He had a gut feeling this assignment would only get worse. Apparently the Doctrine adherents were as eager to fuck with each others’ minds as they were everyone else’s. No real surprise there. Mike just hadn’t braced himself to witness such an act firsthand, in such an intimate way.
One more deep breath, with his eyes shut, slow and centered, the air in his lungs heavy with the scent of earth and minerals, then he made himself get up off the floor and move. The datachip from the evening before needed to go into the case with the rest of the growing collection, labeled with date and time. He put an asterisk on this one, though.
One of the local dissidents fancied himself an avid photographer. He’d met the man months ago while taking shots of crucial geographic locations, under the pretext of photographing wildlife. Patel had the luxury of a quality printer capable of generating hard copies. Few people on this barren rock could make that claim. Technology was grotesquely scarce.
Mike stroked a finger over the label on the datachip, grimacing. He had a strong urge to get this one printed on his own. For various reasons. Mainly, he didn’t want to wait another two weeks to get a positive ID on the players in this game. He couldn’t afford that sort of delay, and this planet had a shoddy uplink connection at the best of times. Unreliable, and right now nonexistent. That the decision was even partially influenced by the desire to protect the young Doctrine officer and his chosen activities wasn’t an obstacle Mike wanted to tackle just yet.
He couldn’t really give a shit for the general. Except in terms of what intel could be gleaned from the man’s behavior patterns.
But the driver…Mike was willing to admit to a certain amount of fascination there. No harm in that. He wasn’t about to let it influence his activities in the least. Or his interpretation of events and information. That he even considered omitting the damning evidence from his report gave him pause.
The datachip disappeared into his tightly clenched fist. Knowledge was power. If he simply gave his handler the pictures, nothing much would come of this.
On the other hand, if he divulged what he truly suspected? Well…things would play out differently. How, though, he couldn’t begin to imagine. He could hear the man’s questions in his mind, the handler’s coarse rasp of a voice grating against his ears.
What made you think that? Why, exactly, is it the most probable scenario?
What the fuck could he say to that? How would he answer? Because I recognized the look on the man’s face. I didn’t need to be in the room to know exactly what the hell was going down.
Right. That would go over well. Herschel would look at him as if he’d finally lost his mind, and he’d be pulled back to central command before he could draw breath to rescind his comments. Sadly, CovOps personnel didn’t have much of a sense of humor.
Mike crammed his fist into the pocket of his tunic, burying the datachip beside the small notebook he kept stashed there. With a swipe of his thumb, he secured the lock on the slim storage case holding the datachips awaiting a viable uplink and gave no further thought to the decision his gut had made for him.
“You don’t know, you only think you do,” he told himself, slamming items back into his kit with more force than strictly necessary.
Bracing his hands on the edge of the table, he leaned over and closed his eyes, head hanging. He took a deep breath, collected his nerves and returned to the task of packing up the last few straggling items with measured, cool efficiency.
He never publicized his sexual preferences. That aspect had never influenced the execution of his duties, his professional ethics or his employment. He refused to give that part of himself enough power to influence anything. It had no bearing on any of it, and anyone who thought otherwise would be proven wrong.
Breakfast was found in the marketplace, eaten on the move. Patel was more than eager to assist a fellow photography hobbyist with some prints. In next to no time at all, the glossy, hi-res photos were spitting out of the machine. Mike was impressed with the quality of the result, given the noises the piece of equipment made. Dust and technology didn’t get on well, especially not over long periods of time. He looked at the airy window in the room critically, then out at the view, taking in the harsh landscape, the jagged line of mountains in the distance. No wonder this rock had the reputation it did.
The sleeve of prints was in his small kit, safe against his back and hermetically sealed against the elements. He hoofed back in the direction of the province leader’s residence and was about halfway to his destination when he caught sight of it. Coming straight down the road toward him. The general must have indeed slept in late, among other things, to only now be headed back toward the Doctrine barracks and command center in central Dedis.
