Dark Edge of Honor

by Aleksandr Voinov

  The weight of his sidearm, harnessed at his side beneath the shroud of his loose robes, suddenly dragged at him like an anchor. Between his shoulder blades, against his thighs, the knives. Taking stock of his arsenal reassured him, but the weapons were far from necessary. His body was a more lethal weapon than the sharp, serrated blades or hollow-point bullets. Rudimentary weapons. Old and outdated, some would say, but he could use them with skill and accuracy. The same could not be said for laser weapons designed to function in space. Sensitive technology had a severe dust allergy.

  Large windows, which maximized the flow of air through the structure, proved a godsend. That, and it was just pure dumb luck that the driver’s unmistakable profile appeared out the door of a second-story balcony.

  “Hello, sunshine,” Mike whispered, indulging a loose, lopsided grin. It faded quickly, though, when the Doctrine soldier came into full view, stepping out into the open.

  He wasn’t just a driver. The metallic glint of rank, polished brass contrasting on the crisp dark navy blue uniform, told a different story entirely. Not high-ranking, but if this man was a peon then Mike had just hit a fucking jackpot.

  The mother lode.

  “This is far from secure, Brother General.” The deep baritone carried across the short distance, smooth and thick, so heavily accented it took a few seconds of lag for Mike’s brain to translate.

  It was a pathetic excuse for a balcony—forget a lounge chair, the soldier barely had room to pace its measure, let alone turn around. The man studied the structure, bounced his weight back and forth in his widespread stance, arms folded. Mother of gods, the man was built like a battle cruiser and easily topped six foot. The spread of his shoulders dwarfed the doorway at his back. There was no missing the strain of musculature beneath the dark fabric and blood-red pinstriped trousers as he shifted his weight, then twisted to glance back over his shoulder, into the dark confines of the room behind him.

  Words were exchanged, unintelligible. The driver turned his back to the room again, looking tense, stiff. Or maybe that was just how he always was. That steel-rod-for-a-spine look might be as relaxed as he got.

  “Yes, Brother General. This entire region is a security nightmare. It’s not just the building.”

  Mike wondered if someone got paid to pee in their cornflakes each morning. Grinning, he tucked his clothing back into order and turned away, heading down the cattle-chute alley in search of a surveillance spot.

  Chapter Three

  Anger pulsed in Sergei’s veins, a sullen, vibrating rage that threatened to take over his mind and was already pounding against the inside of his skull. Doing a job was one thing—and stabilizing the region was a job—but not having the tools to achieve it was a totally different matter. While men and matériel streamed into the area via the neighboring planet Arrif, and then from Rhada into Dedis, the most strategically important provincial capital, it took no imagination to see that this would be anything but an easy game.

  Liberty’s military academy had educated him thoroughly in military history. Enough to understand that, unless they found a way to defeat Cirokko in an entirely new way, the planet would earn its nickname once again. Fool’s Gambit.

  He knew better than to mention it. The brother general wasn’t stupid. He would have voiced objections to the methods, but the decisions were made by the Committee back home on Liberty. The general merely made it happen. His career depended on it. Sergei’s too. But it was impossible to think “Cirokko” without remembering other powers that had tried to take a bite out of it. The Alliance, about a hundred years ago, before it joined the Intergalactic Peace League and became non-expansionist. The League of Seven just twenty years ago. Unable to cut its losses, the League had bled itself dry in a way that it couldn’t have won anyway. But the Seven had then been swept up in the Doctrine, desperate to rebuild its morale and sense of purpose.

  No Doctrine theory would solve the riddle of how a backwater planet like this could break the spirit of armies and their leaders.

  “Brooding?” the general asked.

  Sergei snapped back into reality. “Brother General.” He straightened.

  “What’s going on in your head?”

  “Nothing, Brother General.” The only safe answer. He didn’t actually believe the general believed him, but at least the man would know he preferred to play dumb and thoughtless. Such a non-Doctrine pastime, speaking one’s mind when it had nothing to do with duty.

