Dark Edge of Honor

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “Welcome to the real Cirokko.” The man’s voice was a dusty rasp, but the Cirokkan was too precise to be native. Who the hell was this man? “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you so cleanly as that. You have information I want, lots of it.” A hand clamped firmly on his jaw, twisting his head up to meet the man’s gaze. “And I always get what I want.”

  So the pad had to be broken or lost. Or the very first thing the man would ask was his password. Bitterness swelled in him. Whatever he did now would give the interrogator an angle to deal with him. A strange reversal—he’d expected to do this to prisoners—being the prisoner hadn’t been on the agenda. Fickle fate.

  “You know I won’t talk…” Sergei was short of breath already. “And I know you’ll kill me. You can’t offer me anything, and I…won’t give you anything.” I won’t ask about Mike. I won’t beg for mercy. I’ll take death like I was trained. The real test—everything culminated now, and he had to fight all the natural, selfish responses, the fear, the worry, the pain. He’d take it.

  “Such loyalty. Such blind devotion. To what? An institution that doesn’t give a fuck if you die, how you die. So long as you keep their secrets to the bitter end.” The man laughed, a harsh sound. Sergei gritted his teeth, waiting for the next blow to land. Boots scuffed against the dirt, one heel knocking against the back of his skull like an afterthought. “I doubt they even care what you spill before you die, so long as the mighty Doctrine can get what it wants in the end, don’t you think?”

  “My death doesn’t matter. My men died…out there. I’m no better than them.” Sergei kept his gaze on the man. A show of strength more than fear or anticipation. “In the grand scheme of things, the individual doesn’t matter.” What I want or need…doesn’t matter. Mike. If only… He shook his head, forced the thought down.

  A keening wail filtered through the walls of the building. Not human, no animal Sergei had ever heard. The wail dropped in pitch, and then soared high. Singing, in an eerie, mournful sort of way. Other voices joined the first one, so many he couldn’t discern one from another.

  The man paused, head canted, listening. His chin dropped, and then he seemed to gather himself, to swell. He turned back suddenly, the glint of steel flashing in one hand as he fisted the front of Sergei’s uniform and hauled him into a sitting position.

  The cold bite of steel against his neck was followed by the warm trickle of blood down his neck. “You hear that sound? That’s a lizard dirge. You listen to that and tell me the individual doesn’t matter.”

  The knife moved, slicing open the front of his uniform, cutting his blood-encrusted jacket away in a mess of crimson-stained strips.

  “You shot that one’s mate out of the sky. One of many that died tonight. They will be mourned, and missed. Unlike you.”

  Sergei breathed something close to a laugh, even if the emotion was more hysterical than amused. “My family will mourn me too. They’ll mourn me worse if I don’t die well.” He shook his head, didn’t want to see the knife. But the man would cut him to force his attention. “That’s war. People die. Animals die. A hundred years from now, nobody will remember. It won’t matter.”

  His captor threw the knife across the room, and the blade flashed as it tumbled through the air and embedded hilt-deep in the wall. The man’s touch was far from gentle as he probed the claw wounds in his shoulder, one by one.

  “You think you know everything, don’t you? Got it all figured out.” His tone was chilled, calm, almost conversational. “Humans aren’t the only sapient creatures on this planet. It’s not general knowledge. And it’s not likely you’ll live to pass it on to anyone.” The man focused his attention on the collection of contusions, but he met Sergei’s gaze, unimpressed by his attempted show at strength. “Your family will mourn you, but your fellow brothers won’t?”

  “They’d have…done the same. They know.” Sergei shook his head. “It’s duty. Furthering the cause. They understand that people die. We all do.” Not that I wouldn’t prefer to live. Mike. He could only hope Mike was all right. He couldn’t ask. It would give the man leverage to crack him open. “You don’t believe you can destroy my faith in the Doctrine, do you?”

  His captor grabbed a syringe, not meeting his gaze. “No,” he said, grimacing. “I’m not that good. It takes years of psych therapy to reverse the methods used for inDoctrination. Brace yourself, this isn’t going to be pleasant.”

