Dark Edge of Honor

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “A dark-haired man who calls himself Mike. He was taken right after the incident at Zasidka.” Sergei studied both of them, reading their reactions.

  The two soldiers became mirrors of one another, faces lighting up in their eagerness to help. “That one was a hard-ass,” the larger of the two offered. “Never did tell the brother general anything, no matter how hard we worked him over.”

  “Where is he? Is he…alive?”

  “Last we checked, he was.” The shorter one, a greasy-looking fellow who set Sergei’s teeth on edge, stepped forward. “We can show you where he is, if you wish.”

  “We know of two others. How many more?” Nikishin’s voice cut in, cold and hard. “Something tells me these aren’t the only ones the general incarcerated outside the boundaries of protocol.”

  Sergei twitched with the effort it took to contain his impatience. Mike was alive, somewhere in the barracks, and these two knew where. He wanted to grab one of them, bodily haul him down the hall by the neck. His metal hand clenched into a fist each time he forced himself to relax it, and the bulkier of the two eyed the rhythmic movement of his prosthetic with something like sick fear. The color bled from the soldier’s face, throat convulsing as he swallowed repeatedly.

  “We can show you the ones we know about.” The soldier’s voice came out a hoarse rasp, barely loud enough to be heard despite the proximity. His gaze remained trained on Sergei’s hand, but Sergei couldn’t find a shred of compassion for him, not even when his complexion began turning a faint shade of green beneath the deep tan.

  Worked him over.

  Mike. Two months of silence, Pat had said. Sergei shook his head, amazed, dizzy with a thrill of adrenaline. He was going to get those answers, after all. No way would he bite his tongue and stand by. One way or another, he’d find the courage—the privacy—to ask the tough questions of the man who’d been his lover. Of the man who betrayed him so callously. The man who didn’t exist. Lies, all of it. Lies, and more lies.

  The flood of rage in his mind startled him. Thick, blinding emotion. He wanted to hit something. He looked at the NCO, eyes narrow, but he couldn’t lash out. First, the man had been following orders, second, he was below him in the hierarchy, and third, he was still a brother. But sometimes—more and more lately, actually—that Doctrine restraint felt like razor wire.

  The colonel eyed the NCOs, in turn. “Take us to this prisoner of interest, first.”

  “Yes, Brother Colonel!” The two Doctrine soldiers answered in tandem, snapping crisp salutes. They hesitated only a moment, eyeing Nikishin’s position between them and the door.

  The Revision officer stepped to the side. “By all means, lead the way. Please.” Calm and collected once again, the tone of his voice unreadable. His dark gaze followed the men from the room, and returned to the colonel. “The circumstantial evidence would appear to support your theory, Brother Colonel. As does the interview yesterday evening. One wonders how he passed the vetting stage for this assignment. I’m interested in discussing your findings with you, after I’ve supervised this little impromptu tour.”

  “The disconnect or the delusions of grandeur?”

  “Both, I think.” Nikishin tugged on the cuffs of his sleeves, looking every inch calm and unruffled. “In this particular case, at least, the two seemed intertwined.”

  “I will be happy to present my theories, Brother Lieutenant.”

  Sergei had never felt this level of unrest, impatience, before. Not even freshly planetside, after being cooped up in the long-hauler en route to Cirokko, when he was itching for nothing more than a good fight. It took all his focus to measure his pace to that of the officers, the NCOs leading the way.

  “This here is Mike’s cell.” The larger NCO stopped before a door dead-bolted and padlocked shut.

  Sergei’s fists clenched so hard that both of them hurt. Control. But he didn’t know how. He wanted a fight, bad. Something, anything. So long as it was authentic. Honest.

  The shorter one pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and fumbled with the lock, then pushed the door open and stepped aside. A waft of stale, putrid air washed out into the corridor. Sergei didn’t know what was stopping them—shock, horror, something else? He growled under his breath, elbowed his way past the NCOs and pushed into the room.

  One lungful of the rank odor in the room made Sergei recoil. He looked around, not quite understanding where the stench originated. In the far corner of the room, backed flush against the wall, was Mike. He knew it was him, even though it resembled nothing more than a heap of filthy, wrinkled clothing, tossed there and abandoned.

