows on the edge of the table, sent a look around to everyone seated with him. "I know of a guy who'd be a good candidate as any, I reckon. Siberian-born. He's young, but he's solid. Might be worth talking to him."
Lucan grunted. "I'll keep it in mind. Right now, priority is taking care of business at home. Six Rogues ashed last night and another nest in our crosshairs is a decent place to start."
"Decent, yes," Gideon interjected. "But not nearly enough for my liking."
Rio gave a low whistle. "Only thing sharper than your mind, amigo, is your hatred for Rogues. If I ever fall, I'd not want to find myself at the end of your blade."
Gideon didn't acknowledge the observation with anything more than a grim look in his comrade's direction. He couldn't deny the depth of his need to eradicate the diseased members of their species. His enmity went back about two centuries. Back to his beginnings in London.
Dante eyed him speculatively from across the table. "Counting the suckheads you took out last night, how many kills does that make for you, Gid?"
He shrugged. "Couple hundred, give or take."
Inwardly, Gideon did a quick tally: Two-hundred and seventy-eight since coming to Boston in 1898. Another forty-six Rogues lost their heads on the edge of his sword, including the three who slaughtered his baby brothers.
He could no longer picture the boys' faces, or hear their laughter. But he could still taste the ash from the fire as he tried desperately to pull them out of the burning stable the night they were killed. Gideon had been hunting Rogues ever since, trying to douse his guilt. Trying to find some small degree of redemption for how he'd failed to protect them.