Dark Edge of Honor

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Ulyanov nodded. “I better get to work, with your permission. I understand his colonels may be flustered. Best to take them in hand now.”

  Sergei backed away, glancing behind himself for the chair, a little disoriented. Granted, the brother lieutenant was a Revision officer, but to watch a colonel defer to him so obviously was unsettling. Then again, the man had just taken down a general. That could be rather humbling to witness.

  “Of course, Brother Colonel. I’ll have the guards bring you the general’s personal effects and correspondence after I’ve had an opportunity to go over them.” Nikishin frowned at his cup of tea, and glanced at the still steaming pot, then flashed a smile at the colonel. Like an afterthought. As if his mind were already three steps ahead of where he currently was.

  Ulyanov glanced at Sergei, and Sergei didn’t doubt they thought the same. He was about to get up, indicating he would to save the colonel face, but the colonel lifted a hand to stop him, before he stepped closer and poured Nikishin tea.

  The message couldn’t have been clearer if any of them had tried. No doubt it was calculation—the Revision drumming home that it expected complete obedience to the spirit of the Doctrine. Sergei was oddly relieved when the colonel did this without a word, or without offering him a refill. That might just have been too much.

  “By your leave, Brother Lieutenant.” The colonel stepped just as smartly away and was soon gone.

  Nikishin let the silence draw out in the wake of Ulyanov’s departure, contenting himself for more than a few minutes with sipping his way through the freshened cup of tea. His dark gaze seemed focused on an intangible point halfway between the rim of his cup and the low table in front of them.

  When the lieutenant finally spoke, he still didn’t look at Sergei. “Did you find that confrontation at all satisfying, Brother Captain?”

  Satisfying? This hadn’t happened to satisfy him, had it? No, not the way Nikishin had laughed. This was how the man got his kicks, the moment when the hunter devoured its prey with abandon.

  “You’re a man I never want to cross,” Sergei admitted.

  A slow smile curled Nikishin’s lips. “Oh no, that’s not what I meant. I just wondered if you’d gotten any…closure, from facing him one last time is all.”

  “Yes. It’s good to know he won’t do that again.” Sergei breathed deeply, pondering the general’s fate. Early-opt mindwipe perhaps, but he doubted very much that the general would go down without fighting all the way. Prison, then? Isolation? Definitely zeroing for the abuse of command. It didn’t concern him any longer. “Thank you.”

  Nikishin rose, blinking rapidly for a moment. “I must ensure the general is quartered and see to a few other details yet this evening. In the morning, if you’re up for it, perhaps you can walk me through the base. Answer a few questions for me.”

  The lieutenant didn’t wait for Sergei to respond, just made for the door.

  “Of course.” Sergei breathed a sigh of relief when Nikishin was gone. First thing he did was pull open the uniform collar that felt too tight. Then he opened the belt and shed the uniform jacket. His meat fingers brushed his metal fingers, and he reached over and held the metal arm closer to his body, cradling it in front of his belly.

  That was real. Tangible. That would never go away, as long as he lived. The lesson from all this. He was alive and should be grateful. But for many, he was now broken—permanently disfigured by the metal additions, marked for life. Not that he wanted anybody close, but it would be nice to know that someone thought differently, maybe. Somebody might see beyond this.

  He should marry—have a wife, children. Attempt to be normal and hide the damage. Depending on the outcome of the investigation—at least the official outcome. He knew the unofficial already.

  The knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts, disorienting him momentarily. Sergei couldn’t imagine who it could be. Nikishin hadn’t brought anything that he could’ve possibly left behind. It wasn’t the smart tattoo he expected from a fellow Doctrine soldier, either.

  Outside the window, the shadows were growing long, the dusty Cirokkan landscape taking on that golden, hazy gleam of dusk.

  Just as Sergei began to consider setting his uniform to rights and answering the door, he heard the distinct creak of hinges. Whoever it was, they were impatient enough not to wait. The fine hairs at his nape stood up as a faint gust of dry, hot air swirled into the sitting room. His right hand felt clumsy as he gripped the arms of the chair, leaning his weight forward, testing his leg. Wondering how quickly he could move this time, if he’d be able to defend himself against whoever had seen fit to invade his quarters.