  The rage bled away so quickly, he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Gone, all of it, at the sight of the man crumbled in the corner. Reduced to this. Sergei felt a stab of guilt that he’d waited so long, that he hadn’t pushed more aggressively, that he’d just assumed that Mike had gotten away. He dragged his thoughts away from that particular abyss and advanced, moving in a near crouch toward Mike. He was glad for the gloom, but still, Mike looked terrible even so—small wounds in his face, crusted blood, flesh swollen and discolored. He mostly recognized him by shapes—of hands and face, shoulders, even though he’d lost a lot of weight.

  “You’re…worse off than me,” Sergei murmured and knelt down within reach, attempting to make contact. His vision blurred.

  The movement was subtle, small. A tension in the limbs, coiling back, tighter, drawing away. It was something, though, like catching the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Responsive, alive.

  Sergei reached out, then fisted his metallic hand and pulled back. Reached out with his left hand and brushed fingertips over the man’s temple. He knew it was a dangerous thing to do, even before Mike’s arm moved, fingers striking out to wrap around his wrist like a vice.

  “I’m here. I’m not going away.” Sergei blinked to clear his vision, cursed himself for not having two hands that could touch Mike. “I’m here, not going anywhere.” Talking slowly and keeping his voice low.

  The grip on his wrist loosened a fraction, then clamped down harder as Mike’s eyes opened. Dull, glazed. “Dead.” His voice was a dry, hoarse rasp. The fingers tightened more, until Sergei could feel his pulse hammering against Mike’s touch. Sergei watched the familiar hazel eyes take in his hand, gripping Sergei’s wrist, and travel up, slowly, to his face. As if the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to come together.

  “No. You’re alive. I’m alive.” Had the general lied to him? Or was it that Mike had been locked away so deep and dark that he couldn’t tell life from death? “We’re both alive.” He pushed a little against the grasp and touched Mike’s shoulder.

  Mike’s body heaved, shoulders lifting as he took a deep breath, tension bleeding from the harsh lines of back, legs. He raised his head and moved, closing the distance between them, collapsing against Sergei’s thigh as if it were all he could manage. “Good. Get us outta here, yeah?”

  Sergei’s smile hurt with tenderness. “Yeah.” He stood, lifting Mike up, not sure if there were any broken bones, and took him in his arms like a shot comrade. He didn’t notice the stench, just that Mike was much lighter and bonier than he remembered him. He moved, carefully, slightly erratically, toward the door.

  “I’ll get him to the sick bay,” he said, glancing between the officers. “He needs medical attention badly.”

  Nikishin motioned the NCOs out of the way with a curt flick of his hand, dark eyes taking in the limp form in Sergei’s arms. His gaze was hard when Sergei met it, but the Revision officer stepped back, made a hole and turned on the pair of NCOs.

  “The next one, brothers. Now.” Barked words, curt and clipped.

  Sergei couldn’t worry what had caused Nikishin’s displeasure—maybe the lieutenant knew exactly what their relationship had been like, but if that was all—disapproval—Sergei could live with it. He carried Mike to the sick bay and only let him go when a medical officer ordered him to.

  He stayed there w
hen they undressed Mike and examined him, put on a brave face at the state of that body in the light. He’d heal. He’d gain weight again.

  Mike’s entire body seemed almost rigid beneath the hands of the medtechs as they began treating him, cleaning his wounds. He turned his head, eyes a wild green, gaze searching and frantic until it found Sergei. He reached his hand out, sliding his arm off the side of the gurney, lips moving to form words that made no sound.

  Sergei took the hand and gently pressed it, keeping his gaze on Mike’s face, his eyes. “Don’t worry. The general’s dealt with. Interior Revision is involved. He’s facing court-martial for what he did here.”

  Mike’s eyes closed, mouth twisted into a grimace. He opened them and glared at a medtech trying to clean the cuts on his forehead and cheeks, before looking back at Sergei. His throat convulsed as he swallowed a few times.

