Behind him on the tarmac, the orbital hop fired up its engines. The low-pitch sound vibrated the ground, quickly cycling upward beyond the scope of human hearing. Mike looked back, watched the craft crawl skyward, the wash of its engines an unnatural breeze against his face, pulling at his clothes. He traced its path until it was a speck in the endless blue, only the contrails marking its trajectory.
The younger officer put a hand on Mike’s shoulder. Mike didn’t even give a thought to resisting or trying to talk his way out of the situation. Just followed where the man guided, hardly moving under his own power.
He ended up on a hard plastic chair in front of a desk, a bottle of water and a packaged sandwich waiting on a plastic tray from what was likely their mess. The officer tapped a combination of letters into the system, and a screen lit up on the wall.
“Please identify yourself.”
Mike rattled off the fake name from the persona constructed by his handler. “Michael Godfrey.”
The officer helpfully added the identification number from the files dealing with Mike’s contract to the military. He was not a nonentity as far as the Doctrine was concerned.
“Please give, in as much detail as you can, a full report of what happened after you left Dedis three days ago. Including personal conversations and everything you remember regarding the battalion commander.”
Mike took a deep breath and managed not to arch a brow at their debriefing methods. It was difficult to hide his familiarity with military efficiency, which required glazing over details, pausing as if it were a struggle to recall things. He left plenty out. After all, he was just a contracted translator. Mike highly doubted the Doctrine officers would expect anything more than a shoddy recounting, full of holes, inconsistencies and blurred details.
By the time he finished with the gunship ride, the bottle of water was long since empty, his throat hurt, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere and sleep. Stim crash straight ahead.
The officer typed in some letters again, shutting the system down. He paused for a moment, keyed the microphone. A little later, two soldiers arrived. “They will take you to a medic for a routine check. You will then have the opportunity to rest, while we evaluate.” Flat-voiced. Despite the drying streaks of Sergei’s blood staining his uniform, he was all business.
“I don’t need any medical attention, sir. And while I’m grateful for the offer of Doctrine hospitality, I have accommodations in Dedis.” Mike stood from the uncomfortable chair, clenching muscles to reanimate his limbs, feeling stiff and sluggish. The sharp stab of awareness, that gut instinct of warning, made the hairs stand up along the nape of his neck.
The officer’s facial expression didn’t change. “You have to be available while we evaluate statements.”
“What, exactly, is your definition of available?”
“Here, in the barracks. Under guard.”
Mike turned his back on the officer and stepped toward the soldiers standing by the door. “Let’s go, boys.” The survival instinct in him raged against it, but beyond that he couldn’t dredge up the energy to care one way or the other anymore. He just wanted the oblivion of sleep. To not think anymore. To not see Sergei, looking up at him, hearing the last words he’d uttered echoing in his ears.
The officer gazed after him, the same stone-faced dutifulness they all displayed. The room they escorted Mike to was sparse but likely nothing different than an unused room for an NCO or officer. A pile of blankets on the bed, a table, chairs, a shelf, a mirror, a toilet and a cubicle to shower and wash. Compared to many other militaries, it was comfortable—compared to others, it was a prison cell.
They closed the door behind him, and Mike thought he might’ve heard the click of a latch from the outside. It made him twitch again, that ingrained training resurfacing. Survive. Evade. Resist. Escape. Momentarily weakened. He tugged the dusty, tattered clothing from his body, leaving it where it landed on the floor, not daring to look too hard. Sergei’s blood, everywhere.
He stepped into the shower stall and blasted the hot water, stared at the monochromic tiles, unwilling to shut his eyes. The spray pounded at him, and he stood beneath it unmoving until it grew tepid. Stood there a little longer, numb to the temperature. Until he couldn’t keep his eyelids open anymore. Then he collapsed on the mattress, wet and naked and not caring, as his system finally crashed and sleep took him down into welcome oblivion.
Chapter Nineteen
Waking from cryostasis was what Sergei thought coming back from death would feel like. His naked body was mercifully numb, but being submerged in the fluid that was thawing him didn’t save him from seeing what was left of him. He thought he’d never be able to get used to not having a complete set of limbs.
