Dark Edge of Honor

by Aleksandr Voinov

  The tension in Sergei got worse with every passing minute, but he was fully switched on, watching, giving orders, attempting to be everywhere at the same time. His men responded by pulling together, making the best of a bad situation.

  Sergei positioned snipers to keep an eye on the rocks above, and at least refrained from getting a rifle himself. But the tension was undeniable—his first command on the front lines, and he’d have to justify everything that had happened. And while more experienced men had had their asses handed to them like this, Sergei wasn’t used to this kind of uphill battle.

  Sergei deployed the minesweeper drones to clear the perimeters and had them covered by the snipers, then got the pad out and was typing fast and angrily.

  Mike stayed close by, not crowding, not trying to read over his shoulder, either. He could almost feel the emotions pouring off the usually stoic officer. Always so proper and correct, at least when he was wearing that uniform. He dropped to a squat a couple feet away, in Sergei’s peripheral vision, kept scanning the surrounding area beyond the camp’s perimeter. He figured they’d have relative peace, for now. Until the sun set at least.

  “You wanna talk about this at all?” He asked the question in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard, though the likelihood of that happening amongst the chaotic turmoil in the camp was negligible.

  “About what?” Sergei put the pad down. “That we need air support and a lot of scout drones to even locate any natives?” He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m just…getting tired.”

  Mike nodded toward Sergei’s newly erected quarters, a modest frame construct with tent-mesh sides. Privacy that would keep the heat from suffocating whoever was inside. “Adrenaline crash. Should take a load off. Let things settle.”

  “I have to be alert. They’ll attack again. They seem intent to drive us out as soon as they can. They won’t stop now.” Sergei stood. “I’ll talk to the medical officer.”

  “About what?” Mike didn’t move. “This wasn’t a coordinated ambush. This was just a minefield. Strategically located to hem you in, granted, but I didn’t see any signs of natives hanging around to watch the show.” That’s later, he thought, but kept it to himself. “The medical staff doesn’t need you hanging on their elbows. They’ll do their job just fine. You wanna call in a med-evac, that’s different. But what you need to consider is that tonight’s probably going to be a repeat of last night.” He straightened then, and rewrapped the cloth around his face. “Nobody’s gonna be getting much rest.”

  “I need to check on the wounded. And make sure I’m alert.” Sergei lifted his hand as if he was about to touch him but balled his hand into a fist and dropped it again with a frustrated sigh. “The brother general’s going to have me for breakfast. And he’ll be right. What was I thinking?”

  Mike wouldn’t mind tying the man in his tent and having him for lunch. Might actually do Sergei some good. Awake and tense was a far cry from alert and calm. “You were thinking that the natives would be receptive and willing to talk, like they were in Dedis and Rhada. That wasn’t a poor assumption to make.”

  “It cost lives.” Sergei shook his head. “If it means dead bodies, I’d much rather make it the dead bodies of the natives.”

  Mike stilled. “War always costs lives, Sergei,” he whispered. “There’s no getting around that. It’s inevitable.”

  The guilty expression in Sergei’s eyes said what the man didn’t. “I have to check on the wounded.”

  Mike relented with a nod. “Let’s go check on the wounded then. You think I’m going to let you run around all day, though, you’re wrong. I’ll drag your ass back to your tent the same way I dragged you back into camp earlier. Even if it gives me a slipped disc.”

  Sergei smiled. “Not that I’m not tempted,” he said in a low voice.

  Mike couldn’t help but smile right back, which made him glad his head dressing obscured his face. “Only tempted. I’m losing my touch.”

  “No, you’re not.” Sergei reached over and briefly touched Mike’s shoulder, carefully controlling his body language to not indicate any more familiarity. He then left for the medical tent.

  Mike was about to follow but caught the glowing flash from the screen of Sergei’s pad. He’d left it lying where he set it, forgotten. That was bad. Tempting. Mike licked his lips, glanced after Sergei, retreating across camp. He wouldn’t have time to meddle, not before the man noticed he’d left it. Well, maybe he would…Sergei seemed entirely focused on his soldiers and the wounded. If Mike hadn’t been there to stop him, he’d likely have been driving transports full of wounded back from the site of the explosion. Or trying to do surgery on them, right there in the dust.

