Dark Edge of Honor

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “The password, boy.”

  Sergei tried to get his feet back under his body, knowing if he managed, he’d get shocked again. His legs wouldn’t listen. Didn’t know why he still tried. Heavy boots gouging, scraping the hard-packed earth of the floor as he fumbled the attempt, again and again.

  “Too dumb to give up. Give me the password. It’ll be all over then. Just give me the password. The pain will stop.”

  He’d been in command of soldiers. There were other prisoners. If he could save them…the thought never finished. He didn’t remember them, but knew they were there, like he knew his arms and legs were there. “My…men?”

  “What about your men? You said they don’t matter. That you matter as little as they do.”

  “Just…let them go. Please.” To spare just one this same fate. If he could do that much, perhaps it would be worth it. He wouldn’t be a failure, a waste.

  The man stared at him, again that hard stare that was all calculation and no emotion at all.

  In the silence, another face superimposed itself over the dusty, weathered features of the native. Older, cropped silver hair. A cruel, vicious grin. But the eyes. Hard, emotionless, calculating. Those eyes remained the same. Sergei struggled for breath, shook his head, and it disappeared. Hallucination? Memory? He didn’t know.

  The moment of peace would last only until he came up with something new and excruciating.

  “Your men.” The torturer slipped something he’d been holding into a pocket, then pulled a primitive ballistic pistol from a holster at his belt. “Let’s see about that.” He cast another hard glance at Sergei, then raised his voice. “Line me up five of those Doctrine scum outside.” His lips twitched. “Make it four.”

  Sergei heard an affirmative from outside, then scuffling, voices raised in protest. He lifted his head, a creeping horror manifesting in his brain. What was the purpose? Would he really…?

  “I’m going to shoot them, one after the other. Give a shout when you’re ready to talk. We have a few dozen, so you’ve got time to make up your mind.” Not awaiting a response, the man strode outside.

  The first report of the revolver was worse than a shock from the cuffs, jolting through his body like a physical blow. Sergei thought his heart would stop. He couldn’t believe it. Stunned. A second shot, terribly loud in the stillness. His hesitation, the disbelief, had killed one of his men.

  “No! Stop!”

  Another shot. Three.

  “No, please. No!” He twisted in the ropes, entire body tense with the strain of using every ounce of strength remaining in him to make his voice be heard.

  He barely noticed he was crying. Mike. Mike was one of his men. What if he’d shot him? “Please, please stop.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hushed murmurs from outside filtered through to him. He tried to get his feet beneath him again, to relieve the strain on his arms, shoulders, but still couldn’t control his legs. Every inch of him was braced with utter dread for the report of the next shot. But it didn’t come. The silence, the absence of sound, just hung there, like a terrible possibility looming enormous in his mind. He’d given the man what he wanted, had screamed for him to stop. Didn’t say he would talk, of course. Hadn’t said he would give up his damned password.

  Brother shall not betray brother.

  A hundred lives hung in the balance, depended on the security of the information stored in that slim, innocuous little device. He wasn’t that far gone. Never would be. Death was preferable to dishonor. He shifted, cautiously testing his muscles, trying again to get his legs, his feet, to respond properly. Time passed. The shaking stopped. He tried to focus on the voices filtering in from outside, to make out words, sentences, meaning.

  The searing pain faded. Aside from a dull generalized ache, like he was one big cramping bruise, the haze in his brain, the fear for his men, and the exhaustion that barely allowed him to find his legs and stand on them, he was in a decent state. No broken bones. No heavy blood loss. He twisted his neck, inspected one of his shoulders. The bandages had bled through. No wonder. But they were still neat, securely taped in place with medical precision. Military kit.

  Sergei frowned. One of the voices increased in volume, the tone of urgency blatant. He stilled. The language wasn’t familiar. Not Doctrine standard, nor Cirokkan. Something else he couldn’t recognize. But the voice.

  He’d know that voice anywhere. Mike.

  He jerked forward and had to grit his teeth against the onslaught of pain again. Mike didn’t sound strained or in pain. There was no shouting, no threats, no raised voices. They talked…calmly.