  “We’ll meet the local leaders tonight. How good is your Cirokkan?”

  “Don’t they speak Doctrine standard?” The interplanetary trade with this rock went back far enough.

  “Most will be able to. I know some of them from their time on Liberty. A few have studied there, but it will be useful to show some goodwill and respect. We are guests, after all.”

  Guests coming in with a few thousand armored assault vehicles and tens of thousands of men. Sergei inhaled deeper, held the breath so it didn’t turn into a sigh. The general’s clear light blue eyes still seemed able to read his anger, his dissent. Dangerous. Sergei sometimes wondered if the man protected or just indulged him. He had to turn away to not see the general’s powerful build, so at odds with the high rank.

  What he really wanted to do was fight, do what he’d been trained for, to lead and fight and win. After having been penned up so long in transit, he was burning for action.

  “We might stay overnight at his guesthouse. It might be too late to return to the Dedis barracks.”

  Sergei paused, then looked into his superior’s face again but wasn’t sure what he saw there. Humor? Something else? “I will pack a change of clothes.”

  “Good. Dismissed. I’ll see you in two hours, Brother Captain.”

  Sergei busied himself with all the little details military life required—inspections, making sure things functioned, paperwork, writing reports. He changed clothes and picked up the general in his quarters. The man looked refreshed as if he’d had a nap and a shower. The best way to spend time in this infernal heat.

  With the brother general in the backseat, nose buried in his pad, intent on personal correspondences, Sergei drove to an older building on the southeastern side of Dedis that the local province leader used as his formal residence. Inside the high white wall, a well-kept garden belied the starkness of the surrounding mountains. Fruit trees and lush green. The owner welcomed them both in perfect Doctrine standard, and the general and Sergei responded with a few words in Cirokkan before they settled for standard.

  Sergei struggled with his impatience while the general and the local leader exchanged small talk about families and the weather and the trip. It amazed him how they could talk for hours, smiling and pleasant, but saying absolutely nothing of consequence. Sergei forced himself to smile and nod every now and then and say something in the affirmative.

  Other guests joined them, and the natives served them many courses of food, invariably spicy and rich. The small talk continued for a few more hours. This was a complete waste of time. The evening dragged on forever, increasing the irritation and frustration he’d harbored for weeks.

  Worse, still, he was watching the brother general, and that was always a bad idea. Something about the strong lines of the man’s jaw and lips, the sunburned face, the clear eyes and the air of authority hit him low in the guts, and he had to remind himself not to stare. Every now and then the man’s gaze flickered to him and Sergei turned his eyes away. The last thing he wanted was for his superior to notice.

  No. Impossible. He couldn’t possibly know that.

  It was well past midnight when the host finally broke off the chat and had servants lead the guests to their quarters. The vast house contained large, airy rooms with wide-open windows. Yet another security nightmare. They were the kind of windows that made Sergei want to drop into a combat crouch, knowing a sniper could stalk him from afar.

  Before the servant could guide Sergei off down the hall to his room, the general intervened. “B
rother Captain, stay for a moment?”

  Sergei inhaled deeply, expecting a chewing out for not having said much. But he simply wasn’t a social butterfly. Not after a long day of guarding his emotions and responses. It had left him withdrawn and angry at nothing in particular. “Of course.” He waved the servant off. He’d find his own way, later. Or ask. He knew that much Cirokkan.

  The general closed the door and locked it, then settled on a couch. Sergei stood there, waiting, watching the man take off the hat and place it on the wooden table. The shorn silvery hair shimmered in the golden light of two lamps in the far corners. Sergei looked at the balcony for a moment to avoid staring at the strong, tanned neck.

  The general seemed lost in thought, his gaze on the center of Sergei’s body for a full minute. When he glanced up, his eyes were hard and searching at the same time. “Stay the night.”