  No sounds, though he strained to hear something, anything. There were times—like this moment—when Sergei wondered if the sonic cannons hadn’t damaged his eardrums, reduced his hearing range or sensitivity. No matter how he strained, he couldn’t even make out the shuffle of feet over the stone floors. All he could hear was the overly loud sound of his own breathing, and the sudden hammering of blood in his ears.

  He pushed up from the chair, determined not to be caught unaware again. Legs braced shoulder-wide, so his prosthesis wouldn’t hinder him if he had to move quickly. Shadows shifted at the entry of the room, and a man stepped into view.

  Tall, dark-skinned, lean, head shrouded in a wrap of dusty cloth, chin angled down, native clothing well-worn and even threadbare in a few places. It reminded him so much of Mike that Sergei stared, unable to move or speak, pulse suddenly pounding, blood thick with adrenaline.

  Then the man lifted his head, dark gaze meeting Sergei’s, and the spell was broken. The eyes were wrong, but he still recognized them. He remembered the bone-deep exhaustion, the bite of rope around his wrists. Smelled ozone—like a taste of lightning on his teeth. “You.”

  “Not who you were hoping for, Doctrine soldier?” Softly spoken, but a hard edge nonetheless.

  Much the same tone as during the torture, and Sergei’s stomach roiled as adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream. His entire body felt ramrod stiff, as if the electroshock cuffs were still on his arms, cranked to the max. He remembered the surge of gratification he’d felt at slamming his forehead into his torturer’s face. The pleasure at the sight, and scent, of blood. That visceral need to fight, when flight was no longer an option. It wasn’t an option here, either. He would not retreat, not from his own space. He shifted his weight onto his metal leg, feeling the stability, the solidity.

  “Before you get yourself too worked up, please hear me out. I know you’ve no reason to, so…” He reached into the folds of his tunic, holding his other hand up, palm out, in a gesture that stilled Sergei’s sudden tension. He’d recognize his lost pad anywhere, so when the man set it on the table between them, Sergei narrowed his gaze.

  Sergei grabbed the pad and pulled it closer, out of reach, almost dropping it on the floor with his metal hand. Moving too fast, too haphazard. If he could only learn from Nikishin, fast, how to be so cold. Not that the pad would have any value. It would be shut down by now, but it did hold personal files and messages, and getting a new one registered was a pain in the neck. “You have my attention.”

  “Sadly, I need more than that.” The man took a step back. “Didn’t expect to see you again, actually. When they told me you’d returned, I couldn’t believe it. But…I’m hoping you can help.”

  The man who’d held a knife to his throat, who’d tortured him for hours. Wanted his help. He shuddered. “You and Mike. You were…are on the same side? You made him do this.” A shot in the dark.

  A heartbeat of silence. “Same side, yes.”

  “Spies.”

  A nod.

  He wanted to hit something again, doubted he would have heard the man’s verbal response past the pounding of blood in his ears. It took effort to speak, and when he did, his voice sounded flat, deadpan, even to his own ears. As though it wasn’t him at all, but someone else. Or an automated response system. “Why me.”

  The
man’s chin came up, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t make him do anything. He and I were…” the pause was longer this time, “…deployed together. Fed information back and forth. It’s been almost two months since I heard from him. Did he…?” Another pause. “His body wasn’t found in the wreckage.”

  Too many thoughts tumbled over each other, but the biggest one was fear for Mike. “No, I think…I’m hazy on this. He was…there when they picked me up.” He was tempted to rub his chest, the thin line of new scar tissue where Mike had pushed his knife into him to allow him to breathe. “So he told you, and you waited there, set up that ambush.”

  That ambush that cost so many of my men their lives. He hated the man, hated them both, but the emotion sat like a stone in his guts. Too heavy to lift. “I was a fool…” Fool for sex, for affection, for everything else.

  I love you too much. Worth nothing. A lie, and spectacularly mistimed too. For greatest effect.

