Dark Edge of Honor

by Aleksandr Voinov

  He wasn’t Doctrine, was he? That wasn’t a military haircut; he didn’t look like a brother, not like a soldier. To his knowledge, Interior Revision hadn’t established itself on Cirokko yet, but if they had, he wasn’t sure he cared enough to discard this invitation. He stood and stretched, running a hand across his chest to wipe off a few tickling water drops. He could get to the door either walking around the other way or passing the other man. He opted for walking past him, unhurried, with a million hours in the day.

  The stranger lifted his hand from the bench, a deliberately slow gesture, reaching out to touch Sergei’s thigh as he passed. “Running away?”

  The deep and resonant voice caught him by surprise in the silence, but the Cirokkan sounded as natural as any native Sergei had heard in the past weeks. He paused, the touch racing up further in his mind. Yes. Invitation. Native. Native of something. Sergei glanced over his shoulder, wondered if he could find a room somewhere that was safe.

  “I’m not running.” He turned and sat on the bench near the man’s head, within touching distance. He realized he’d spoken in Doctrine standard, but his looks were unmistakable. “Just…changing position,” he finished in Cirokkan. At least he was making an effort.

  The man didn’t look up at him, didn’t appear uncomfortable in the least with his vulnerable position. But he reached out again, fingertips trailing lightly along Sergei’s shin. Teasing. And though the stranger licked his lips and drew a breath, he said nothing.

  Wet hair amplified the rasp of fingertips against Sergei’s wet skin. Suggestive. He should go back and not take the bait, should refuse an invitation that could only lead to trouble. But part of him felt defiant—he wanted to free himself from the general for a little while. Feel something different. He reached over and touched the man’s shoulder. Strong, smooth flesh, wet and warm. Condensation looked a lot like sweat, and wouldn’t that be a treat, seeing this body vibrate with exertion?

  The man shifted then, just a writhing movement of his shoulders and back, but Sergei was pretty sure that was a moan he’d just heard. It took him a moment, but he moved his hand, palm flat against slick flesh, and let himself explore the expanse of skin as the muscles twitched beneath his touch. Scars crisscrossed the space between his shoulder blades, faint but contrasting against the dark tone of the rest of him.

  A whipping? Some other form of beating? Sergei’s hand slid further down, and he moved closer, running his fingers farther down, following the slope of the spine.

  “You change position well,” the man whispered. A gust of laughter followed the words, as his fingers slid up Sergei’s leg, past his knee, the touch heavier, more confident. Groping.

  No thought anymore of pulling back. He’d be stupid to. Still, it was a terrible risk. “Let’s get away from all those eyes,” Sergei murmured, stretching his command of Cirokkan to the limit.

  The man tensed, hand stilling on the inside of Sergei’s thigh, where it lay like a hot brand. He lifted his head, glancing up to meet his gaze through dark lashes. “I know a place.” His voice was husky, but Sergei was sure he sounded the same. “Away from eyes,” the man continued, a quirk of his lips injecting humor into the words. “And other things.”

  “Good. Let’s meet farther down the street. I’ll follow.” Sergei stood abruptly. With the deal struck, he needed to be sure no witnesses would connect the dots. Too risky, too many eyes and ears and open hands. Doctrine officers carried a bounty in the provinces, but this one didn’t look like a “freedom fighter,” or, more accurately, a rebel. Maybe he was. Maybe he was tricking him. Maybe not. What a decision to make, if every choice could mean death. He didn’t know yet what freedom fighters looked like, had only thought they were rural, feral, lived in mountain villages without running water or sanitation. Capturing him on the street or shooting him outright seemed the most efficient way to do it, rather than send one of theirs to lure him.

  I’ll follow. Yes, he would. He could still sell his skin dearly. Either way, he’d get the fight he was itching for.

  He watched the man fold his legs in and get up, enjoying every inch of fluidity. A little too much of it, actually. Sergei narrowed his eyes, suspicions hounding the libidinous images in his head.

  The man grabbed his towel and tucked it around his waist as he straightened, rolled his shoulders and moved toward the door. As silent as he’d entered, he slipped away.

  Chapter Six

  Mike’s hands shook as he pulled his clothes on, skin still damp.