  He picked the pad up, scanned the screen. Incoming message, transmitted from the general. Oh, that wasn’t going to be pretty. A verbal ass-reaming, no doubt. Mike didn’t like the idea of anyone but him reaming Sergei’s ass. Little streak of possessiveness, protectiveness, but he didn’t really care. He tapped on the hard casing of the pad, frowned.

  After a few moments, Mike followed Sergei’s path across the camp, the screen still blinking persistently.

  Sergei was standing there, talking to the medical officer, while others in the background were dealing with the freshly wounded. Sergei pocketed a bottle of pills but listened intently, nodding every now and then, and asked questions.

  “…have the facilities in Rhada?” he asked when Mike came within earshot.

  “We do, Brother Captain, in case it’s a strain we know. Without having a culture of them and identifying them—possibly gene-mapping—we can’t be sure.”

  “The other option?”

  The medical officer shrugged. “We can remove the connective tissue and laser the whole area. If the bacteria remains localized, that would take care of it.”

  “Can you do it up here?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “No.”

  “And transporting him would give the bacteria too much time to spread.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then amputate.” Sergei’s voice was flat again. “And then get him to Rhada spaceport for replacement surgery on Liberty.”

  Mike stepped closer, leaning to look past Sergei at the soldier being discussed. It was the one who’d gotten bitten the evening before, but the livid wound on the upper arm looked far from fresh. He caught a whiff of the stench, same as he’d smelled earlier. Rank, rotting. The angry pink lines of blood infection were already showing, crawling under the still-healthy flesh toward the patient’s shoulder.

  Tough decision to make. He could see it in the hunch of Sergei’s shoulders.

  “No more than three per day, Brother Commander,” the medical officer said and turned away to wash his hands and prepare for the operation.

  “I know. They got me through my exams at the academy.” Jaw tense, Sergei looked at the unconscious man, a strange mix of emotions in his eyes—guilt, anger, pity. He then glanced at Mike and walked out again. “Flesh-eating bacteria. Yet another pleasant surprise.”

  Definitely a surprise. Mike deliberately bumped his shoulder into him and lifted the pad. “You left this. The general’s message looks to be flagged high priority.”

  “Everything’s flagged high priority.” Sergei took the pad, not in the least alarmed that Mike had seen the screen. “I’ll just get my dose of punishment now.”

  Mike chuckled. “Glad it’s not to me. Though I’m sure,” he mused, unable to resist, “I can think of some punishment that won’t get that sort of tone out of you.”

  Sergei smiled for just a moment. “That would make this decrepit place seem like bliss,” he murmured. “What am I doing here…”

  He didn’t know. All he knew was that he’d do just about anything to keep the man’s spirits up. Because when they weren’t, seeing it caused him physical pain. Couldn’t say that, though, no way to put it into words. So he just grinned at Sergei, holding the man’s gaze for a heartbeat
before looking away again. Scanning the land beyond the perimeter yet again. Following the ridgelines. Watching the sky.

  Sergei tapped on his pad for a good half hour, then eventually stopped and rolled his shoulders. “As expected. He’s not happy…just gave him as full a report as I can under present circumstances.”

  “Of course he’s not happy. The might of the Doctrine machine has hit a road bump.” Mike altered his accent an octave to mimic one of the Committee generals who often did Intergalactic News Conferences.

  “Temporary and limited setback.” Sergei shrugged. “As long as they don’t use the words gross incompetence or sabotage, I’m not worried.”

  “If they do, it wouldn’t be aimed at you.” That kind of ammunition was expended at bigger game than low-ranking officers.

  “Perhaps. I still requested hunter-killer drones, scout drones and air support. I’m not sending my people out there.”