  The other voice…his captor. He was certain of it. What were they discussing, in those tones? What about his men? The first three? Dead? The fourth? Alive? He racked his brain and couldn’t remember if he’d heard a fourth shot. He hadn’t. Had he?

  The language…it didn’t connect. They were both foreigners. Maybe they were from the same place. Same planet, same language. His aching brain accepted that conclusion as fairly likely. Nevertheless, it didn’t get him anywhere as to their intentions.

  Only then did it register that Mike was alive. The sudden sensation of gratitude, of a terrible weight being lifted made Sergei slump forward, twist his shoulders. More pain. He was almost used to the pain now. Mike was alive and not threatened. Good. One small victory.

  The door eased open and Mike slipped inside. He moved closer, gaze devouring Sergei from head to toe. “How you doing?” he asked, switching smoothly to Doctrine standard.

  “Breathing.” Sergei felt the man’s presence soothe him like a brother’s touch. Relief mixed with tenderness and clenched his heart. Painful, again. “You…have to get…back to Rhada. You need to be safe.” Tension, fear, ratcheted through him with each passing heartbeat. With each moment that his translator—his lover—made no move to set him free, to untie the ropes, relief ebbed, the suffusion of warmth retreating beneath an increasing wave of horror. He couldn’t bring himself to ask, to beg to be released.

  Mike smiled, a brief twist of his lips. He reached out and brushed his fingertips down the center of Sergei’s face, over the bridge of his nose, pads catching on his lips.

  The surge of desire was instant. Sergei wouldn’t have thought he’d feel anything like that, but maybe the proximity of death played tricks on his body. He expected the torturer to come back any moment and force that password from him.

  Where was the pad? His gaze flicked over to the box. Gone.

  “Listen, Sergei, I can get you out.”

  It took him long moments to understand what that meant. Leave. Go home. With Mike. The fear retreated, the relief creeping back up, relaxing his exhausted body, and he slumped in the ropes, not caring that his shoulders screamed at the abuse.

  Leaving his men behind. Sergei swallowed, hard, found some moisture in his mouth. “Did he kill them? Did he shoot them?”

  Mike’s jaw muscles tensed.

  “If you…can do anything, you have to…destroy the pad. I’ll…I can’t hold out much longer. Mike. Destroy it.”

  “He’ll kill you and everybody then,” Mike said. “But you last.”

  Sergei grimaced, wanting to live, wanting to be safe with that touch on his skin, but he just couldn’t.

  “I can’t let you die.” Mike shifted closer, resting his hands gently on Sergei’s shoulders. “No. Nothing is worth more than your life. Don’t you get that? The Doctrine machine is going to keep plowing its way over this planet, destroying everything in its path, and one pad full of information doesn’t mean a gods-damned thing to it. You want to sacrifice yourself,” he whispered, tilting his head, lips almost brushing against Sergei’s, “do it for something that will value the price you pay.”

  Sergei inhaled, smelled Mike’s breath, his sweat, felt the heat of his skin. Remembered how they’d kissed, licked, sucked, and his throat was immediately dry. With desire threatening to override his rational mind. “If I give him the password…it’ll cos
t more…lives. I can’t…buy my life with that of a brother. It’s not right.”

  Make it fast and clean. He remembered that conversation. Remembered having asked for a clean, swift death. The promise given, shattering before him as he watched. This was everything but. Yet to ask Mike for it—he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was cowardice and would still leave his men to their fate. The torturer might kill them all just out of anger at the prize—their officer—evading him.

  Mike’s eyes slid shut as he rested his forehead against Sergei’s. He didn’t say anything for a few moments. When he did speak, his voice was strained. “Don’t make me leave you here. I love you too much to do that. Please.”

  Sergei would have given an arm to be able to hold Mike, press him close, kiss him. Love. The word rocked him like an earthquake, so sweet and impossible between men. Impossible where he’d come from. Not here. Not where Mike was from. Please. Sergei pressed back, kissed Mike, hoped they weren’t being watched but couldn’t care if they were.