He was breathing through a mask while surgeons worked remotely. He didn’t know why he had to be conscious—he’d much prefer not having to watch this.
“We have connected you to the tank’s VI unit,” the surgeon-in-chief told him. “We will now hook you up to the virtualizer.”
The words referred to something going on in his neck—not that he could see it, but he felt something entering him there, going deep, scraping past bones, to connect with a jolt of electricity into what he could only assume was his brain stem.
Suddenly, all he felt was the calm and peace of a fully functioning body. Like the reverse of phantom pain—some technological magic was virtualizing a new body for him. His mind fell for the trick. Even though he knew that that ragged piece of flesh was his, and the other robot arms were cutting away at the semifrozen tissue, his mind basked in the knowledge that his real body was merely asleep and not wounded at all.
The operation felt like sleeping or meditation—time passed, lots of it, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t grow bored. Sometimes the surgeon commented on what she was doing, but it was all matter-of-fact, merely keeping him updated.
Sergei didn’t speak. He had no need to, drifting in the body-temperature liquid, held and administered to by a number of robotic arms. He didn’t mind seeing the robots remove a fair chunk of his remaining leg and then, painstakingly, connect the nerves to nanoprocessors woven into an artificial matrix. It looked like floating spider silk and was vaguely leg-shaped. Many small arms began to weave the matrix into a metal prosthetic, until both had become one. Connecting flesh stump and metal limb was merely the last step.
The same happened on his arm, except the metal was fused into his torso. Metal was inserted into the bone pan that would have held a flesh arm, then muscles and nerves were woven together. Watching the process while not feeling a part of it was maybe less disturbing than waking up with prostheses attached.
A long time later, the robotic arms withdrew, only those holding him near the surface remained. He was aware of pumping and sloshing of liquid around him, which filtered tissue flakes and the discoloration of his blood out. Soon, the liquid was clean again.
“We will now switch you over,” the surgeon explained.
Gradually, Sergei’s awareness shifted back to his newly mended body, which felt sore, but not the dying mess it had been. It was thawed now too, and he was aware of tightness in his right lung. He couldn’t breathe very deeply.
“We’ve inserted a temporary chest tube to assist your lung in expanding. You’ll feel some discomfort on that side until the last of the air trapped in your chest cavity escapes or is absorbed.”
Sergei looked down at his chest, at the tube protruding from between his ribs. Details were blurry, but he had a flash of memory, crystal clear. Mike, crouching over him, the flame of his lighter playing along the tip of his knife blade. Squeezing his eyes shut, lips moving soundlessly, before plunging the sharp steel into him.
Mike. Where was he? This had to be off-world, certainly not Cirokko, it was too advanced for that. Liberty? Yes, that was why he’d been frozen—kept alive while being shipped back home. Mike was likely still on Cirokko. Gone.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be able to breathe almos
t as normal again.” The voice now soothing. Likely she’d seen his pulse speed up at his thoughts. He wanted to hide but had nowhere to go. He couldn’t even move. His heart beat faster now, fighting a wave of fear.
Could feel the five-point harness, pinning him to the seat in the transport, as the roaring thunder of the sonic cannon battered at the armored steel body. Spinning through the air, immobilized, out of control. Remembered the swell of panic. Fear for Mike in the seat next to him greater than the fear of his own well-being.
Sergei tried to push the memories away, struggled against the liquid surrounding him, the harness securing him to the seat, relentless, mindless restraint. Knew he was having an episode of post-traumatic stress, but there wasn’t a thing he could do to counteract it.
Robotic fingers made contact with his forehead, the nape of his neck. Hitting pressure points at the base of his skull, the bridge of his nose.
“Don’t fight the memories. Breathe through them. Slow, controlled breaths. Shallow. Don’t stress your lung.” The female voice droning calmly in his ear altered momentarily, a hiss of static, shuffling. Muffled. “Accelerate the damn program parameters, then. Get the patient out of the bay and relocated.”