  Sergei stiffened. It was half order, half offer, and had him breathless like a punch to the short ribs. He began to question, to ask for clarification, but that stare told him he’d heard correctly. His hands tightened into fists. A test? A trap? Or was the general the same as him? What had given him away?

  “Go into the main bedroom. Through that door.” The general leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Undress and get into the bed. Switch off the light.”

  Sergei swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. His heart was pounding, all tiredness and boredom gone, replaced with a sense of danger. If this was a test…he was failing it.

  He looked at the man’s face but couldn’t detect anything beyond the general’s expectation of obedience. He went into the bedroom and undressed, glad to get out of the stiff uniform and let the night breeze cool him somewhat. The shutters were closed but a breeze still came through the woven material.

  He arranged his uniform like he would in the barracks, so he could get dressed quickly in case of an alarm. He slid between the cotton sheets and switched off the only lamp. A bit of blue-white moonlight poured in over the rugs on the stone floor. He lay there, eyes adjusting to the darkness, feeling naked and in terrible danger that he couldn’t resist.

  Just when he was about to lose his nerve, the door opened. He heard somebody undress. The moonlight played over the short silver hair, but Sergei didn’t watch the man. In the dark, he could have been a stranger. That was the reason behind this. They were just bodies.

  A weight settled on the mattress. A hand brushed away the thin covers, ran over his body from his pecs to his abs, to his cock. Sergei inhaled when the hand began to stroke him. He hadn’t been touched like this for too long. He bit back a sound when that hand concentrated on the tip of his cock, keeping it covered with the foreskin but massaging it skillfully. Not a word, not a sound from the other man. Sergei closed his eyes, thrusting into that hand, wanting more than the slowly grinding pleasure. His hands dug into the mattress because he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch the general—the general was doing this, what an outrageous thought.

  No sound. His breath speeding up, Sergei fought every small moan that tried to escape with each exhale, tried to still himself and keep from squirming. When he was getting close, the general stopped and drew back. “Turn around.”

  Sergei turned but grimaced. He wasn’t sure he wanted this, wasn’t convinced he should allow it. But they’d come this far. The officer left for a moment, then came back and knelt between his knees. Something hot and slick and blunt nudged his ass. He inhaled sharply. The officer pushed, and Sergei gritted his teeth. The first sound. A groan when he couldn’t enter immediately. He struggled, slipped, then pulled Sergei’s hips toward him, fingertips digging roughly into his skin. Obedient, Sergei pushed back, flattened his spine and waited for his superior.

  Another attempt to get inside him, this time, slower, more insistent, until Sergei had no choice but to yield. The general must have used some oil or grease. Nevertheless, the burn was hard to ignore. Damn, he was big, Sergei thought as the stretch really registered. Then the rest of the cock shoved in, making him rock forward. No. Too much.

  Careful what you wish for.

  The man’s body was flush with his—pubic hair, balls, strong thighs. Hot skin on hot skin, then one of the hands found his cock again, stroked him, which took his mind off the burn. Damn it, general knew what he was doing.

  Sergei grew completely hard again, then the other man moved inside him, against him, his oiled fist rewarding him for the burning sensation. Sergei couldn’t help but groan, pushed back and forward, wanting both now. The burn had melted into something else, was now welcome, and the harsh, quick thrusts were perfect together with the way the man pumped him.

  He came with such force that it surprised him, but the general wasn’t done. He pushed Sergei forward into the mattress and fucked him harder, and harder still. This didn’t feel good anymore, but Sergei was too exhausted to resist or protest. After all, that man was still his superior.

  He tightened against the intrusion, making it worse for him, but he sensed a new urgency in the thrusts and concentrated on suppressing the discomfort and helping the general get to orgasm. Finally, it came. Sergei felt the spurts inside, noticed the fingers dig into his shoulders, arms, that deep, shuddering sound from on top of him.