  Mike nodded, seeing the logic of that. It was sound military strategy, and he wasn’t overly concerned for Pat. The man knew as well as he did what the Doctrine machine had to throw at them in terms of technological weaponry. The only real question lay in the timing, and that unknown made the adrenaline level in his blood ramp up.

  Sergei reached for the pills in his pocket and counted two into his palm, offering the same to Mike with a raised eyebrow. “This should keep us going until dawn.”

  “What is it?” Taking the pills from Sergei’s palm, he held them between his fingertips and examined the casings. He’d clearly heard the medical officer’s words, but he wasn’t about to mother Sergei. The man knew himself well. Knew how hard he could push. Or seemed to, anyway. That didn’t mean he would put shit in his own body without questioning first.

  “Grade B stimulants. Nothing really strong. You could try and sleep, but I need to keep an eye on things.” Sergei glanced at the pad. “Can’t be asleep when he chews the rest of my ass.”

  Mike swallowed the pills dry, cramming down the desire to put the soldier beside him in a headlock and wrestle off the stress and frustration. The glance at the ass in question, however, was not so easily suppressed. “Such a fine ass, what a shame. You can borrow mine, when he’s done.”

  Sergei grinned. “Shame there’s really no time for that.” He winked, voice lowered. “But certainly good motivation to get this mission done and return somewhere safe.”

  Safe. The corner of Mike’s left eye twitched. “Need to make sure the munitions are distributed evenly amongst the soldiers. The med-evacs, they’re coming within the next hour, right? The smell of blood, that won’t be good after nightfall.” He could almost feel it, the intuition hit him so strongly. Hell was going to unleash its fury on this rudimentary little camp the moment the sun slipped past the western ridge.

  “Yes.” Sergei swallowed his pills. “I’ll check, talk to the men. See what we can do against the next attack.” He straightened, squared his shoulders and gave Mike another smile. “Just stay safe. Not sure how many translators we can replace.”

  Mike returned the grin and leaned close. “Just keep yourself in one piece too. I’m the only one who gets to mark you.”

  Sergei closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly forced himself to breathe, then turned away, to do his duty and keep his mind off sex as best he could, Mike wagered.

  “Come on,” Mike said, moving away, voice brisk. “Munitions building. Shit’s not doing your men any good under a roof.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nightfall was a strange time in the mountains. The sun vanished behind the ridgelines, creating an ominous half-light, then dusk, seemingly hours before it was time. Sergei wore body armor, the snipers were in position. Rocket launchers were primed and ready too. Too bad they didn’t know if the flying lizards were warm enough to create a heat signature, but Sergei hoped their riders at least were.

  This time they’d be much more evenly matched.

  The perimeter was guarded and protected, and he anticipated the arrival of several drone contingents early the next day. Apparently a lot of the more specialized gear was still stuck at Rhada spaceport, so they’d have to make do without. Anything that came tomorrow, though, wasn’t going to help see them through whatever the native rebels had planned for tonight.

  Sergei took up a position along the western perimeter behind the buffer of guards. High-powered broad-spectrum binoculars in hand, he scanned crags and bluffs of the ridge, too keyed up. Waiting was part and parcel of the game, just another aspect of psychological warfare. Knowing that didn’t lessen the impact.

  Mike was nearby, a silent shadow as he’d been for most of the afternoon. Solid, steady, seemingly unflappable.

  The first eerie scream echoing down through the valley sounded nothing like what he recalled from the previous evening. It wasn’t a high-pitched wail but a roar. A challenge, a warbling bugle of attack. His heart stopped for the space of a breath. No amount of motivational chatter would counteract that.

  Nearby, Mike swore in some non-Doctrine language. Sergei understood the string of words just fine despite being unable to translate them.

  He heard the rush of wings, the thump and snap of the lizards’ flight carrying on the cooling air.

  There had to be hundreds of the creatures this time, pouring down into the valley from every inch of stone the mountain could boast.

  The first missile he tracked stunned him. The weapon seemed to come from nowhere, to materialize out of midair, streaking straight for the now-empty munitions building behind him. Sergei keyed his mike, screaming, “Incoming!”

