by Noah Harris
When I opened my eyes, I could tell right away that this was no shifter. He looked me dead in the eyes, friendly and watchful, but way too threatening for any shifter. His right hand came at me way too fast. No shifter would be so rude, or so willing to risk the sudden attack a movement like that might provoke. He must be human.
My nose or my eyes? One of my senses was lying. I took the offered hand and breathed him in, sight and smell both intoxicating, as he briskly introduced himself. And politely took his leave a few seconds later.
I’ve never been able to remember what he said, but I will never forget his eyes. So blue and deep, nearly indigo. They reminded me of dark denim, to go with the cowboy drawl lurking underneath his carefully bland newscaster accent. Blue-jean blue.
He never came back. He’d been heard complaining to an upperclassman that he’d been issued a single suite, not a spot in the twenty-cot barracks like most of us. I can only assume that the senior in question bent over backward immediately to make sure the little prince’s every desire was satisfied.
The whole time, I sat there as still as possible, breathing in the air where he’d stood. Drunk on it. Waiting for his return until the evening bell. When it rang, I realized I was alone in the quickening dark.
That night at dinner, combing up and down the long tables looking for my assigned seat, I’d found myself staring at a fellow first-year plebe. He was already holding court at his own table, as if he’d known the other students for decades and not minutes. The man was stunning.
I was pinned to the spot by his beauty, and the effortless charm of his speech. It was a few minutes before I realized it was him, again. I’d been staring at my bunkmate who left and never came back. And now, he was staring at me, too. He stared with a questioning look that eventually turned sour as I held his gaze far too long.
Alden Armstrong’s beta, as he’d have been known if he were a shifter, is Darius. A cruel, gray-eyed dusky beauty, I’d heard he was minor royalty from somewhere. The gossip constantly changed. Turkey, Syria, Iran. He never spoke of it.
I try not to think about Darius too much, among his many nasty qualities the very worst is that he seems psychic. He always seems to know when I’m thinking about Alden, or looking at either of them, and he’s prone to getting in my face at the slightest provocation. Elegant, petite and stylish, he’s the perfect backup to Alden’s muscular strength. Always whispering in his ear, giggling behind his hand, cutting smoky eyes at his next victim.
As different as they are in temperament, though, they’re equals when it comes to presentation. They’re the most put-together, professional students in the program. Movie stars, at any hour of the day or night. It’s incredibly intimidating. And highly confusing, at least it was for the first month or so. They’d been best friends in upper school, both from high-ranking D.C. families. After military school, they’d come to Flight School as a set.
It was said Alden’s real reason for demanding a single room was because he and Darius were accustomed to sleeping together. Curled around each other like vipers. It seemed ridiculous.
At first.
But in the five years since, we’ve all seen it. On camping trips, away missions and facilities visits, we’d see them bunking down like a married couple. No-nonsense and no shame, just quietly sleeping. Waking up in sync to start the day all over again, fetching breakfast, coffee and passing toothpaste and shower gel back and forth. A well-practiced rhythm, and the more popular and admired they became, the less strange it seemed.
It wasn’t strange to me, anyway. It was incredibly sexy, distracting, and even beautiful. I wished…not for an alpha necessarily, not a boyfriend or a mate, just a friend like that. A battle buddy, who knew me and my body so well we could be two halves of the same thing.
I thought of them often, in that bed together. One hand drifting down between them, a silent shuffle as the other repositioned in response. A tightened fist, or perhaps a mouth, around a pulsing cock, as the shaft swelled with angry strength. Alden’s heart beating deep in that smooth head, like tympani, as it stiffened. His breath suddenly gasping out quietly, taken unawares by the pleasure. And then quickening, from down deep, as one or both of them reached for their climax. Darius teasing it along, perhaps, until those taut, golden stomach muscles were sore and spasming. And then the flood, as Alden moaned, into a hand, or Darius’ silken hair, and the jet of warm, heavy semen burst forth, painting both their bodies as they breathed, and fell back asleep with a low and loving chuckle.
I’ll be honest, I still think of it often. And just before I come, every time, I feel that twist of jealousy, crouching like a spider. Convinced that somehow, I’m being cheated. As though I belong there, with one of them, or between them both, and only a truly bizarre anomaly is keeping us from each other. And then I come, whispering Alden’s name, my thick cock spilling itself on my belly and chest, all the way to my chin with the force of my pleasure. Or, if I’m in the bunkhouse and haven’t managed to wrench my hand away from myself or made a run to the latrine to finish up, into a sock, hoping I’m being as quiet as I think I am.
And deep within me, my wolf raises his head, looking around at the sudden burst of heat in my chest. But then he’ll realize it’s not love. Not yet.
Just something that aches almost as much, and he grumbles lazily back to sleep, all my fantasies of friendship, brotherhood, that unbreakable bond they share, fading away like the childish delusions they are.
Philippa Cortez regards me over the lip of her teacup with her signature ‘I know what you’re not saying’ smirk, which is correct more often than is comfortable.
“So, you’re saying you honestly think Alden Armstrong, the Tom Sawyer of Flight School, is engaging in some kind of high-stakes sabotage in order to, what? Keep you from going on a mission he’s clearly about to get?”