Mike felt a sudden swelling of adrenaline as he moved over to the side of the road. He lowered his chin, tugged on the cloth covering most of his face, and tracked the vehicle in his peripheral vision. He had no reason to be nervous—the Doctrine forces were oblivious to his presence, more concerned with pandering to the locals and winning favoritism points judging by the numerous faces he’d recognized in the photos. Patel had, surprisingly, labeled a few unknowns for him, somber but eager to assist. Yet another ally for the list. Mike was grateful for each one.
As far as the soldiers were concerned, he was just another local jamming the roads between point A and point B. The landcar was rugged, heavy, and probably guzzled gas like a camel on crack at a watering hole. It was dented, dusty, scratched all to hell, but the driver had a steady touch on the controls.
Mike paused at the corner of a building near a cross street to watch, safely out of the way. He wasn’t the only wandering pedestrian in the area, and he leaned against the wall, taking the opportunity to rest in a shrinking spot of shade and catch a swig of water from his canteen.
The vehicle moved by, passing within a few feet of him, and he mourned the lost opportunity for a few shots. Sadly, there wouldn’t have been anything innocuous about that, if one of them happened to notice. So he watched as the general leaned forward in his seat to rest a hand on the driver’s shoulder. The young Doctrine officer tensed, but that was it. His attention remained outside the vehicle. Scanning the narrow, crowded street for hostile intent.
That hard gaze passed right over him, once, before he was out of range. Mike slipped around the corner and let himself have a nervous breakdown for a brief moment, closing his eyes to focus on breathing steadily while the water sloshed in the canteen from the shaking of his hand.
Monday dinner parties turned out to be a predictable part of the general’s schedule. Pandering to the locals long into the night left the Doctrine general’s quarters empty. Not entirely unattended, but close enough that it didn’t matter for Mike’s purposes. So he began to have a schedule on Monday evenings also. Fill a chip documenting which local leaders were present, which ones weren’t, and who didn’t look particularly pleased with the way the wind blew.
And when they retired for the night, Mike retreated back across Dedis, scaled up to the roof of the officer’s building. Dropping down onto that security nightmare of a balcony, he accessed the main room without detection or fear of interruption. Despite having a touchscreen pad in which he stored all his digital correspondences and information, the general had a penchant for hard copies. Maps, highly sensitive orders printed on heavy stock with fancy letterhead, and even a few personal notes from local natives in a beautiful flowing script that looked almost artistic. Mike captured images of command orders, troop movements and details about alliances with province leaders. He couldn’t take the documents with him, but the digital camera was more than sufficient to the task.
Herschel gave him a strange, calculating look when Mike proffered the sleeve of developed prints again at their second meeting. Once was a coincidence, twice reeked of intentional sabotage. A few pictures didn’t make it into the file, but Mike didn’t feel compelled to mention they existed…in his personal collection. A few were shots from that first e
vening. But in the four weeks since then, he’d passed on snapping a picture more than once in order to avoid printing an entire chip’s contents on his own. Erasures would be noticed, recovered. Questioned.
He sat down in the rickety excuse for a chair, legs sprawled more for balance than comfort, and kept his fingers busy lighting a smoke. He couldn’t bring himself to hate his handler very much—Herschel had excellent taste in tobacco and kept him well stocked. The man knew the value of such commodities in this armpit of the intergalactic community.
“What’s this, then?” The man turned away, giving Mike his shoulder as he flipped the sleeve seal open with a sharp snap.
“A couple chips were too damaged for uplinks, so I salvaged what I could.”
His handler flipped through the black-and-whites, stopped on one and pulled it from the stack. Mike hid the sudden tension in his body with a long drag from his smoke, holding the cloud of nicotine in his lungs to get the most out of it.