The liquid withdrew. No, he was removed. Metal arms lifted him easily out of the tank, supporting the new additions to his body, and placed him on a metal gurney. Warm. Firm. A spray of sterile liquid washed the surgical gel from his body, then a fan pushed the wetness off his skin. Sergei focused on the voice, on breathing, tried hard not to strain himself in the panic.
A blanket covered him and he was wheeled out. Through a mechanical door, where nurses took the breathing apparatus off him and replaced it with a different system that did the same thing. They connected him to an IV drip. Calm came in the shape of clear drops feeding into his vein. His breathing slowed and he sank back into darkness.
“I respect your opinion as a medical professional, Doctor Chernyik. Really, I do. From what I understand, though, he was introduced to more potential infectious particles on that planet than you could ever hope to find on me. So I’m going to go in there now and see my nephew. And you’re not going to stand in my way.”
Sergei wanted to laugh even through the lethargy of semiconsciousness. He forced his eyes open, and though the effort was only half successful, he managed to make out the unmistakable silhouette of his aunt Alina striding into his recovery room.
Her gaze moved over him briskly as she came to stand by his left side. “Not quite the preferred means of reuniting with one’s family, Sergei.” A warm smile curled her mouth. “I’ll take what I can get, though.” Her hand was firm, the grip fierce as she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and squeezed.
Only then did he realize the changes on her uniform. She’d been appointed virago before he left to serve the general, the dark gray fabric making her rich brown hair stand out more. The gray signified selflessness, all claims to individual desires gone. Alina’d never married, hadn’t borne children. Others appointed to the rank formally changed their names and enacted a living will to separate all personal relations before assuming the role. But she didn’t have to do that. And had been rewarded. The white highlights on her uniform, pinstripes along the seams of tunic and slacks, showed she’d achieved that ambition.
“You’re now…” He found it hard to get enough breath for more than a few words at a time. “…a Committee general?”
Her grip didn’t change, the smile only faded a little. Far be it from her to triumph over reaching the top. “It doesn’t matter to any of this, Sergei. You’ll receive the best care and heal in peace. You’ve done your duty.”
He looked away, stared at the wall behind her, peaceful swirls of green hues. Rich colors intertwining. One vein of it reminded him of the veins of green he’d seen in Mike’s hazel eyes sometimes. Oh yes, his duty. He’d done it flawlessly. Failed to attain the objective. Failed to overpower the natives. Failed to withstand torture. Failed to resist betraying the Doctrine, everything he’d thought he believed in.
His chest tightened, a stab of pain from his right side cutting through any coherent thought. He would’ve argued that point with her—his failure was why he was here—but there wasn’t breath in him to form the words.
They were all dead. Because he hadn’t fulfilled his duty. The prisoners still in the control of the man with the hard eyes. He wanted to reach up and rub his arms where the cuffs had sat, but he was too weak for that, and one arm was gone. He couldn’t have touched the area even if he’d managed to lift an arm. Would the authorities catch up with it, investigate how he’d failed, and court-martial him? If they did, would it damage Alina? He couldn’t turn into a liability for her.
“Find…out what…happened. My battalion. The…man…with me. Translator…named Mike.” That gave her enough to form a defense—protect herself from anybody digging around in the disaster.
“I’ll look into it.” There was a distinct edge in her voice. Alina’s grip tightened momentarily, as if she forgot she was holding his wrist, before her fingers relaxed again. He didn’t miss the way she glanced quickly down the length of his form before focusing back on his face. It was easy to draw on the strength radiating from her in waves.
“You need to rest, and recover. This…Mike. Is he responsible for this?”
“…saved my life,” Sergei croaked. He was giving too much away but didn’t have the strength to hide it. The only reason he could give her. Not “he betrayed me—I need to know why. He betrayed me to the man with the hard eyes and then saved my life and got me home. Where is he?” He was barely alive, on the edge of disgrace and with family. No need anymore to pretend he was strong when he wasn’t.
“I see. I owe him a debt of gratitude then.” She released his wrist, ran her fingertips over his forehead. “I’ll find out who was responsible.” Her voice was steeled with determination.