  The fluid he flushed into the first wound made every nerve ending in Sergei’s body scream simultaneously, overwhelming his brain. The world started to turn gray around the edges.

  “Breathe.”

  Sergei thought it might be good to just let go and be done with it, the pain, the fear, but his body was selfish and breathed. He gritted his teeth hard but couldn’t completely suppress the agonized sounds.

  Torture or medical care, it didn’t make a difference at this point. He struggled with what he had left—willpower, strength—until his captor had to almost kneel on him to keep him immobile enough to deal with the wounds.

  Sergei was soaked in sweat when it was done, breaths harsh and desperate even in his own ears. He remembered the stench of the bacteria, the look on the doctor’s face as he’d prepared his brother soldier for the arm amputation. The war would go on. More soldiers would fall to the claws and teeth. He’d never liked Cirokko, he now hated it. Fool’s Gambit.

  His mind cleared. His captor opened a package of bandages and began to wrap his wounds firmly. The touch wasn’t gentle or cruel, just something the man considered necessary. Sergei didn’t resist that. With his legs still tied and his arms immobile with pain, he didn’t stand a chance in a fight.

  But of course, the sole reason he received attention was so this man’s plans for him weren’t interrupted by the flesh-eating bacteria. Considering how fast it spread, the man intended to keep him here more than a day or two. But the drones would arrive before noon. They’d follow the trail of destruction. The general down in Dedis would put two and two together. All in all, it might be only a day before the drones would swarm out and kill everything resembling native sentient life. And if that didn’t work, there would be orbital bombardment of every speck of habitation, from hovel to village to field. Charred earth. They’d make Cirokko burn. Sergei only wished he could see it. Watch the reptiles fall burning from the sky.

  All this meant that reinforcements were on the way. One day. Maybe two, if they needed more personnel on the ground. There wasn’t much time for his captor to break him. It was night now. He’d have to last through the night and the following day. It wasn’t hopeless. Well, of course he couldn’t win, but all he’d lose would be his life if the captor got fed up with him.

  All he had to do was outlast the pain or just die.

  “I can watch you think.” The captor curled his lips. It won’t do you any good, boy, that expression said. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. “Well, then.” The captor finished on his other arm, then sat back and finally stood.

  Sergei tried to lift his arms, but every muscle was on fire and none obeyed him. The captor threw a piece of rope over a crossbeam of the primitive shelter and tied nooses into the ends, adjusting the length. Sergei realized what it was but couldn’t resist much when the man hoisted him to his feet, pulling a knife to make him comply. He was pushed and shoved into position, the sharp steel at his throat dissuading him from any attempt to fight.

  “Put them on.”

  “I can’t.” Sergei couldn’t do more than stand there, and very nearly choked on the humiliation. His arms hurt so bad any conscious movement felt like a knife stab up his throat.

  “I sure won’t.”

  Sergei tried to move again, tried to lift his arms, but they didn’t respond.

  The captor cursed, tucked the knife in his belt and took hold of the noose and Sergei’s wrist. That brought him close for just a moment, and Sergei responded on instinct, knowing it was futile, hoping it would make the man kill him. His head went forwa
rd, smashing his forehead against the captor’s face. Only extremely good reflexes saved the man’s nose, but even so, blood was streaming from his face. He delivered an open palm strike against Sergei’s throat, which sent him to the floor, choking and spluttering.

  A satisfying amount of blood ran from the captor’s nose, and he blinked away tears, then touched his nose to check if it was broken. The blood colored his lips and teeth as he grinned. “Not bad. You’re making this easy for me.”

  Sergei stared up at him, concentrated on breathing through the sore throat, and swallowed the fear that rose against the brief flash of satisfaction. He still couldn’t fight, couldn’t really move. A harsh kick in his guts reminded him of that. He couldn’t even catch the captor’s boot and twist the ankle to make him fall. All those tricks learned at the Academy were worth nothing in the field. He was hoisted up again, and the captor kept the knife to his throat while he called in a couple natives in their language. They took Sergei’s wrists and pushed them through the nooses, then tightened the rope. The captor adjusted the length of the rope until Sergei stood in a Y shape, the weight of his arms not controlled by his own body. He stood, but his legs were tied together at the ankles, over the heavy leather of his boots. Ready for whatever the enemy had in mind.