  The general pulled out and rolled off him. Sergei turned away to get out of the wet patch and stared at the ceiling. He was sore, sated, no longer brimming with energy and anger. It had calmed him, even if it was also disturbing. He slid to the side of the bed to get dressed.

  “Where are you going?”

  Sergei hesitated. “Where should I go?”

  “Stay,” the general said. Hardly more than a sleepy murmur.

  The door was bolted and locked. He’d just have to remember to rumple the bed in the other room tomorrow. Just to be safe.

  Chapter Four

  Mike lay on his back and stared up at the night sky thick with stars, not really seeing the constellations he now knew by heart. The roof was coarse and rough, still warm, radiating into him, soothing. He rolled his head to the side, staring at the camera on its tripod nearby.

  Not sure what to make of the images burned onto that datachip.

  Two men, disappearing into the same bedroom? A smirk pulled at the scabs on his lips, and he sucked on the flush of blood leaking from the wounds. What little he’d seen through the telescopic lens had puzzling but obvious implications.

  The relationship between these two Doctrine soldiers went deeper than the customary superior and subordinate. He stared back up at the stars, gears turning in his head, trying to work through the potential benefits of this discovery. Trying to figure out what his handler would have to say about it, once Herschel saw this stream of damning images.

  Suggestion and extrapolation based on the circumstances, but nothing concrete. Not even a touch. And with the privacy blinds securely in place on the only window of the bedroom Mike had access to, he had nothing that would serve as direct blackmail. It could all be explained away, with ease.

  He peered through the lens at the main room of the general’s suite. Curious, not wanting to miss a glimpse of either man if one happened to emerge from the bedroom.

  No movement, though. The room remained dark, devoid of life.

  His handler would likely find more interest in the shots he’d captured earlier in the evening. Of the guests in attendance at this little dinner party, identifying those sympathetic to the Doctrine presence here.

  The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  Fucking politics. Always with the politics. Mike moved into a squat, collected his equipment with swift efficiency and vanished from his rooftop perch, leaving no trace of his presence.

  Not until he was safely back within the confines of his hovel in a run-down part of Dedis, as spartan as any military barracks he’d ever lived in, did Mike let himself relax and entertain thoughts of what actually transpired between the two men once they’d moved out of sight.

  Until the images of the young driver’s face began searing into h
is mind’s eye, flashing across the insides of his eyelids when he shut his eyes to block them out.

  Yeah, that.

  He’d caught a glimpse of something in the man’s face, just for a brief moment, that he’d understood only too well.

  Indecision. The battle between one’s wants and the need for self-preservation.

  The two rarely aligned.

  Gray eyes in a moonlit face, features made harder by the stark contrast of shadows.

  Mike pushed off his cot in an abrupt surge of movement, unholstered his weapon and set about cleaning it. Dismantled it into a dozen pieces, removed every bullet from the magazine cartridge. Every piece cleaned, oiled and polished, before being reassembled.

  Then he cleaned his knives.

  And then he strapped them all back on and spent the rest of the night flowing through every flow his sensei ever taught him, over and over. Until his muscles began screaming. And then he did them a dozen more times, feeling the sweat trickling down the curves of his body, following the groove of his spine, the lines of his stomach and ribs.

  The past would not own him.

  No. He focused on the precision of each movement, the tense-and-release of each muscle. His body was his, every inch of it. A weapon to be employed as he chose. It would not betray him.

  Dawn was painting the eastern sky when Mike finally slowed, slumped to the floor. The packed dirt felt cool against his forehead, smooth beneath his shins, and he let the sensations suffuse his mind. Reveling, finally, at the emptiness. He turned his head to watch the darkness of night bleed away, felt the heat of the encroaching day saturate the air.

  “Mind-fucking zombies,” he muttered under his breath. It would be a pleasant day in hell before he’d utter words as mild and politically correct as Doctrine aggressor with any sincerity. Was too much like drinking vodka and calling it water.