Dark Edge of Honor

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “Having the geographic high ground isn’t a strength when the foe is aerial.” Ulyanov was looking at the ridgeline, with a scowl on his face.

  Lovely. Officer warfare tactical theories at work. Mike rolled his eyes. “Open ground is no advantage against lizards. Sure, you can see them coming. Gives them the air to maneuver too.”

  Sergei didn’t say anything, just walked away and stopped after about twenty paces. Wasn’t that roughly the area where he’d found the head?

  Sergei knelt down and touched the ground with his flesh hand, jaw muscles tight.

  Just like he had that morning, Mike moved to stand nearby. Not hovering, just…wanting to be there.

  Sergei glanced to the side, but didn’t move away. “I’m glad you get to go home,” he said in a labored whisper.

  Mike wanted to snarl. “I’m not.” He glanced up at the mountains, then at the decimated camp. “I failed, miserably. My entire embed has been a total screwup.”

  “You won a battle.” Sergei kept staring at the ground. “That’s not a failure.”

  “It wasn’t the goal.”

  Sergei slowly straightened and half turned to face him. “I’m sorry you didn’t fulfill your mission.” He said that without a hint of sarcasm.

  Mike watched his profile, searching for any hint of emotion. “And I’m sorry that mine crippled you from fulfilling yours.”

  Sergei nodded. “I also learned a lot. My limitations. My mortality. What it’s like to…” He pressed his lips together.

  He couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. Not without doing something wholly inappropriate. So he turned and stared at the southern mountain range, where the lizards originated from. Their roost, the native camp. The sun was barely a flaring sliver above the ridge. “When are they supposed to be here? And how many prisoners are you trading me for, anyways?”

  “Soon. They might already be out there.” Sergei looked around. “Watching us.” He shook his head. “Ninety, your comrade said. It won’t change anything for me, but at least I did what I could.”

  “What do you mean, won’t change anything? After all that concern about them being your responsibility?”

  “What happened here will be the general’s guilt and failure.” Sergei shook his head again, as if to say that it wasn’t as easy as that. “But I’ve committed my own crimes.”

  The low growl of rage that leaked out of Mike was totally visceral and beyond his control. “If anyone bears the blame, it should be me, Sergei,” he hissed, voice low, leaning in. “I’m the one who betrayed you.”

  “Even before then. I’ve strayed from the Doctrine. I crossed the line. I collaborated with an enemy of the Doctrine, leading to the waste of men and resources. I put my own nature over the goals of the Doctrine and the state.”

  Mike had to grit his teeth and turn away to keep from starting an argument he couldn’t win, not here, not now. Not with what he was guilty of. He took a deep breath, counted to five. “Can I do anything? To…lessen the burden?”

  “As I said. I’m glad you get to go home. I was worried they’d kill you.”

  “There are plenty of things more frightening than death.”

  “I owed it to you, after you saved my life.”

  To tell the Doctrine officer he owed him nothing would belittle the debt he felt he carried. Mike couldn’t do that. Sergei’s life meant too much to him. Too much, even, for him to do his job to the best of his ability. He was about to say something more—what, he had no idea—when the rumble of engines and the scream of a lizard reverberated down off the ridge.

  Mike whipped around in the direction of the noise. The sun had finished setting while they’d stood there talking, and he hadn’t even noticed. Dusk gave the sky a strange hue, and the entire valley lay deep in shadow. The transports kicked on their headlights.

  “What in the world was that?” The Revision officer stepped into the flood of light, looking a little shaken. His eyes had a fraction more white than was normal.

  Sergei glanced over his shoulder, then looked at Mike. “Whatever…else you think about me…whatever else…you felt…when you return home, will you at least remember me?”

  The whoosh of a lizard’s low-altitude pass overhead had the Doctrine soldiers ducking for the ground and the cover of the transports. Mike looked up, caught the deep silhouette of the lizard and its double riders before it moved off further into the night.

  He lowered his head and stared. Sergei hadn’t so much as flinched at the creature’s close proximity, his gaze still focused on Mike, unwavering, intense, searching. Wanting—or needing—an answer.