I roll my eyes. It sounds silly when she says it out loud.
“I’m not saying he’s doing it on purpose, or out of any kind of malice. I just don’t think he takes me seriously. We have opposing sets of skills.”
“You have complementary skills, and that’s exactly what he’ll be looking for. Listen, I grew up with the kid. I think we’re like, third cousins or something. But he’s not an unfair person.”
I shake my head, frustrated. Pippa’s right about him, of course. But if I haven’t found a way to impress my value upon him after all this time, then that sense of justice is exactly why I’ll end up staying home.
Pippa shakes her bouncy, dark curls, rosy round cheeks curving into a huge smile.
“I mean, of course you want recognition. Everybody does. A little bit of Alden’s appreciation goes a long way with you guys.”
“Pippa…” I nearly growl, uncomfortable discussing him with anyone.
“But I think you’re putting too much pressure on it. The mission crew is going to be decided by a whole panel. Not just instructors, corporate sponsors as well. That’s a whole new set of factors we can’t possibly predict. Think about trying to sell marine biology to that gang, on a moon mission.”
She isn’t really a marine biologist. Pippa studies biology in extreme environments, such as other worlds. But that’s how they always categorize her. There aren’t many scientists like us in our Flight School class, and it can be hard to speak the same language.
“You’re going, Pip. That’s the one thing I do know. You’re physically up there with the best, and I know you try damn hard at that. Nobody was prepared to find water up there! Which means they need a biologist.”
“I don’t even care about the moon! I just want to be in orbit long enough to study my cultures, so I have some data to work with when we get back. Real live space numbers.”
Philippa’s obsession, ‘my babies’ she often murmurs creepily, is her algae cultures. She breeds them as experiments in a dizzying array of conditions for reasons only she can really understand. I don’t ask, mainly because I’m not that interested, but she’s seen the value to be gained from zer
o-g studies.
From what I can gather, she’s interested in developing ways to survive in space. In her imagined future, spacesuits are just another awkward inconvenience. It’s a pretty picture, and one she can spend her whole life studying it, but personally I don’t really think it’ll go anywhere. We’re only human, even me.
“Extreme environment survival is pretty sexy, Pippa. I wouldn’t be surprised if they jump on it. Plus, you’re good on camera, which is going to matter.”
Flight School is a joint venture between the Air Force and what’s left of privatized NASA. Technically an arm of the Defense Department but funded by private industry. While the troops, like us, are fielded from military programs, the money usually comes from a coalition of corporate sponsors. And that means a marketable face goes a long way.
Which won’t be a problem for any team with Alden Armstrong on it. Obviously.
“Am I?” she muses. “I feel so awkward.”
She’s not wrong, but she has no idea how adorable she comes across. I’ve caught myself trying to be as genuine as she naturally is, losing the game before it starts.
“You’re totally in. As long as Alden and Darius don’t suddenly decide to tank you, too.”
She cracks up, rolling her eyes luxuriously, and bites into a tea biscuit with a savage growl.
“Well, Darius,” she spits, a tiny crumb popping out between her lips. She scowls at it, like it’s his fault. Pretending Darius is history’s greatest monster is how Pippa and I deal with his presence. A joke that somehow, even after five years, hasn’t gotten old.
“Yeah?”
From nowhere, suddenly there he is. The salty scent of his skin, amber and musk. Those ice-gray eyes and hair so black it’s nearly blue, like a cartoon character.
Pippa’s eyes go wide, and she coughs down her biscuit, looking up at him.
“Darius,” Pippa babbles. “I’m wondering about your chances for this mission. I would assume Alden has your file at the top of the stack.”
Darius snarls at me for some reason, before turning back to her. They have their own little rivalry going on, which they seem to enjoy almost more than anything else.
“You bet your ass. But I have no desire to go to the moon or blow up on the way there.”
Pippa looks down at the table, suddenly nervous and quiet.
“Don’t be an ass, you’re already in. The question is who else is going, if there’s an extra spot? Let’s not pretend Alden won’t have the final say. And you, Julian Forrester...”
My heart sinks. He’s right, of course. Alden wouldn’t even have to stoop to sabotage.
Which is why my heart leaps into my mouth as Darius raises one elegant finger in my direction, opening his mouth in a disgusted grimace, stabbing at the table like he’s about to accuse me of murder.
When across the courtyard, Alden catches us talking, and before we can inquire further, he’s whisked the terrifying Darius away once again. As usual, without sparing a look back. They talk for a while, heads together in the breeze-shuffled shade of a poplar tree; golden as the sun, dark as the night.
A deep unrest starts to growl in the pit of my stomach. Pippa’s reaction when I turn to her tells me I’ve gone white.
What fresh hell is he planning now?
2
Bronze & Marshmallow
Alden
“Earth to Alden,” the captain whispers over my shoulder. “Alden Armstrong, do you copy?”
I’ve been daydreaming again. He chuckles, and sits back down on a nearby stool, considering me with a grin. Captain Apollyon “Dean” Harbaugh is half-Greek, Catholic, and a remarkably tall and hairy man.
