Dark Edge of Honor

by Aleksandr Voinov

Mike muscled the transport down the mountainside, keeping every ounce of his focus trained on the excuse of a road. It wasn’t much of one. The satellite linkups in the vehicle had been damaged, so he had no notion of what the most direct route out of the valley would be. Had to aim for the one pass he knew, which lay north of the now obliterated Doctrine camp.

  He felt the silence from the man beside him as acutely as if Sergei had punched him. A physical assault, for whatever reason, would’ve been welcome. As it stood, he had no idea what was going through the man’s head. A lot had happened in the twelve hours that Sergei had spent in Pat’s company. Too much, perhaps.

  Gods damn him if hearing his fellow CovOps torture his lover hadn’t been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Those choked screams. Imagining Sergei writhe in pain, sweaty and flushed, rope biting into his wrists. That powerful body reduced to begging meat hung from a beam. He’d prayed, over and over and over again, that Sergei would give up. That he’d break and it would be over soon. But the man’s inDoctrination ran too deep to be so easily overcome, and Pat’s threat to kill him had been too real. Too much for Mike to take. In the end, it had been Mike who had broken, not Sergei. All right, then go inside and come back with the fucking password or he dies.

  The memory of all that misery and the way Sergei sat here, slumped and dispassionate—again—had him fighting the vehicle as it hurtled toward the valley floor, ricocheting off boulders, bouncing in and out of the ruts. Get a grip. He needed to think. Maybe salvage the mission if he could. Was his cover entirely blown? Or was Sergei only just now beginning to put the pieces together? How much did he remember after all those shocks he’d received?

  Daybreak was creeping over the eastern ridge, slowly.

  “Are they dead?” Sergei’s voice sounded as weary as it was neutral. That kind of tone always grated. It should have been emotional but it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure if Sergei knew that himself. Whether it was one of those zombie mind tricks that allowed Doctrine soldiers to function through anything, even extreme duress.

  “Nobody left alive in camp, but they have prisoners.” Mike couldn’t think of another way to phrase the truth. He couldn’t possibly have spared them all, even if he’d wanted to. Pat had been clear on that. We only take as many as we need. What did it matter, anyway, to a Doctrine soldier? One man was the same as the next, in their philosophy. Right? He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

  Sergei fell silent, pale face leaning against the support beam of the roof, only moving when the car’s jerks and bounces rocked him. He could’ve been dead himself, just a more or less lifeless body, beaten up, tortured past the breaking point, spent. How did they deal with losses? Just shrugged them off, like Sergei had been ready to lay down his own life?

  “Equipment, men, all gone. They’ll put me on trial.” Again that zombie voice.

  “Why? Is it entirely your fault that the natives were so completely underestimated? The Doctrine’s not the first to make that mistake here.”

  “No, there’s no fault here. They’ll see that. They will still investigate it.” Sergei turned his head to gaze at Mike. “They will ask what I did to survive. And they will find out.”

  Mike tore his gaze from the terrain to look at him, wanting to glare, but the vehicle caught a boulder with the left tire, and Mike focused back on the path with a curse. “They’ll find out your translator did his job, that’s all.”

  “Yes. Just which job.” Sergei closed his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t understand.”

  Bile burned the back of Mike’s throat. He clenched his jaw, fighting not to grind his teeth. “What don’t you understand? Did you expect me to try and harass a release for every last Doctrine soldier being held there? I think that level of negotiation is best left in someone else’s hands. Someone who has the power to meet their demands.”

  “I’ll do it. They are my men.” Sergei sounded as calmly determined as a madman.

  “I don’t know if that will be enough.” Mike maneuvered the transport into the valley floor, finally, relieved to be off the pile of rocks that passed for a mountain on this gods-forsaken planet. “You don’t have the power to give them what they’re after. But you do have the ear of the people who can. It’s one of the reasons I was able to get you released.”

  “The brother general won’t order a withdrawal. This is a career-making war, he won’t let go so easily. You’d have to take it to the Committee—and that is difficult. I have an aunt who was recently appointed virago, but that won’t be enough.”