It was the two Doctrine officers standing amidst the dinner party at its conclusion. In their flawlessly tailored dress uniforms, they could have blended into any upper-crust soirée without causing a stir. They were a little too close, too relaxed, the general’s hand clearly visible between the younger man’s shoulder blades and too familiar in its touch. With both men in profile, the tense jut of the driver’s jaw was unmistakable. So were the harsh lines of the officer’s face. Nothing about that touch was considerate; at best, Mike could label it ambivalent. Whatever was going on, it was nothing more complex than an officer asserting his power. The general struck him as the type who saw something he wanted, and took it.
Much like the Doctrine’s approach with Cirokko.
“You do nice work,” the handler murmured, distracted. His gaze played over the print, held up to catch the light pouring in the window. “Something going on there, wouldn’t you say?” He put the print back in place and continued flipping through the folder’s contents, sparing him only a quick glance. “Between the zombies, I mean.”
Smoke billowed from his nose as Mike exhaled in one long stream. It hung in the stillness of the room, layered above the floor like incense in a temple, glinting in the sunlight. “Not sure what.” He shrugged his shoulders, the simple observation a completely honest assessment.
The man’s bark of laughter reminded him of a hacksaw against steel, and Mike took another long drag.
“Find out, then. There might be a way to exploit it.” Herschel looked over again, gaze traveling Mike’s length with greater consideration this time. Dark eyes glittering, critical. “I doubt you’d tickle the fancy of the general. That would put too much at risk anyways. But if there’s an opportunity to approach the driver, it would be a rich source to tap. Don’t go blowing your cover, but find out if it’s viable.”
“Have you been looking at the shots of him?” Mike didn’t bother censoring the criticism from his tone. “That’s not a soft man. I highly doubt I can get him to share secrets just because I flirt with him.” He laced as much sarcasm as he could muster into that. No shit he wasn’t much to look at right now, buried beneath layers of dark hair, dirt, grime and gods only knew what else. What he’d give to be able to shave off every inch of hair he possessed, and to hell with where it grew from.
But the handler didn’t even bat an eye at the implications of what they were discussing. “These document captures will be very useful.” Herschel set aside the sleeve of prints to study the detailed labels. When he glanced over, an encouraging grin curled his mouth. “Not all knowledge is put on paper, though. Not even by these people. And we need to know the nuances. The power plays that are weak or brittle at best, the ones we can exploit to our advantage. I don’t expect immediate results, Mike.” He tucked the chips back into the case and flipped open the sleeve again, retrieving the damning shot. He held it out, the sharp lines of contrast in the image teasing and taunting. “Consider the driver your project. Get friendly. Work him.”
With a sigh of resignation, Mike let the cigarette hang from his lips and took the picture back, folding it in half twice before cramming it into a pocket. He tensed his mouth around the filter and inhaled through it, doing his best to hide just how pissed off this got him. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t treat a meticulously developed print in such a fashion. Photography was an art form, just like any other, despite its low-tech medium. These were far from normal circumstances, though, seeing as how he wanted to plant a fist in Herschel’s face. Breaking the man’s nose might be an improvement to his looks, though. He eyed the bridge of bone and cartilage critically, considering. “Anything else?”
The handler shook his head, oblivious to his malicious thoughts. “No. I’ll take care of passing this stuff along to your buddy. Go on, before the sun gets any higher and turns this damned building into an oven. See you in two weeks?”
“Yeah.” Mike took his cigarette and his kit and hiked his ass off to dunk his head in a fountain and cool down.
Chapter Five
Sergei shed the uniform with relief. Humid, hot air was wafting into the changing rooms, promising sweat that would cleanse rather than itch. He’d driven the general to the airport, watched him board the private craft bound for Liberty. Reporting to the Committee. The way he’d buried himself in papers before he’d left indicated it wasn’t just home leave. Sergei, though, remained behind, and while he partly resented having to stay here to “hold the position” when clearly the more interesting things were happening on their home planet, he was also relieved to have a break from his new duties.