  Even with nothing inside to explode, shrapnel and splinters would be bad enough. He dove for cover and felt the blast a moment later, debris raining down around him, but it could have been worse.

  Well, it was just the overture. The moment the men were down and distracted by the missiles, the reptiles swooped in, carrying screaming men off in their claws, only to drop them like a seagull would drop a hermit crab.

  Sergei kept giving orders, shouting warnings, his heart beating so fast it felt close to bursting. He didn’t feel anything when one of the nearby squads brought a lizard down—too little, too late, outnumbered against a much more agile foe coming at them from all sides.

  The rebels had planned it beautifully. That wasn’t the only missile. Every incoming missile hit something important—a truck here, the communications tent there. They knew exactly what they were aiming for and didn’t miss a shot.

  The floodlights went one by one, each explosion raining a hailstorm of razor-sharp shrapnel on the perimeter guards. Soon the only illumination in the camp came from the scorched and burning remnants of transport skeletons and building frameworks. Sergei scrambled up off the ground, only to have a brother soldier drop to the soil inches away, his bloodcurdling scream breaking off abruptly as his body shattered upon impact.

  Horrified, enraged, Sergei pointed the muzzle of his e-mag rifle skyward and lashed out, shooting blind. Couldn’t see a thing, but it didn’t matter. He knew they were all dead, knew defeat when he saw it, but he also had no way out. They wouldn’t survive in the mountains. Better stand and fight to the death.

  He thought he was downing lizards and riders, didn’t care, just shot at whatever closed in, changing positions at random, driven by fear and stress more than tactical thinking. He couldn’t see Mike, didn’t have time to think or worry, just reacted, waiting in some part of his being for the inevitable. An attack he couldn’t repel, a missile aimed his way.

  Feeling knifelike claws dig into his shoulders wasn’t a surprise. The searing pain was almost anticlimactic. He screamed, twisted, tried to bring his rifle to bear on the beast above and behind him. His arms wouldn’t respond, though. He watched the weapon fall away, tumble through the air to clatter against the ground. It was horrifying, wondering when he would be next. Knowing he would have a similar fate.

  Sergei raged against the beast until the adrenaline in his veins was gone and the strength leached from him. The sticky we
tness of his own blood trickled down his sides and legs, saturating his uniform. The wind of the lizard’s flight dried it quickly, and yet the beast still didn’t drop him.

  Each shifting bank, however slight, pulled his weight against the huge claws dug deep into his muscles. The pain began to overwhelm everything else, and he was seeing the stars below him on the ground when they should be in the sky high above.

  The lizard’s claws finally disengaged—a relief. The fall to the ground didn’t seem to take as long as it should’ve. Nor did it hurt nearly as much as he’d expected. Maybe it was because he was already half-dead and couldn’t feel anything, his brain overloaded on pain. He had no idea. All that mattered was that he was on the ground. His eyes slid shut and the world went dark.

  He awoke from an impact and cringed. Disoriented by pain and trauma, his brain connected impact and missile. For a horrifying moment, he thought he’d explode and rain to the ground in lumps of sentient flesh.

  He must have screamed, his throat felt raw as if it had been scrubbed with acid, but there was hardly any breath in his lungs. He squirmed, felt another impact. Foot. Boot. Leg. He stared at the man who’d kicked him awake. A hard face, sunburned, dusty. He looked native. The crude stone construction of the walls around him reinforced that notion. The smell of stone, earth, and fainter traces of cooking meat. Dung.

  Sergei glared to hide his fear and pain but realized why he was alive. This wasn’t an ally. This wasn’t a friend. They’d just taken the commanding officer captive. Why? To celebrate their victory? To interrogate him? Both? He knew nothing of their culture, but doubted it would be pleasant.

  He breathed, tried to calm himself, build up defenses against his captor. He was half bent over, arms tied behind his back, drawn so taut he struggled to breathe properly. All he could do now was protect his brothers and die like a Doctrine officer.