  That little tidbit of information took the wind right out of Mike’s lungs. He hadn’t expected it, in the least. Had Herschel known all along? Or was Sergei suspicious and baiting him?

  He turned the transport toward the north end of the valley, planning to skirt the west side of the camp. Shortest route he could see to the pass.

  “Won’t be enough? She doesn’t have the clout to influence anything, then?” He did his best to phrase the questions carefully, but his system was fighting against the crash of the stimulants Sergei had given him. Pat had shot him full of shit, thankfully. He had enough time to get them both safely back to Dedis or even Rhada before he crashed completely. Barring any unforeseen obstacles.

  “I can’t ask her to ruin her career like that. I can talk to her. Maybe she has a solution. She’s better at politics than I ever hope to be.”

  Mike nodded. “What they did here…they’ll do again. As many times as they must, to make themselves be heard.” He looked over at Sergei, torn by the desire to comfort the man and not knowing how.

  “Yes. This can only end bad.” Sergei fell back into silence, resting his head against the door beam.

  The all-encompassing truth in that statement killed whatever else Mike had wanted to say. He let the silence draw out and listened to the hum of the engine, the clank of the vehicle as it rumbled over the uneven terrain.

  He heard the whupwhupwhup of gunships just as the camp, or what was left of it, came into sight. Lizards everywhere, natives on the ground, wandering through the detritus of the camp, picking over the charred skeletal remains of transports and supply vehicles. Mike eased his foot off the accelerator and leaned forward, trying to get a clear view of the sky.

  The gunships came into view a moment later. Ten of them, flying in a point formation. They came over the northern ridge and swooped down for a low-level pass over the camp.

  “Shit. Fuck. Damn.” Mike jammed the accelerator to the floor and spun the controls hard, arrowing back toward the nearby mountain. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  The first rumble of thunder from the sonic cannons just shook the ground, making the transport tremble around him. The death screams from lizards and humans chilled the blood in his veins.

  “We could have used those yesterday,” Sergei said calmly, as if unaware they posed a direct threat to them right now. “It’s our side. Just stop and get out.”

  “Are you fucking kidding?” The next rumble of thunder bounced the transport into the air, though the tires lost contact for less than a second. That moment, though, of squealing engine and furiously spinning tires made Mike’s pulse hammer in his head. He took his foot off the accelerator, muscled the vehicle back under control as it skidded sideways.

  He stared at Sergei as the transport finally shuddered to a halt. The man had one hand on the door release and was fumbling with the buckle on the five-point harness strapping him into the seat.

  The Doctrine officer turned and looked at him, drew breath.

  And then a sonic wave hit the transport, full force.

  Mike knew they were spinning through the air, but he had no point of reference. The world outside the vehicle was nothing but a solid veil of dust, rocks and debris. The roof slammed into the ground, denting visibly at the impact against a boulder, before the vehicle’s momentum rolled it back upright.

  “What was that you said about getting out?” Mike panted, tried to regulate his breathing. His fin
gers played over the catch on his harness.

  “That’s just a sonic blast.” Sergei released the buckle and tried the door, had to kick it to open it. “They’ll see my uniform. It’s a warning shot.”

  “They’re not going to see shit in all this dust!” Mike got loose from his harness, fought his door until it surrendered with a groan of protest, and was scrambling out when the first e-rail blast squealed. A millisecond of warning, enough to know what hit you.

  It slammed into Sergei’s side of the vehicle. Mike ducked, cussing involuntarily. Panic gripped him, pure unadulterated fear. He had no idea if Sergei was even still alive.

  The second and third strikes hit in rapid succession, and then nothing. Silence, as though a bubble had enveloped the transport. It was completely unreal, nothing registering to Mike’s senses. It felt wrong. He scrambled to his feet, raced around the front of the vehicle, screaming Sergei’s name. Or something. He had no idea what he was saying.

  With a cold shock he realized he was now well within range and sight of the gunner, but that knowledge paled immediately when he saw Sergei’s body near the vehicle, crumpled and wrong. He tore his attention away from what was wrong—bits missing, edges of raw meat in torn uniform trousers—at hearing Sergei breathe, loud, fast, panicked breathing.