  “You already got a fair amount of blunt trauma,” the captor said and pulled something from a bag in a corner.

  Sergei swallowed dryly, waiting for the punch line. What would it be? Cuts from the knife? Drugs? Why had he been strung up for it?

  “The pain from the antibacterial treatment served as a first course, though.” The man came closer and fastened two broad leather cuffs around Sergei’s upper arms, just under the bandages. “I could put these on your legs, but they’ll be more painful here. Which means it’ll be over faster.”

  Sergei pressed his lips together and looked away. He didn’t want to see the man’s face, didn’t want to give him more than he had to. Any show of emotion would be used against him.

  The torture training at the Academy had been thorough. They’d all been scared and nervously excited during those days. To finally use all the mental techniques, finally be pushed to their limits. Everybody broke during that training. They’d assessed every candidate’s weaknesses. Some, scared of drowning, were tied up and thrown into a pool of water. Others were isolated. They’d broken Sergei with physical exhaustion, making him crawl on his elbows and knees in a circle along a rope until he’d collapsed, very nearly sobbing and murderously angry. The aim of the training was not, however, to learn how to survive it. It served to show them their limits. Familiarize them with what might happen if they didn’t stand and fight until death but allowed themselves to be captured. As close to a near-death experience as any of them had ever come.

  The captor tightened the cuffs. “You will talk.”

  Sergei couldn’t help it; he looked in the man’s eyes. There was nothing there, no softness, no pity, no respect. The man regarded him like an inanimate object. After all the talk of the lizards and their mourning it struck Sergei as bitterly ironic that this man didn’t hesitate to torture a human for the sake of reptiles.

  Just outlast him. Outlast the value of the information. Just a night. Maybe a day and a night. Maybe die. Maybe he could drive the man to anger and destruction.

  “There are several ways to do this. Those cuffs control your nervous system now. I take it you’re not an epileptic and your heart is fine. The only psychotropic drug you’re on is that Doctrine bullshit, so you’re good to go.”

  The implication was clear. Sergei braced himself for whatever would come.

  When it did, it felt like a fist slamming into him. He was spasming, taut in the restraints, and when it stopped, he was impossibly tired. As though he’d run thirty miles in two hours.

  “That was half a second.” The captor opened his hand. A small control sat in his palm, and he manipulated a control with his thumb. Length? Intensity?

  The question was answered when it hit him again. Electricity. Every muscle in his body went rigid, the pain everywhere, impossible to withstand, as if every muscle fiber would burst in another moment. When it stopped, abruptly, Sergei’s knees gave. The pain seared up his arms under his full weight, jarring his joints from wrist to shoulder.

  “That was two seconds.”

  Sergei struggled to get his legs back under him and finally managed to take the weight off his arms. The wounds hurt, pain throbbing in waves. Torn and punctured tissue had spasmed along with everything else. Oh damn, this was painful. His brain felt clouded, all thoughts rattled inside, before the haze lifted. Pain. Adrenaline. Would it be that way until he died? Yes. Or until he gave up. He breathed, gulped down air for as long as he could. Understanding—really understanding—what the other man was willing to do to get the information in his brain. He lifted his head and met the gaze. Cold, idle curiosity.

  The next jolt was utter horror. Even after the first ones, Sergei hadn’t imagined he could be in so much pain. And it didn’t stop, just wrenched him, twisted him, made him gasp and maybe scream. If he could scream, he did, but he didn’t know. The pain seared and burned, dug into him with a million claws, everywhere, every part of his body, and he thought he’d die. He couldn’t possibly survive this. His heart would stop, his brain had to be cooked, it sure felt that way. It kept going, on and on, and Sergei wished he could scream for mercy, scream to make it stop, but all it was, was writhing, agonized pain.

  It stopped. Finally. Brother, help me.