  The man’s dark eyes glittered, taking in Sergei’s measure slowly. Lingering on the prosthetic hand. “If you were, so was Mike. He never should’ve come to me that way to get you released. Fucking lovesick fool if I’ve ever seen one. That’s not the point though. He’s missing. I haven’t heard from him since he drove you out of my damned camp, man.” His voice was harsh, almost a bark. The edge of command lacing his tone, reminding him of Mike. Again.

  And damn, but that hurt. He should have covered up that cursed metal, hidden all weakness. Just the fact that the man had seen him at his most vulnerable—ready to die. “Like hell I’ll help you.”

  The man stiffened.

  “Don’t you think I’ve aided your side enough?” Sergei didn’t feel anywhere near as calm as his voice sounded. “I gave you my password, voluntarily,” he hissed, lowering the volume of his voice to almost a whisper. “That makes me a traitor.”

  He closed his eyes against the movement of the man’s lips, forming words he couldn’t hear. Focus. Discipline. He forced himself to breathe evenly and think rationally, forced his face to betray nothing. No, he couldn’t bring himself to help the man who’d killed his men at point-blank range. Wouldn’t ever lift a finger to assist his torturer.

  But the one who saved his life? What of him? A debt, once owed, could not be denied.

  Objective: find Mike. His feelings didn’t matter and wouldn’t interfere. Part of him had hoped that Mike had returned to the Alliance and was safe there. He’d half expected to find signs of a hurried departure in that house they’d used. Maybe some kind of message. But for that, Mike would’ve had to know he was still alive. Focus.

  “Missing.” He opened his eyes finally, and the man turned back to face him from where he stood in the doorway. “Maybe he was wounded and ended up in the sick bay. I…can check for him. The files.” Lovesick fool. Maybe this was even more complex than he’d thought. “I owe him. Maybe even you.” He met the other man’s gaze fully and didn’t know from where he took the strength. “Despite everything, I’ll pay my debt.”

  The honorable thing to do, even if he could claim that he didn’t owe anybody anything, certainly not men who weren’t under the Doctrine, and certainly not enemies. But Mike had always felt like he was part of it. A brother. A comrade. Even though Sergei knew it was wrong.

  The man nodded, a slow movement of his head. “You’re an honorable man, Sergei Stolkov. A formidable adversary. And no doubt a worthy ally. Or you wouldn’t have earned the allegiance of a man like Mike.” He shook his head. “I’ll check back. Tomorrow evening?”

  What’s left of me. Bitterness rose and spread, along with the worry. “It depends on the plans of Interior Revision. The whole…enterprise here…is being revised. The general’s gone. If I were you, I wouldn’t attack us again, now, or you might end up with more hawks than doves, and next time they will have air support, maybe even orbital bombardment. Whatever force you serve—Alliance, I’m guessing—might wish to attempt diplomacy first.”

  Not that I’ll ever go back into the mountains. The doctors were very clear on that part. He needed oxygen-rich air until they could regrow or force-grow a second lung for him. Here on Cirokko, they didn’t have the technology for it.

  The man rubbed at his scruffy excuse of a beard, scratching his jawline, gaze on the floor as he digested Sergei’s words. When he looked up, his dark eyes held Sergei’s. “Thank you for that. I’ll pass it along. I wonder…why, though.” He folded his arms and straightened, squaring his body. “Why warn me at all?”

  “So that maybe a few lives are spared in all of this.” Like I still have to deal with the death of my men. Sergei kept his face impassive, but all this was too fresh, too soon, and he was facing it alone. All the bitter truths. “And Revision is very interested in your lizard warriors.”

  “Shooting them out of the sky won’t get you very far.” He canted his head and sighed. “Gods, you’re young. I don’t remember ever being so young.” There was a wistful tone to his words, but before Sergei could even process why the man who’d tortured him would say such a thing, the man turned away. “Name’s Pat, by the way. I’ll check back tomorrow evening. Just in case.” He left the room as quietly as he’d entered, only the creak of the door and the click of the latch marking his departure.