Whenever they stayed at a guesthouse of an ally—and there were several of them—the general arranged for Sergei to sleep in the next room. Sometimes there was a connecting door. When there wasn’t, the sex happened in the dark, in the officer’s bed, and he was told to leave afterward. When there was, he stayed a little longer, sometimes fell asleep and awoke with a start. Invariably the same thing happened, in the same way. The officer took him, no word was spoken. What was going on was never acknowledged.
Still, there was a greater familiarity. A high-ranking officer indulging a protégé, that was how the rest of the world read their relationship. A young officer worshipping his hero. Two Doctrine men doing their duties in a brotherly spirit. Doctrine Brotherhood, brotherhood of soldiers. Nobody imagined it originated from a different kind of battle, which happened once every week and sometimes twice.
Sergei knew he should break it off. It was becoming too much of a habit. Too dangerous. Wrong. They were both endangering their careers.
Every next morning, the memory of the past night was disturbing, every day afterward he pondered how he could put an end to it—getting transferred seemed like the best solution, only the general could easily pull strings higher up and keep him. And how he’d take the attempt to escape was up in the air too.
But once it got closer to the day, Sergei felt nervous anticipation rise. As impersonal as the touch was, it brought relief. A human touch, somebody who knew him well and took his mind off all considerations.
He didn’t have to struggle for it. No combat, no seduction. It was what it was. No refinement, no brutality, no coercion. It was decided, and Sergei merely didn’t resist. Telling himself he had no choice. That it didn’t matter. That this was the last time.
He washed, shaved, then lay on a large flat stone and received a massage, almost falling asleep under strong and skilled hands that dug into his muscles. Thoughts left, and he concentrated on breathing the heavy air and feeling the smooth hard stone underneath him. He could ponder the implications later, tomorrow, or when the general returned in ten days’ time.
After the massage he settled on a bench, shoulders against the wet stone, head resting on the wall, eyes half-closed.
A gust of dry, cooler air accompanied the faint creak of the door, and his first indication that it wasn’t just the masseuse leaving was the heavy sigh from across the room.
Sergei opened an eye to see what changes had occur
red. He was hypervigilant about his surroundings—this planet and its people didn’t invite trust, weren’t Doctrine. Out here in Dedis, the natives by far outnumbered his brother soldiers.
A lean, long-limbed man sprawled facedown on the bench, as if to make the most of the cool stone. Dark hair shaggy and glistening with moisture, his eyes closed. Anyone else would have thought the man was relaxed, enjoying the sauna, but the cording in his thighs, his biceps, gave him away. A bead of water gathered on the bridge of the stranger’s nose, hung suspended from the sun-bronzed skin and finally fell.
Sergei wanted to turn away and probably should, but he studied the lines of that body instead, that posture suggesting passivity. Availability. It would be easy to press him down, to thrust into him. He was heavier, and stronger too. The line of flank, thigh, ass invited him to touch, to imagine.
He turned his head and rested his forehead against stone, then pushed himself up to a sitting position, idly rolling his shoulders, keeping the man in the corner of his eye.
Sure enough, the man’s gaze snapped open at the first hint of movement, the first sound of flesh shifting on stone. The dark eyes studied him, taking his measure with a flick, then held his gaze. Not a twitch, no sign of fear. An odd thing to lack, in this country.
Meeting his gaze like that too. That was a challenge, or a prompt. Sergei couldn’t place the stranger—he didn’t look purely Cirokkan, but the planet did have a diverse population. He noticed lips and lines of cheekbones, jaw, chin, throat, but above all, changeable eyes. He broadened his stance, opened his legs, considering whether he should stand and leave, but that would feel like a defeat.
The dark, slashing brows twitched upward, whether in inquiry or challenge he couldn’t have said. The stranger clarified the unspoken question, though, by parting his lips a fraction, mouth canting up at one corner in a grin both feral and inviting. He didn’t offer a name or greeting. Just moved his thigh a fraction, shifting against the stone. The clench of his muscles, rolling beneath the skin, was entrancing.
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