  “I can’t.”

  “Then give me the password. I’ll send a warning to your general, tell him what happened here, where you are.”

  That might work. Sergei was too exhausted to question that logic, to question Mike. Send that warning, make his escape and return to save the survivors and destroy the rebels. He’d have to move quickly. It could work. His heart leaped at the thought, and while his brain told him that, no, he was still breaking the rules, it was his best chance to save his men. And he wanted to live, desperately, for Mike, for himself.

  “District 5, 32nd Street, Number 31, Liberty.”

  Mike’s mouth trailed over his, up his face, kissed his forehead. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  He left and Sergei slumped back into the ropes. As if that secret, that password, had been the only thing that had kept him upright. He very nearly passed out, vision turning grainy like a patchy broadcast. He hoped Mike found the pad, sent the message. Destroyed it.

  Voices again.

  The door stood wide open. Mike hadn’t bothered to shut it. His voice sounded harsh when he spoke, but Sergei still couldn’t make out anything. Yes, one thing. The repetition of his password, conveyed in Doctrine standard. The cadence of Mike’s voice changed, relaxed, questioning. His captor only offered monosyllable replies.

  Sergei was still reeling from that when Mike reappeared in the doorway, his smile forced. He cut the rope around his ankles, opened the cuffs around Sergei’s arms and just dropped them on the floor, then cut the ropes, caught him when he slumped and pulled the loops of rope from his wrists.

  Sergei turned away, rested his forehead against the wall. He couldn’t bear to look at Mike just then. Just hearing his password sat like a dagger in his chest. He didn’t know how long he’d have lasted if the torturer had started shooting his men again, but Mike promising him one thing and doing something else…why? The knowledge, the betrayal, was a stone, a boulder, in his soul.

  The pad was crammed full of sensitive information. The rebels could kill his brothers with this. They’d know the Doctrine’s strategy, strength, capabilities, names, images, files.

  Brother shall not betray brother.

  Now that the worst had happened, he had to get back and advise the intel staff that he’d been compromised. They could change plans. Shuffle names, responsibilities. Make sure everything was outdated. The damage could be limited. What kind of welcome would he get? They would assume he’d made a deal with the enemy.

  And in a way they’d be right, wouldn’t they? The penalty for what he’d just done…A chill ran up his spine. Mindwiping. He looked at Mike. He’d done what his lover had asked, and for that, he would one day very soon not recognize that handsome face. Would have no recollection of that pleasure, that freedom and intimacy. It was too much for him to process, thoughts going in circles, brain shutting down from exhaustion, trauma, strain.

  “I need to warn them. I need…need to get back as soon as possible.” Every minute that passed now was an opportunity to do damage. He couldn’t imagine being mindwiped, had never thought it possible—not to him—but the thought that anybody would die because of his treachery, his betrayal, sickened him.

  Mike’s arms loosened and he moved away, giving Sergei space. “Right. Let’s get you out of here and head back to Dedis. I’ve got a transport outside.” His hand clamped onto Sergei’s upper arm, guiding him, his body too close, the heat of it like a caress against his bare skin. “They managed to miss one, somehow.”

  Something about that didn’t seem quite right, but Sergei’s brain was too sore to grasp what it was. The daze was getting worse now, and he wondered if part of his brain was bleeding, but then understood what was wrong with him—apart from being a coward and a traitor. It had to be early morning—the stimulants had worn off and he was heading toward a midsized stim crash. He moved where the arm guided him, suddenly too exhausted to find his own way.

  Outside, he caught a glimpse of shuffling lizards in the darkness, flashes of teeth and light-reflecting eyes more a vision from a half-remembered nightmare. He patted his uniform—what was left of it—for more of the pills to fend off the bottom of the crash, but they must have taken them away while he’d been out.

  A hissing roar, suddenly. The gust of air and sound aimed directly at him, and the wash of stink and musk accompanying it, marked the lizard as much closer than Sergei had realized. It loomed out of the night shadows, wings tucked, clawed feet firmly on the ground, neck snaking its head in a weaving, hypnotic pattern.