  “Need to talk. Want you here.”

  Sergei nodded. “We’ll talk in private.” He turned to a nurse. “Get me water.” When the nurse handed him a plastic cup, Sergei had to release Mike’s hand to take it without spilling, then placed it against Mike’s lips. “Very soon. First we have to make sure you’re all right.”

  Mike lifted his head a fraction, just enough to drink the water in small sips, and he licked the stray drops from his lips when his head fell back down to the flat pillow on the gurney. His shoulders shook, and the medtechs and medical officer paused, watching him, until Mike’s lips curled into a smile, a hoarse sound of not-quite laughter escaping him. It lasted a few moments, and then he fell silent, just staring at Sergei, eyes a weird blend of hazel, lids drooping.

  “You’re here. I’m fine.” And then his eyes shut, and his body went limp.

  Sergei noticed the breaths deepening and reached out again to touch the man’s shoulder, but then pulled back a little to let the medtechs finish their job.

  You’re here. I’m fine. From a man as badly beaten and exhausted as two months of abuse could have made him. He didn’t dare think further than that. What it meant. Mike had no reason to lie…or not the strength. He stood back, forcing patience, then watched as Mike was transferred into a bed after they’d finished checking him for broken bones and internal injuries.

  He followed the bed when they transferred Mike into a private room, and pushed the single chair closer to the bed before settling in. He pulled out his pad and answered some messages, then read and took a nap, not doubting that Nikishin would find and summon him when he was needed.

  The small sounds of the medtech moving into the room woke him. Sergei watched him change the empty IV bags for full ones, studied Mike’s sleeping form, the slack, peaceful lines of his face.

  “Doesn’t look like he’ll be fit to answer questions any time soon.” Nikishin’s voice from the doorway startled Sergei and he straightened in the chair to cover it, rubbing a kink out of his neck with his good hand.

  “No, I don’t think so. Minor internal injuries, but the worst of it seems to be severe dehydration and starvation. He’s sleeping, though. The medical officer recommended letting him wake on his own,” Sergei said, calmer than he felt. With concentrated effort, he pulled his prostheses into motion and stood. “Did you need me for something?”

  “Nothing pressing, Brother Captain. Please, sit back down.” The Revision officer motioned to the chair. “I had a few questions for you, though. About the workload you handled for the general. And how much of it might not have been documented.”

  “I have backups on my personal system. I lost too much work to patchy coverage.” He was about to hand over his pad then realized Nikishin would have access. “But I can check the system in my office.” He stood, then slid his pad under Mike’s arm, just to make sure the man knew he wasn’t gone, had been real. “I’ll check.”

  He half expected the Revision officer to begin asking him questions once they left the sick bay, but Nikishin didn’t say anything until they were in Sergei’s old office and he’d accessed the system.

  “Any documentation about his dealings with the natives?” Nikishin leaned his hip against the edge of the desk, watching him work. “The…what do they call them here? Provincial leaders? You mentioned regular meetings, and I’m curious to know what exactly he accomplished. By all accounts, even if he was only marginally successful in facilitating a positive reception for the Doctrine, that Zasidka debacle should’ve been easily avoided. Unfortunately, there’s no reference of any kind in the general’s personal correspondences or official reports, aside from vague generalizations.”

  “I think the lowland Cirokkans are generally more receptive. It’s the madmen up in the mountains that gave us concern. He met the local leaders and promised them stuff like infrastructure for their cooperation. They seemed fine with it. There are a lot of things missing in this place. Schools, highways…well, information technology. There’s nothing bigger than a quantum mainframe here. Even a small pulse mainframe would make a difference for the local administration.”

  He realized that it relaxed him to speak about it—and while he’d never really followed every discussion in detail, he’d caught enough to be valuable now. “I could introduce you to these people. Or the brother colonel.”

  Nikishin nodded. “I’m certain the brother colonel would find that helpful. What do you mean, ‘madmen’ though? Are they an entirely separate social entity? A different ethnic presence? I was under the impression this planet’s culture was more singular.” He waved his hand, searching for the right word. “Cohesive.”