  That was too damned easy. The niggling voice in the back of his mind scrolled through an entire list of suspicions, doubts and worst-case scenarios while he gathered his kit and headed out of the bathhouse.

  Thankfully, his blood stopped pounding after a minute or so, which was good. He needed his wits about him to play this right. Not about to take the enemy back to his usual hole—not that stupid. He’d scouted out a spot beforehand, in neutral territory, or as close to it as could be found. Anonymity had a price, but Herschel greased palms well. Probably the sole reason Mike tolerated the shit the handler threw at him without retaliating.

  As he turned into a high-walled alley, Mike glanced back. Just to see if the Doctrine soldier had truly taken the bait. Because just getting your hands on a greased pig wasn’t enough. You had to fucking hold onto it.

  And that was the hard part.

  The brother appeared, dressed in his uniform, pale skin flushed from the heat inside, short hair almost completely hidden under the dark cap, shaved neck exposed above the collar of his uniform jacket. He’d look a lot less formidable in the Doctrine camo pattern, but right now, in his tailored dress uniform that accented his broad shoulders, narrow waist and heavy thighs, he fit the bill of that fabled zombie menace. Face impassive, body ready to fight, no emotions or thoughts visible or exposed. Like they all were. It earned them the moniker “zombies” throughout the non-Doctrine (or should that be “not-yet-Doctrine”) space.

  Nobody knew what the Doctrine wanted with this planet—just another world to burgeon their ranks? Another source of raw materials to feed their always-ravenous war machine? There was no political gain to be had that Mike could see.

  True to his word, the young officer followed him, tracking from a distance, even though Mike reckoned they could probably be seen together—he’d pass as a native Cirokkan interpreter or guide. But the soldier seemed high-strung behind that unmoving facade. Jittery. Mike hadn’t noticed, in the heat of the moment, too busy battling his own nerves. The man was taking a risk, likely a greater one than Mike could appreciate. Though the caution he could understand. All too well.

  He slipped through the doorway of the little hovel and stepped aside, careful to keep his hands free and clear as he stood waiting, in direct line of the doorway. Tension tightened his muscles, adrenaline once again flooding his blood, but he forced himself to stand there. Making himself vulnerable. Because he knew the Doctrine soldier would feel the same way, walking through a vertical coffin into gods only knew what.

  The soldier ducked his head a bit when he stepped through, eyes quickly taking in the surroundings. “You don’t live here,” he commented, then turned to Mike and took the cap off, hung it on a rusty nail in the wall.

  Shame he doesn’t realize how funny that is. “No, I don’t.” Mike moved, dropping his kit in the corner. “All those eyes, right?”

  “Right.” The young officer walked the room, swiftly, checking windows and then the door again, never completely leaving Mike out of his view. He looked like he might still bolt and run, but maybe the earlier challenge held him. He seemed that kind of proud.

  Mike inhaled slowly. “Relax, brother. This place is secure. Safe.” The faint scattering of dirt on the windowsills and entryway remained undisturbed, save for the displacement caused by their passing. He reached back and pulled the tunic off over his head, discarding it in a lump atop his kit. Sparing his equipment from an uncomfortable inspection, given the obsessive attention to detail the Doct
rine soldier demonstrated. Didn’t exactly blame the man, but he had himself to protect as well. Even if there wasn’t really anything incriminating in evidence. “What’s your name?”

  “Sergei.” The man’s eyes were drawn to Mike’s body, his chest, his neck, flicking this way and that as if he didn’t know where to look first. He began to open his uniform, though, the practiced movements slowed with deliberation, doubt, maybe worry. “Will you tell me yours?”

  No. “You can call me Mike.” He smiled when he said it, doing his best to take the sting from the tone of his voice. Not entirely sure why he didn’t just claim it as his true name. It would be obvious it wasn’t native, but it wouldn’t be the first time a native took a moniker for the sake of foreigners.

  Sergei’s fingers hesitated, and Mike went still, hands gripping the worn leather belt cinched at his waist, waiting to see what the response would be. Whatever happened next, it would prove interesting.

  The smile that appeared finally was tired and cynical. “Then why ask names at all.” He undressed faster now, hesitation gone, as if a question had been answered or dismissed as inconsequential.