  Sergei froze.

  The massive jaws parted, thick forked tongue whipping out to taste his scent on the air. A heartbeat of stillness, silence, and then the lizard’s mouth gaped wide, body tensing, wings lifting. Crouched, ready to pounce.

  Panic-fueled adrenaline burned through his veins, and Sergei stumbled back. Felt, distantly, Mike’s arms steadying him.

  A door slammed. Someone started yelling. The tattoo of booted feet on packed dirt. But Sergei couldn’t tear his gaze away from the lizard’s dark, glittering eyes. Full of pain, rage, hate. A keen vibrated up from somewhere deep in the beast’s throat, loud enough to pummel Sergei’s bruised and battered body. The wounds in his shoulders sent searing jolts of pain up his neck to crash into his head, and it was a struggle to stay on his feet.

  Someone stepped between them, cutting off the lizard’s gaze, breaking whatever hold it had on him. The menacing, aggressive sound cut off, as well.

  His captor turned and glared over his shoulder, gaze flicking from Sergei to Mike, standing at his back. “Just…don’t fucking move. Stay where you are. If you want to leave in one piece.”

  The lizard’s head whipped to the side, long neck snaking to look past the native at Sergei. His captor tapped its muzzle with a finger. The dark, glittering gaze focused on his hand, flicked back at Sergei again, then steadied on the other man as the native’s hands and fingers flashed in a series of movements.

  “What are you doing?” Mike’s voice vibrated into Sergei, chest tight against his back. The rumble of his words was familiar, soothing, after the almost sonic assault from the lizard.

  “Trying to talk sense into a warrior. He thinks he has rights to the zombie who killed his mate, since he took him from the battlefield.”

  “What sort of rights, exactly?”

  Sergei wanted to glare at Mike, but the man was the only thing holding him upright just then.

  His captor’s hands stopped moving. The lizard snapped its head to the side, wings unfurling, and snarled. The nasty, hostile sound sent a chill up Sergei’s spine.

  “The right to kill him, to make him feel the pain his mate felt. In their culture, it’s how it’s done.” He glanced back at them, face unreadable in the darkness.

  The lizard’s gaze played over the man, distracted and focused elsewhere. In a flash of movement too fast for Sergei to follow, it whipped past the man without touching him.

  Mike dragged him back a pace, instincti
vely.

  “Stay where you are!”

  Sergei was certain the man wasn’t the native he presented himself to be. The string of curses that came out, then, as his captor laid a hand on the beast’s chest, was definitely Alliance standard. He even recognized some of the words and phrases as ones that he’d heard Mike use, on occasion.

  The air around them moved, an unnatural downdraft caused by the beating of wings. Two lizards dropped to the ground, so close that Sergei wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and pray. Poised upright, wings unfurled, they were something out of a nightmare, the guardians of a primitive religion’s fifth level of hell.

  His captor retreated from the angry lizard, then paused. His hands flashed again. The two lizards made undulating rumbles, cadences not unlike speech patterns, then leaned their shoulders into their companion, guiding him away, their four-legged gait sinuous and agile. For some reason, Sergei thought they’d be lumbering and awkward on the ground.

  “You can go now.” The man turned and looked past Sergei, focusing on Mike. “I wouldn’t recommend venturing into this particular valley any time in the near future, though.” Even in the darkness, the man’s gaze held a palpable weight when he finally focused on Sergei. “If you do, all bets are off.”

  “Warning duly noted.” Mike’s voice was dry and tainted with an edge of sarcasm. Sergei wanted to scowl at the man, but let himself be dragged backward, away. To the transport.

  He dropped into the landcar’s seat and collapsed, the back of the seat the only thing that held him upright. He felt his wounds, but they were at least fifty yards away.

  “You okay?” Mike asked next to him, already starting the engine.

  Sergei nodded, then managed to get a “yeah” out. Affirmative. Let’s just get away. Whoever you are, and why ever you do this.

  Chapter Eighteen