  “What the hell, Sergei? Of course I won’t forget you. I love you.”

  The lizard dropped to the ground a hundred yards out, and the whoosh of its second’s arrival overhead sent Bull scrambling beneath the undercarriage of the larger transport. It was painfully obvious that someone needed to take control of the situation quickly or the entire meeting would turn into another nightmare.

  Not that it was really his problem, at this point. If the Doctrine bumbled things, it only reinforced the Alliance’s position with the natives. Without costing them any effort expenditure.

  Sit back and watch your enemies defeat themselves.

  Mike watched the jostling bounce of headlight beams that marked the progress of the transport winding down the mountainside onto the valley floor as Sergei’s words registered slowly in his mind. It took seconds, intolerably long ones, for the meaning to sink in. For him to read between the lines and hear what the man had truly said.

  Not only did Sergei doubt the authenticity of everything Mike had ever expressed, but his tone of voice clearly said, remember me because I won’t remember you.

  Mike turned back to Sergei, wanting to say more, only to find him gone, walking back toward the Revision officer and colonel. “Oh gods, Sergei. What the hell have you done.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Duty. Honor. He’d given his word. Agreed to be punished in return for Mike’s freedom. For this whole exchange.

  Just this once, Sergei, do the right thing. Follow the Doctrine. Don’t be selfish. Redeem yourself.

  He could feel those words, an almost tangible warmth. I love you. Of course I won’t forget you.

  Careful what you wish for.

  He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t break again. Couldn’t turn his back on the Doctrine again after it had promised to accept him back once that part of his past was removed.

  But Mike had no more reasons to lie. He was halfway to freedom.

  Love.

  He shouldn’t have come. Should simply have trusted Nikishin to fulfill his part of the deal.

  “Brother Colonel—this is not an attack.” He hated the fact he couldn’t shout, his lung already hurt from all the dust in the air. He noted that Ulyanov was shielding Nikishin, visibly determined that anybody attacking the Revisionist would have to go through him first.

  That was the real Doctrine spirit. Selfless service.

  Sergei moved to Nikishin’s other side, providing more protection, while two more lizards dropped from the sky. “They swoop in, when they attack. I haven’t seen them fight on the ground.”

  Though the riders dismounted, they and the lizards remained well away from the arc of illumination formed by the transports. A silent stalemate, while the rumbling sound of the approaching transport’s engine grew steadily louder. It circled wide and approached the camp from behind the array of natives and then killed its engine.

  Even with the Doctrine transports still idling, the stillness felt deafening. One of the lizards hissed, arched its leathery wings in the air, and the snap of sound sent a chill of memory down Sergei’s spine.

  “They won’t come into the light, Brother Lieutenant. You should probably make a gesture of good faith and step out of it. I can go with you, if you want. The natives—my contact—will recognize me.” He had to lean in and whisper the words in Nikishin’s ear, his lung hurt too much for any more than
that.

  Nikishin gave a curt nod and stepped out of the light. Sergei did wonder sometimes if the Revisionist was utterly fearless or just supremely controlled. He stayed at the man’s side, though, leaving Ulyanov behind with Mike. The colonel had a death grip on the Alliance operative’s arm. As if the man would try to run off before the remainder of the battalion was returned to them.

  Two of the natives stepped forward, lowering their head shrouds as they neared the edge of the light.

  “Sergei.” Pat didn’t sound pleased in the least. “You were warned about coming back.”

  “I know.” Part of him had hoped he’d be torn to pieces here. It would make everything easier. Not a clean end, but a fitting one. “I still thought that I should be here—to make sure the meeting goes as planned.”

  Pat made a sound. “It’s your hide.” He turned his attention on Nikishin and motioned to the hulking troop transport. “You want to transfer the men to your own vehicle, I take it.”

  “Preferably,” Nikishin said, his tone dry. “We’ll release your operative to you after our soldiers are secured and safe. I’d also prefer that…vehicle of yours…remain exactly where it is.”