  “Maybe I don’t want to scream a name that isn’t yours?” Mike joked, loving the added jump of adrenaline that charged through him. “Would kill the mood, just a little.”

  Having shed the T-shirt that Doctrine soldiers wore under their uniforms, Sergei glanced up, gray eyes bright and inquisitive. He seemed surprised now but strangely relaxed with the banter. “What would the neighbors think,” he added and began to unlace his boots.

  Mike lifted a foot and loosened his own, grimacing at the layer of grit they’d already acquired. His attention, though, stayed on Sergei, gaze following the lines of muscle and exposed flesh, easier to appreciate without moisture clouding the air. Whether or not this trap worked, Mike expected he’d enjoy this.

  It had been way too long since the last time. His nerves resurfaced again, but he fought them down, battled his way back into that calm. This could turn violent in a heartbeat, and he couldn’t afford to forget it. Then again, that was part of the thrill.

  Sergei shed the last clothes, seemed tempted to fold them like he undoubtedly did in the barracks, but then piled them across the nail that held his cap, to avoid having to brush the dust out.

  Hands loosening his belt by rote, Mike stared, following the long line of his back, the width of his shoulders, the bulk of muscle. That tight ass was…completely beyond words. He let his pants drop to the floor, kicked them on top of his tunic and flashed a grin. “Want to show me another of your positions?”

  “Yes.” The voice was strained as the soldier stared at him, clearly liking what he saw. He stepped forward, one hand touching Mike’s belly, eyes cast down, making him look hesitant, yet Sergei didn’t lose the initiative for long. His free hand closed around Mike’s cock, stroking him. The hand on his belly moved to his hips, then rested in the small of his back, not pulling him closer, yet.

  It felt like…it had definitely been too long.

  “God have mercy,” Mike whispered, invoking the unfamiliar singular native deity, his gaze still transfixed on Sergei’s face. Watching every twitch and shift of the features, the eyes. “You don’t pull your punches, do you.” He trailed his hands up the pale, thickly muscled arms, enjoying the response, and leaned in, swaying.

  The man’s head came up, gaze drifting up Mike’s body slowly, seemingly with reluctance, and Mike stared at those lips. Licked his own, which were suddenly much too dry, and trailed his hands up the column of Sergei’s neck.

  “No point,” Sergei responded, keeping his gaze, the motions of his hand getting more intense, slower too, really feeling him rather than attempting to get him fully hard and off as soon as possible. He seemed to wonder for a moment why Mike was touching his neck, quite possibly considered his hands were too close to vital parts of his body, but maybe concluded that he, too, had great leverage.

  He stepped closer. Their cocks touched, and their thighs and bellies and chests. Sergei took them both into one hand, stroking them in parallel, the arm around Mike tightening to keep him close.

  Mike lost himself in the act of feeling. Eyes sliding shut, he clamped his teeth down on a moan. It came out anyway, a hiss on his exhale, forcing his eyes open again, staring into a gray gaze that felt aloof still. He tightened his grip on Sergei’s neck in gradual increments and leaned in, feeling the man’s breath against his skin like a caress. He could tell Sergei didn’t mind not kissing him, didn’t care, really, but Mike decided that doing this—and obviously, he was—required doing it thoroughly.

  Sergei tensed the moment Mike dragged his mouth against his. Startled, he lost the rhythm of his touch, as if ready to jump again, only the pleasure was now too intense to stop. Sergei’s grip tightened, hand moving up to Mike’s shoulder blades, before he pushed him against the nearest wall, a sudden surge of strength and determination.

  Sergei ground him into the wall, thrusting against him, breath faster now. If this was how he dropped his guard, it was a radical change.

  Mike relaxed the initial reaction he’d felt at Sergei’s aggression. The aggression wasn’t an assault, and he let his mouth curve into a grin for a brief moment before he leaned forward and smashed his lips to the man’s. Putting all his pent-up sexual frustration into that one kiss, tongue thrusting out to invade Sergei’s mouth. He tasted faintly of alcohol, and Mike moaned at the sting on his cracked lips, rolling his hips to meet the weight of Sergei’s, no longer caring that his hands held the soldier’s head in a vise grip.