  Missing. So Mike hadn’t escaped. Wasn’t lingering somewhere, watching. Hadn’t moved on to his next mission, his next…No, don’t think about it.

  Sergei felt the absence like a hollow ache in his body, in his mind. Mike. He desperately needed closure. Something, anything, to help him understand why. Get confirmation that it had been a lie—or, craziest of hopes, the truth. He’d accept the consequences of his actions even if it meant mindwiping, but he needed that one answer.

  Not that he was eagerly awaiting that outcome. To forget everything, like none of it had ever happened. Never held someone, known the intimacy of not being alone, able to speak his mind, to take the mask off.

  I love you too much. Okay, so maybe a part of him was looking forward to forgetting.

  He stripped the shirt away, looked at where metal and flesh fused next to his shoulder. The flesh was still growing into it, which, on close inspection, wasn’t a pretty sight. He touched the hard ridges with a finger, traced the edge of flesh that felt normal and the alloy that only transmitted feedback. The same near his leg, the remaining flesh stump at least meant that anybody touching him there could delude himself about that leg. As if.

  Sergei closed his eyes, stood there, feeling more despair than he could deal with. PTSD. It was all expected, the guilt, the depression, and he should undergo counseling. He would. It was his duty to recover and be ready to be deployed again, in whatever capacity the Doctrine chose for him. It certainly seemed like the best thing to do. Until then, he had to function. Like that arm. He’d function, he’d do his duty, whatever ragged, messed-up shape he now had.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Nikishin strode down the corridor in the Doctrine barracks, energy of purpose animating every inch of him. He might’ve only been a lieutenant, but every last soldier moved out of his path with equal haste.

  “There are no records of any POWs being incarcerated or processed. Nothing at all.” The Revision officer slowed his pace a fraction. “I’ve managed to locate two holding cells.” He grimaced, demonstrating his opinion of the matter. “Soldier quarters, stripped bare. Natives. There’s no pattern in their location, though. If your translator is being held, I’ve no notion where at the moment. This entire base is a clusterfuck.”

  “I wasn’t aware how far away from the Doctrine he’d strayed,” Sergei commented. “There must be guards. You could put out some privileges for anybody who reports a POW who hasn’t been properly processed. A week of free time might do it.”

  “A very good notion. Wonder how many POWs will come out of the woodwork? Care to place a wager on it?” A rhetorical, sarcastic question.

  “Let’s hope he wasn’t executed in some backyard.” Sergei inhaled deeply, feeling like that one lung didn’
t give him enough oxygen. “Another option is of course to interrogate the general.”

  “Actually, I thought of checking in with the brother colonel. Ulyanov’s had twelve hours or so…there’s a possibility he’s got a grasp of what’s going on in this mess. And I wouldn’t want to needlessly threaten the general with a good time.” Nikishin motioned to a side corridor that Sergei recognized. “The general’s old barracks office is this way?” The lieutenant glanced around, as if orienting himself to a map in his head.

  “Yes. The corridor beyond is a shortcut to his living quarters. He liked his privacy there.”

  Nikishin began walking again, hands clasped behind his back. “I doubt he’d have a random native translator executed, unless it served his purpose to cover his tracks with you completely.”

  The door to the colonel’s office stood ajar, and Ulyanov’s authoritative voice carried into the hall, though his words were unclear. Nikishin rapped on the door, the sound cutting off conversation midsentence. A beat of silence ensued, as if Ulyanov were bracing himself.

  “Enter.”

  Nikishin jerked his head at Sergei to follow and pushed the door open the rest of the way, stepping inside.

  The colonel was talking to two soldiers who stood there, alert, eager to serve the new commanding officer. Sergei recognized them as part of the general’s staff. “Brother Lieutenant.”

  “My apologies for interrupting, Brother Colonel.” Brisk, formal, not really an apology. Nikishin eyed the soldiers closely, then turned his full attention on the colonel. “It’s been brought to my attention that there are unprocessed POWs secreted throughout the barracks. I was hoping you could be of some assistance in that regard.”

  “Certainly.” Ulyanov glanced at the two staff NCOs. “You have until midday to locate any prisoners held in this complex and their files.”