Hearing that tone, the one he remembered hearing when she informed them all she would be sitting on the Committee one day, Sergei grinned. He didn’t stand a chance to follow in her footsteps—he wasn’t that driven and not nearly as brilliant. She had the power to launch an investigation that would doubtlessly cast a light on the general’s doings on Cirokko. He could pity the man for now having an enemy in the Committee. If the general didn’t play this superbly well, he stood no chance.
“Thank you.”
Alina snorted. “Enough of that. No need to thank me.” She straightened, gave his wrist another firm squeeze. “You’re my nephew. The son I never had.” She blinked away a faint glint of wetness. “Rest now. Don’t worry about a thing, you hear me? Except regaining your strength. I’ll come visit again very soon.”
“Is that…supposed to…be a threat?” Sergei tried not to laugh, knew it would hurt, but the chuckle escaped all the same. Sounded like the sickly rasp of a wounded man, though, and he closed his eyes, focused on calming his diaphragm, breathing slow and shallow.
She laughed for him, a deep and hearty sound that echoed off the close walls and made the air feel alive. “Oh no, my boy. That’s a promise. I saw your G12 request in the system. Your parents were rather excited to hear the news. They’ll be around to visit soon, so get as much rest as you can.” One more smile, and she was gone.
The G12. His best chance to truly return home, become a productive member of society, fulfill the duty set out for men his age. He couldn’t hope for the same brilliant career to hide behind. Hiding was disgraceful, anyway. Then again, so was the betrayal he was blatantly guilty of. Not just a cripple, a traitor. The weakest of the weak.
Mike. He closed his eyes against the despair threatening to overwhelm him and drew from his aunt’s strength, her determination, but that dark face and the dark hair came back, a memory of a smile or touch here or there. Tainted by the whisper of love, the twisting edge of convincing him to betray everything he’d known, only to turn around and desecrate his unquestioning trust.
Marriage. Leave it all behind and return to the fol
d, a crippled veteran, maybe to heal enough so he could fight. Serving in a command or support role seemed more realistic. It was all up in the air, with nothing pointing out the right way for him, no hints whether he’d be prosecuted, if he could escape the disgrace.
Chapter Twenty
The nightmares woke him.
Dark shadows with glowing red eyes, ivory teeth glistening with saliva, clawing at him, tearing him limb from limb. Biting into his chest, whipping him back and forth like a rag doll. Searing, shooting pain in his right side made him feel like he was going to die, finally.
Sergei thrashed, fighting blankets, wincing at the way his muscles screamed and pulled, still tender from surgery. Heart hammering, feeling like a sledgehammer whacking at his rib cage. He stared at the ceiling, trying to decide if the pattern was supposed to be sea foam or a psychedelic version of the summer sky. The sheen of sweat covering his body chilled in the air, covers tangled around his knees and ankles.
He had to remind himself it was normal after what he’d been through. But it didn’t make it easier to live with. He should resume therapy, but the whole Cirokko episode formed one big, tangled whole. Even a therapist wouldn’t be able to cut through it all—especially if he kept withholding the rest of the truth. His own guilt, the way he’d acted, and failed.
It all came down to three things. The general had attempted to kill him. Sergei knew this, rationally, but that betrayal sat like a bitter spike in his throat. Brother against brother. It was wrong, on so many levels.
The second was Mike. Who was the man who’d taken the password in confidence, only to tell it to the man who’d tortured him for hours? How they’d treated each other when that lizard threatened to kill him. The familiarity. The shared language.
And lastly, but most telling of all, his own folly. His weakness, brutally exposed. His flaw, being attracted to another man. It had left him open and vulnerable, led him to blindly trust where he shouldn’t have, right? He couldn’t recall clearly every detail. He didn’t remember. The torture was one extended nightmare in his mind, with lots of pieces missing. How had he gotten through it? He didn’t know, didn’t quite remember. Only that he’d begged for death and not received it. He’d wanted to die. And still wanted to live, but only because of Mike. The sense of betrayal in what the man had done warred with the deeply rooted affection—love—he couldn’t help but feel, even now.
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