  Within a few moments the prisoners were being unloaded, and they walked past Sergei in single file. Dirty, bearded, very lean, but none of them looked injured. Sergei straightened, forced himself to take whatever he would read in their eyes when they filed past. He was their officer. He was directly responsible.

  Some were flighty and wide-eyed, a few looked as if they’d seen more than they ever bargained for. They had that dark, glazed look of deep trauma. But they were alive. Above all, he saw relief and exhaustion. He wanted to reach out and do something, but there was really nothing. Not in front of enemies, and he was too worried he’d show too much emotion. But he began to feel the same grinding relief. Once they were all “safe and secure,” Nikishin gave a nod to Ulyanov. The colonel released Mike’s arm.

  Mike moved forward, then looked at Sergei for a long moment. Asking. Imploring? Angry? A mix of emotion, and it was too dark to tell them all apart, but that gaze was a living thing, an ache that settled deep in his gut. The last time they’d see each other. At least the last time that he’d remember Mike when he saw him. He still had his memories, from that first, not-so-innocent “chance” meeting to all the joking and tenderness, and then the anguish—always that.

  He wanted to explain that he couldn’t. That he’d take his punishment to redeem himself. That it was the honorable thing to do. That he had no idea how to do anything else in the face of all his guilt. That he hoped Mike would find somebody else to wait for him.

  I love you.

  And whoever Mike would find wouldn’t be a broken cripple. He deserved a strong partner, somebody who didn’t wake at night, drenched in sweat, shouting for mercy.

  I don’t deserve this. Him.

  Sergei schooled his features into that mask he’d been wearing most of his life and watched his lover walk away, into the arms of his Alliance comrade and the insurgents.

  Pat grabbed his forearm, dragging him away from the small circle of discussion taking place. Colonel Ulyanov, shoulder to shoulder with Nikishin, looked more than just a little tense and uncomfortable, exchanging diplomatic pleasantries with the native chieftains.

  “I don’t want you lizardback until I have a chance to check you out,” his partner said. “You can drive back in the transport. Maybe you can get it back up to the camp in one piece? I’d like to keep it functional as long as possible.”

  Mike just nodded, not absorbing what the man was saying. He stood there staring at Sergei through the poorly lit darkness. That mask. That fucking mask. He wanted to rip it from the Doctrine officer’s face, once and for all. Wished it was a real thing, so he could shatter it on the ground and crush it to dust under his boots.

  Will you at least remember me?

  Gods-damned zombies. Whatever his fate, Sergei obviously wasn’t fighting it. Had accepted it, maybe even embraced it. Mike was torn. He was willing to walk away from Sergei, if that’s what the man wanted—as the price for the blatant rape of trust he’d executed against the Doctrine officer on more than one occasion. Against his lover.

  Unforgivable, all of it. Any of it. Pick just one, and the outcome would be the same. Combine them all…

  Sergei definitely deserved better.

  What he deserved, though, was the freedom to be himself, to discover himself.

  You smell like wild places.

  Sure, he was guilty of the worst kind of offense. But he wasn’t willing to stand by and watch the Doctrine destroy the last vestiges of who and what the man was, was capable of being. Wanted to be.

  He took a step toward the truck, casual, body blocking his hands from anyone’s sight as he caught Pat’s attention.

  A flash of hand signal, a wiggle of his fingers and Pat’s eyes widened. His shoulders tensed. The pause was much too long. Even though it only lasted a few seconds.

  A flick of signal. Copy.

  Mike climbed up into the cab of the transport, shifting in the driver seat and firing up the huge engine. Even over the roar of horsepower, the scream of a lizard aloft was clearly audible.

  Sergei was likely going to kill him for this.

  He threw the transport into gear, reversed away from the Doctrine personnel and the semicircle of still-grounded lizards. No use risking the rage of the officers in the aftermath. He wanted to be free and clear.

  Throwing the gears from reverse into drive, the engine lulled, idling. He heard the whoosh, the snap of wings.

  The bloodcurdling scream of pain and rage.