  Sergei didn’t seem to know what to do with that tongue—he didn’t resist it, but if that was the extent of it, he was an awful kisser. The tension of arousal made for hard muscles and strength pitted against his, the sounds those of exertion, as silent as a kid jerking off under the covers. A grunt, a harsh breath, and he still clutched a notion of control, sweaty body now focused on getting off and nothing else.

  Mike pulled back, panting, blood pounding in his ears so hard he didn’t think he’d hear it if the notorious Alliance artillery battery fired off their howitzer next door. This was wild, raw, Sergei’s intensity more than he’d expected. Eyes narrowed, pupils dilated, the striations of color this close a mixture of blue and white and gray that held him riveted.

  With a surge of energy and a twist, Mike turned the tables and slammed the larger man into the wall, sliding down Sergei’s muscled body with hands and stomach and lips dragging over the sheen of sweat, the residue of moisture.

  Coarse blond hair abraded his lips, burning, stinging, but he didn’t care. He wanted to taste. The momentary tension that coiled through the man’s body bled away as Mike wielded his lips and tongue and teeth along a southern path toward Sergei’s cock.

  “No,” Sergei muttered, the first word he’d said in long minutes, but he didn’t push Mike away, just seemed high-strung with need. Maybe he just didn’t like the reversal, so Mike ignored that.

  The soldier pushed his hips forward, offering, urging Mike to touch him, his hands in tight fists by his sides as if he had no clue what to do with them, either. This guy was all about cock and balls and that was it.

  Mike slid his hands over the tightly clenched abdominal muscles, tracing a line along Sergei’s oblique with his tongue and following the inevitable path up the length of his shaft. The bitter tang of precome made him want to cram as much of Sergei’s cock into his mouth as he could. Instead, he licked his lips, enjoying the taste, and pulled back.

  “No, what?” He wasn’t about to entirely ignore that word, no matter the context of its utterance. Even if his response was slightly delayed. The gorgeous body distracting him was a legitimate excuse.

  Sergei stared at him, dazed, disbelieving, then shook his head, maybe to think clearly, or in confusion. “Didn’t…think…” His jaw muscles tensed, several emotions playing over his face in rapid order. “Didn’t…expect.” Brain overtaxed with constructing a complete sentence, he looked as if he’
d prefer to stay completely silent.

  Or maybe translating Doctrine standard to the native language…well, Mike couldn’t blame him for not being able to. He’d probably start spouting the language of Arrif or something himself if he tried to form a coherent sentence.

  He smiled up at Sergei, unable to resist a bit of ribbing. “Don’t think.” And then he wrapped his lips around the cock in his hand, laved the heated flesh with his tongue, and lost himself in the enjoyment of giving the soldier some pleasure. That he wasn’t just doing it to sink the lure a little deeper was utterly moot.

  Sergei bit back a groan, hips pushing forward, impatient, the tension in his body only increasing. He closed his eyes, bared his throat, fists pressed back against the wall, arching off it, though. An image of abandon at odds with the aloof man he’d seduced to come with him, to trust him enough to undress and fuck a stranger on a planet he’d invaded. So far, so good.

  The further he took him, the more helpless the soldier seemed, small sounds escaping with his harsh breaths, building up toward climax. Watching that, feeling it, in every inch of Sergei’s body, was hot enough to make the pleasure pool in Mike’s gut. He reached down and stroked himself with his free hand, matching the rhythm of his mouth and lips. Fuck all if he wasn’t going to come before Sergei did too. The muscles in the officer’s thighs tensed, the body abruptly still. Mike forced himself to keep his eyes open and watch every moment of it, pulling Sergei’s cock from his mouth and stroking him to completion so that he could stare.

  Because this was going to be burned into his retinas for a while.

  Pale face flushed, every muscle in stark relief, veins visible under the skin, the Doctrine soldier was gone, was now just a man, pitifully human in the spasms of pleasure that quite clearly came as a shock to him. Mike didn’t think the soldier had the faintest idea how gods-damned young and vulnerable he looked as he came hard enough to make a sound, not strangled, not suppressed, somewhere between a moan and the birth of a shout. Shudders trembled through his limbs and he slumped back, sweaty and glowing, needing the wall to steady himself.