  He dropped to his knees, supported the man’s head, checked the airways, then realized the gasping was due to one lung being punctured. Maybe both. He set Sergei’s head down, grabbed a handful of the harness straps and cut them loose, then began to tighten them around what was gone. Stumps. An arm, severed high up near the shoulder. A leg, right side, too, all but torn off midway up the thigh.

  He twisted the straps tight, felt Sergei’s body arch with the pain when he forced the veins and arteries shut to contain what little blood was left in Sergei’s remaining body. There were more bleeding holes—shrapnel—but no more missing pieces. He felt the urge to go looking for the missing arm. He really didn’t want to leave it behind. Go where, though?

  He couldn’t speak, just stayed there, touching Sergei’s face. The man’s eyes were searching, rolling; a bull in a lightning storm. He had no words to console him, could just touch him, wished he could do anything about the other wounds, or help him breathe. Mike knew how to puncture the chest cavity to release the pressure. But surrounded by dust like this, it would introduce all kinds of unknowns into the man’s body.

  Digging in his pocket for the lighter with one hand, Mike trailed a fingertip down the center of Sergei’s face before unsheathing his knife. It wouldn’t take much, just enough of an incision to go through skin and the cartilage beneath. Sergei’s pale eyes, pupils dilated from pain, followed his hands as he held the tip of the knife in the heart of the flame. Sterilizing it was the best he could do. Infection wouldn’t matter if the man died. Mike just wanted him to stop hurting. To be able to take at least one breath, comfortably, before the shock of blood loss had him sinking into unconsciousness.

  But Sergei didn’t fall unconscious, just stared at him and drew one terrible gasping, wet breath after another. His lips moved, face grimaced with concentration. It didn’t look pained, just maybe scared.

  “Just…” Sergei struggled to speak. “Just…”

  Mike bent lower, getting almost face-to-face with him.

  “Just…want to…make love…to you…again.”

  His eyes burned, throat tight. Delirium? Mike swallowed and smiled. “You will. Just lie still for a second.” He traced a finger along Sergei’s pectoral, found his nipple, then followed the invisible meridian line down to the ridge of ribs. Found a clean spot, though the term was relative.

  Sergei’s flesh felt cool to the touch as he bracketed the target with his fingers. He had to close his eyes, take a deep, steadying breath, before he could bring himself to sink the tip of the knife down into his lover’s body.

  The whoosh of escaping air was audible. Mike straightened, sliding the knife back into its sheath at his hip. “Better?” he asked, studying the relaxing lines of Sergei’s face. Wondering if it was good or bad. He’d managed to keep his emergency med kit, but it was in the back of the transport. And it made more sense to try and get one of the gunships on the ground, if he could. Sergei wouldn’t last but another hour without serious medical attention.

  “…yes.”

  The word was just a sigh. Mike watched every change anxiously, fearing that relaxation could mean death, so he placed his hand on Sergei’s sternum, lightly, feeling him breathe. There was very little else he could do but hope the Doctrine soldiers would eventually build enough courage to come investigate.

  Rotorwash whipped at them, scouring the side of the crippled transport with small rocks that made a litany of noise. The wind died down almost immediately, rotors slowing to a low register pitch within seconds. Mike curled over Sergei’s body, blocking the worst of it, but then straightened and waited, watching for the troops to disembark from the gunship. To aim their high-powered rifles at him. Unwilling to remove his hand from feeling each rise and fall of breath that meant life.

  A young officer led the fireteam, pistol drawn, but to his credit, he seemed to recognize the uniform and the situation immediately. He holstered the pistol, his throat already moving to give orders. He touched Mike’s shoulder, briefly, when two soldiers appeared with a stretcher. They lifted Sergei up and placed him down quickly, efficiently, but Mike still saw how the leg just didn’t quite follow the rest of the body. Judging by those terrible jagged wounds, that leg was most definitely gone.

  No, not thinking about that. Sergei would be fine. He’d get medical attention, and that was what he needed most right now.