At first glance, he looks a good deal older than he is. I want to learn everything from him, but what I love most about my mentor is the calm stillness he gives me. Like an umbrella I can stand under that makes everything quiet.
It’s his bearing. He’s like an ancient tree, rooted in the ground. It’s easy to mistake him for a much older man, but look into those twinkling eyes, or catch the youthful laughter in his voice, and you see something very different.
We can sit for hours working on our projects and barely even look at each other. Detailed battleship models, imaginary war tactics, even occasionally the aerospace technology we’re technically here to develop. Quiet, happy, peaceful.
Other times, if I can get the captain on a roll, he’ll start telling tales of his younger warrior self, and all the places he’s seen. I love those times, too. There’s always a lesson there, or some new way of thinking about life. But nothing stays with me as long, or makes me feel as good, as an afternoon spent with the captain in silence.
My real father is not so easy. He met my mother when they were young cadets in the same building that now houses Flight School. They shared all the same wild dreams of traveling the world together, of being astronauts.
Until they got pregnant and set those dreams aside. Even though that child was never to be, it awakened something in them, and they adopted me less than a year later.
Nobody tries to cover up the fact that I’m here at Flight School to fulfill that long-ago Armstrong dream. A chance for them to fulfil their legacy and do right by their country, finally. It might have been hard on another kid, but luckily, I was the perfect candidate.
I was reared, maybe even born, with my father’s discipline and my mother’s sense of fairness. I don’t remember how young I was when I started taking their interests on board as my own. I loved airplanes and rocket ships before I could even talk. I started taking radios and appliances apart by the time I started middle school, just to see how they worked.
Going into military school, my aptitude for command scored high enough that I had a guaranteed place as an officer once my studies were complete. I’ve heard most people in my circumstances would have rebelled, or at least been miserable. But I’m my father’s son, I’m Alden Armstrong, and I’ve dreamed of leading a squad since I first learned what that meant.
It’s not that I’m afraid of my father at all. I understand and admire him, and we love each other very much. He’s got nothing to do with why I’ve come to depend on the captain so much over the last five years. The truth is, it’s not the way Captain Harbaugh is unlike my father that matters; it’s this stillness.
“Being a man is about making a choice, every minute of every day. Do you want to be your highest self? Are you a man, or are you just an animal?”
Father’s favorite speech, and one he applies to everything. Homework, chores, physical training, even mental ability. All these things involve choosing not to be an animal, including laziness. Food, sex with girls, sex with myself and any kind of leisure activity, all animal things, to be enjoyed in moderation or avoided altogether.
Back home, Philippa Cortez had always called me “The Bronze,” as in a statue. Cold to the touch, stern, beautiful and solid. I loved that, even if I sometimes pretended otherwise, because it seemed like the ideal way to be a man, just like Father said. Wanting nothing but to serve, feeling nothing but task and purpose, following orders and best practices. A statue never gets hurt, embarrassed, or afraid. A statue doesn’t need anything, from anybody.
The truth is, I like it when people tell me who I am. It’s like taking orders. You know you’re never making the wrong choice, because you’re not the one choosing. A man can’t trust himself, moment to moment, because that version of you is an animal that’s always changing. You have to put your back against what you know you will always be. Your best self.
Our first year in military school, my best friend Darius convinced me to take a psychology elective, so we could have another class together. One of the first things we studied was this experiment they did with little kids, where they’d show them a marshmallow and say they could have one marshmallow now, or two marshmallows in fifteen minutes. Then they’d leave them alone with it.
Some of them would just eat it right away. That’s Darius. Some would cover their eyes, or turn around, trying
to ignore it. Some of them would start kicking the table or pull their own hair. My favorite was the kid who stroked the marshmallow, like a tiny stuffed animal. I understood that impulse, to touch and not to taste.
“That’s you,” Darius laughed. “You’d ignore the marshmallow, but you’d need it to be there.”
It took me a few years to understand what he meant, but he was right. Just waiting around like that would drive me crazy, even when I was little. But knowing there’s a marshmallow there, and refusing to eat it? That would feel better than any treat could ever taste.
“You want to see how close you can get, without giving in.”
Darius might not remember that conversation, but I sure do. He cracked much the same joke our second year of Flight School, when a strategy teacher made us watch that old movie Lawrence of Arabia, about a soldier visiting a strange land. There’s a part early in the movie where Peter O’Toole does this trick with a matchstick, putting it out with his fingers without even wetting them first.
The question on everyone’s lips was, “How did he do it, without getting hurt?”
“It does hurt. The trick is not minding that it hurts,” the professor said, and Darius looked over at me in the dark, eyes shining. That’s you, too.
At first, I was a bit less comfortable hearing that about myself, but I came to appreciate it. If I want the marshmallow bad enough, if it makes me work harder or faster, what’s the harm? The trick is not minding that it hurts.
Or as Father always says, ‘Self-discipline should feel good.’ You should feel like you’ve accomplished something by not giving in. You’ve accomplished the impossible! So, it’s better if it hurts, just a little bit, because it reminds you how strong you really are. And remembering that makes you even stronger, like the sweet ache after a workout.