  He closed his eyes, trying to block out that familiar sound, the familiar voice. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard Sergei react that way. It wasn’t any easier this time.

  He jammed the transport into gear and slammed the controls with more force than necessary, gritting his teeth. All he could hope for, now, was that the riderless lizard didn’t just decide to eat the Doctrine officer.

  Halfway to the base of the trail leading up to the native’s camp, the four mounted lizards winged past, surging so close to the transport that the wind of their passage rocked the vehicle on its wheels. Mike leaned forward over the controls, glimpsed Pat—or someone, assumed it was him—riding double on the biggest of them.

  “I just hope to the gods this doesn’t turn into a diplomatic disaster of intergalactic proportions,” he muttered, even though there wasn’t anyone to hear but the native snoring in the backseat of the cab.

  The camp was a loud riot of activity when he finally eased off the trail and parked the transport beside one of the buildings. A circle of lizards, six or seven strong, crowded the open space, every last one keening up enough noise to make him wish he could turn his ears off.

  Not that it would keep him from registering the sound. It vibrated his body with each swell as he eased out of the cab and scanned the clump of dismounted natives, looking for Pat.

  His fellow CovOps agent found him first, striding away from the crowd with a quick nod to the chieftain. His face contorted into a blatant expression of anger, brows drawn down, mouth twisted into a snarl.

  “You going to tell me what this is about?” Pat didn’t stop walking until his chest bumped into Mike’s, and even then he leaned into him, so close that even in the poorly lit darkness before the moon rose, the veins standing out on his forehead were clearly visible. “I just gave a Doctrine officer over to the lizard that wants him stripped of his hide. When I thought we were attempting diplomatic resolution. Sergeant.”

  “What the fuck, Pat? Couldn’t you have gotten a different lizard to retrieve him?”

  “The zombie was warned. I fucking warned both of you when you left here. It was all I could do to keep the lizard from taking liberties when he caught Sergei’s scent. The moment I made the request, he took it as acceptable to lay claim. This is beyond my control now.”

  “It’s not beyond mine.” Mike held his
hand out. “Give me your knife.”

  Pat stared at him.

  “The big one, if you don’t mind. It’s about the size of a lizard claw, if I recall correctly. I’d use my own, but the Doctrine buffoons kept mine as souvenirs to pass along to their grandchildren.”

  Pat still glared at him as he eased the knife from its sheath along the outside of his thigh. He hefted it once, then slapped the hilt into Mike’s outstretched palm. “You going to tell me what the hell this is about in the first place?”

  “A humanitarian effort, you might say.” It was a hedge, and an obvious one.

  Pat’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Must have been some high-quality zombie ass indeed.”

  “Pat? Shut the fuck up. Unless you want a fist in the mouth.”

  His partner sighed and stepped back, directing Mike toward the gathering of lizards with a flourish of his arm and a bow. “Welcome to the soiree, fine sir. Have at it.”

  Mike had only a vague notion of what he needed to do. Pat would’ve been the preferred party for handling this, given his more intimate knowledge of the lizards. Living side by side with them over however many months…The operative’s disinterest in interfering disturbed him.

  For any number of reasons.

  From a completely professional standpoint, there was a Doctrine officer—a highly influential one—at risk here, and the man would be a gold mine of information for the Alliance if he could be convinced, somehow, to defect.

  With a flick of his wrist, Mike shifted his grip on the hilt so the metal lay along his forearm, edge exposed. He had not the first idea what it would take to sway the opinion of a mourning lizard bent on vengeance. Nothing like winging it. Pretend like you know exactly what you’re doing, and sometimes you convince everyone else of it too.

  He shouldered his way in between two undulating lizard bodies, bumping roughly into their substantial mass with deliberate force. They shifted away, making a hole for him.

  Ambient starlight was enough for Mike to make out Sergei’s form, crumpled between the forelegs of the encircled lizard. The lizard’s head weaved snakelike through the air as he keened, and the dagger-length claws sliced into the hard-packed soil inches from the officer’s body each time the lizard stomped the ground.