  He collapsed, hardly felt that wrenching jerk of his shoulders. He couldn’t control his body, couldn’t give a single order to any limb, arm or leg, didn’t do anything, just hung there and shook, trembling as his muscles tried to make sense of the electricity.

  “Five seconds.”

  Please, please don’t do that again.

  “You think you can last the night?” the captor asked in a low murmur near his ear. Sergei would have flinched away, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have enough control. “You can’t. I couldn’t. I’ve never met anybody who can.” The torturer turned his head to force him to meet his eyes. “Just your pride is in the way, boy. How much pain is your pride worth?”

  Sergei couldn’t speak. It involved muscles he couldn’t yet control. All he could do was scrape together everything he had—determination, resolve, willpower and hatred. Hatred above everything else. Maybe that would keep him going. The sheer, visceral, animal hatred for the man causing this agony. He didn’t fear the pain, didn’t fear death. Both were inevitable, undeniable. Failure, though, was another thing altogether. Looming large, the fear of that eventuality sending adrenaline to already traumatized muscles. It dulled the edge of pain but the tremble in his limbs only increased. Brother shall not betray brother.

  “You’re not there yet. Well.” The torturer turned his head at a signal Sergei had missed and walked over to the door, where he exchanged a few words with somebody outside. He pulled an ammo box closer and sat down in full view. He held Sergei’s pad, tapped it against his hand. Not broken, not lost, then. He’d want the password. Sergei gritted his teeth.

  How long could a night be?

  The torturer didn’t let him fully recover. Sergei managed to move a bit, still shaking like a man freezing to death, when the next jolt hit him. It was as bad and as long as the one before. Worse, because his body was already exhausted and had little resistance to offer. All he was aware of was pain. Not if he screamed. If he was even capable of screaming.

  On the next jolt he clenched his teeth so hard he feared they’d explode under the pressure. The pain was so bad that he couldn’t imagine he’d survive this. Pain beyond control, just wanting it to end. Willing to do anything, even die, to make it stop. Hysteria. He had one last defense. The techniques he’d learned to control fear, control his emotions. He groped wildly for that sanity, his safety.

  Visualizing the vast, serene ocean of Liberty. One drop in there could get lost without diminishing the ocean. The f
low of history was like that. One man could die, and it changed nothing. Wouldn’t stop the Doctrine and its mission to bring peace. Death, preferable to dishonor.

  Hope slipped away on searing agony.

  Every jolt had him groping, frantic, scared of death and insanity. And there were many of them. Again, and again. Until all he knew, his only awareness, was that pain would follow pain.

  “Gods-damn it,” the man in front of him said.

  Sergei’s bound legs were kicking on their own volition, and he couldn’t stop twitching, couldn’t stop his body from suffering through this. His brain was a haze. He was supposed to focus on something.

  But he couldn’t remember.

  “Please…please.” He wasn’t supposed to beg, didn’t know if that man with his hard eyes would even listen. What was he doing here? Why was he in so much pain?

  “You can end this,” the hard-eyed man informed him.

  “How? How?” Sergei was still shaking, bit his tongue just saying those words.

  The man took his face and forced Sergei to look him in the eye. His eyes narrowed with calculation. “What’s the password? Do you remember?”

  Something warned Sergei not to trust the man. That way was pain and ruin. He couldn’t remember why.

  “The question is whether the electroshocks wipe out your bullshit Doctrine or your memories first. Seems the memories are winning. Do you know who you are?” The man shook his head. “Like you’re a person at all. Had me fooled there for a moment.”

  “Please.” Sergei swallowed tears. He couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t take another one. He was still shaking from the last one. And the one before.

  “Please what?”

  “Kill me.”

  “Oh gods.” The torturer looked stricken, then abruptly turned away.

  Sergei watched the man’s hand open and close, open and close, expected him to turn around and punch him, kick him. That was it. Torture. The man wanted something from him. Password. It came back slowly, in fragments, disjointed pieces. He wasn’t sure what was outside that door. Or what had happened. Yesterday. Or the week before. How he’d ended up here. Uniform. Blood. Wounds. Some kind of war?