  “Well, they ride those lizards, for one. I haven’t encountered a mountain dweller…at least in no context where culture played a role. But Mike might.” Since he knew Pat, and Pat had been up in the mountains, even helped, if not led, these people. “Not a single provincial leader made mention of the mountain dwellers…which led us to believe they weren’t respected much. Like they didn’t count.”

  “No chance of them working in tandem, then?” The Revision officer sounded suspicious, doubtful. It was part of his job, though. “Would be a nice setup. Lure the Doctrine force into thinking it’ll be an easy occupation, with warm smiles and firm handshakes. Then strike us down hard the moment we move into the surrounding terrain.”

  “That is…entirely possible.” Yes, it was. Damn. They should have come in hard from the start, or not done it at all. Nothing worse than a half-assed war.

  “All of that is valuable information for the brother colonel to have access to. I’ll mention it, but if you can draft some thoughts on your overall perspective of the locals for him, I’m sure he’d appreciate that before you take him around and have him shaking hands and sipping tea.”

  “I could be his assistant for a while.” The offer was out before he’d thought it through.

  “Your aunt would have my ass in a sling, and your doctors would likely slap me with a court-martial.” Nikishin grinned though, taking the sting from his dry tone. “It would seem optimal for you to stay on, at least for the interim. You have the knowledge and familiarity to put the brother colonel’s fresh perspective within a frame of reference. Are you willing to shoulder the medical risks involved? Your lung, for instance.”

  “Yes. I think if they can hook me up to oxygen, I could even go into the mountains if necessary.” He really didn’t want to go again, but that was avoidant behavior and part of his PTSD. “It might do me good to face…the territory again.”

  “I’d like to get the lay of Zasidka firsthand, for my report. Satellite imagery doesn’t show tactical advantages too well. Beyond that, it’s entirely up to the brother colonel how he tackles the taming of the madmen.” Nikishin blinked and turned away, heading for the door, then stopped. “Oh. The NCOs gave me the file for your…translator.”

  Sergei straightened. What had Nikishin found? “Do you want to send it to me?”

  “I can do that, Brother Captain. It’s best he stays where he is for the foreseeable future, too.” Nikishin’s dark gaze bored into Sergei. “While it remains to b
e seen whether the general suffers from narcissism or disconnect, one thing is certain. Medical scans don’t lie.” The Revision officer arched a brow slightly before finally departing.

  Ominous. Sergei blinked, and turned back to stare unseeing at his desk console. The lieutenant had just played him as thoroughly as a professional musician would a perfectly tuned piano. Ensured his cooperation and then dropped the hammer—knowledge of Sergei’s potentially suspect loyalties. Sergei’s gut told him what would be in that file. As if his violently raped trust and Pat’s concern over Mike weren’t evidence enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mike kept his eyes half-closed, feigning sleep, and watched Sergei tap at the pad propped against his thigh. It was strange, the sight of him. Alive, whole, when the last memories he had were of blood, gore and mutilation. Severed limbs and rasping breath—just thinking about it made his heart speed up, hammering against his ribs like the damned organ was going to leap out of his chest.

  The right leg was intact and straight beneath the crisp cut of his uniform slacks, solid. And the arm—there was no way they’d saved what he hadn’t been able to find on the valley floor that day. But Sergei had a right arm all the same, and it rested naturally along the chair.

  He’d been right-handed, though. Mike recalled that all too well, and yet there he was, poking and sliding the index finger of his left hand over the touchscreen. Not that it mattered, really. He was here. Alive. Real. Not some figment of Mike’s hallucinating mind, thank the gods.

  Real, warm flesh beneath his touch, that’s what had done it. Pulled his brain back from wherever he’d gone. Hearing Sergei’s voice and feeling the familiar thickness of the man’s wrist in his grip.

  It took a minute of working his throat and tongue to get moisture into his mouth before he felt comfortable enough to speak. Still had to clear his throat, though, and Sergei paused, looked up.

  “Interesting reading material?” Stupid. He chewed his cracked lips, wanting to hit himself. You don’t see the man in weeks, he’s taken away in bloody pieces, and that’s the best you can do?