  When the young officer pulled him to his feet with a rough hand on his arm and pushed him toward the gunship, Mike flinched, startled. Confused. Adrenaline thick in his blood, tangling any rational thought. The gunship bristled with sonic cannons and e-rail barrels protruding from its nose and belly, mini-wings heavy with laser-guided payloads. Savior, nightmare.

  “You too. Get in.” The officer nodded at the gaping door of the cargo area, where the medics were frantically crawling all over Sergei. Mike studied the blank expression on the man’s face, trying to get a bead on him, unsuccessfully.

  He clambered into the belly of the gunship and parked his ass in a corner, huddled out of the way as much as possible. Watched Sergei’s chest rise and fall in a slow, shallow rhythm. Half of him wished he’d been left behind with the battalion scouring the valley. It would’ve given him something else to focus on besides this. His lover’s life-and-death struggle.

  When Sergei’s chest stopped moving, halfway to Rhada, Mike was sure his own heart stopped. The medics were yelling at one another, communicating over the vibrating noise of the rotors, the loud roar of air outside the still-open doors. They had no free hands to key their subvocal mikes, between staunching blood flow, setting IV lines and starting the crude movements of CPR. Technology might have improved by leaps and bounds, but the visceral art of sustaining life hadn’t changed in hundreds of years.

  He wanted to close his eyes or look away. But he couldn’t. “Come on, damn you. Live.” It was only a whisper, a hoarse rasp. Surely not audible over the ambient noises in the craft, Mike thought, and let himself repeat it a few times.

  One of the medics shot a load of adrenaline straight into Sergei’s heart. Mike watched him look up, shake his head, and followed the man’s gaze to the officer, crouched beside him.

  “Do something!” In the back of his mind, that cowering, rational, civilized part of him, Mike knew it was a useless thing to say. But seeing the medic shake his head like that was not acceptable. “He’s the nephew of a virago, you have to do something!”

  The officer stared at him, blinked. Seemed not all men were equal, or their society not quite as egalitarian as they professed. Or the officer was worried the virago would come investigate the friendly-fire incident.

  The officer caught the medic’s gaze, keyed the mike on his neck and gave
an order. “The best we can do is keep him going until we reach Rhada spaceport. We’re still fifteen minutes out. It’s a stretch, but if we can get him that far, they can put him in cryostasis for the trip up to the shipside medical facilities.”

  Medics crowded around Sergei’s form. The officer beside him keyed his mike a few more times. Relaying messages? Calling ahead to the base? Mike didn’t know, couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt helpless, numb and empty.

  An entire fleet of vehicles waited on the pad when the gunship touched down. Medical personnel swarmed over Sergei and carted him off to an emergency transport vessel nearby. The young officer grabbed Mike’s arm again, hauling him out of the gunship onto the tarmac.

  Right into the face of Sergei’s general.

  The general measured him with a half bored, half hooded gaze. “What happened out there?” No preliminaries, just a terse question—the tone suggesting that he better like the answer.

  “The air support unit took us out. Friendly fire, sir.” Mike knew he should’ve stopped Sergei from getting out of the armored vehicle. Obviously he’d forgotten half his uniform was gone. The twinge of guilt was heavy and ran deep. Never mind the other guilt. He’d deal with that later.

  At his words, the general seemed to grow alert, possibly even alarmed. He glanced at the young officer who stood to the side behind Mike. Whatever they communicated, it wasn’t visible or audible. “And before that? Any more casualties from ‘friendly fire’?” A glance. “No. You were with him all the time?”

  “Most of it. Except for that space of time between when the natives took him captive and when I bargained his release.” Mike’s brain was fried, the adrenaline crash in full effect, the stim drugs wearing off. He couldn’t keep anything straight in his head. No filter. Sergei was gone. The odds of him living through this were slim to none, and Mike couldn’t bring himself to care about much else beyond that.

  “Oh, did they?” The general now seemed bored. “You must be exhausted. This officer will take you to a place where you can rest. Brother Lieutenant, debrief him in full. Record it, just in case there might be any issues arising from this, and submit the report to me.”