In His Command

by Rie Warren

  “Turn it off. Dismount. Hands in the air.” The demand was given in a high-pitched reedy voice.

  Oh hell, no. This isn’t gonna do.

  As I faced the patrolmen, I knew I looked like a menacing motherfucker when I flashed them an evil grin, but they didn’t want to mess with me after the night I’d had. On my birthday. After Blondie had blown me off.

  Oh, I raised my hands all right, to take off my helmet.

  Those two troops weren’t from my highly trained squad; that was clear from the newfangled bullshit rapid-blast guns aimed at me—weapons known to seize up in damp weather, but they were flashy and shiny so all the booters wanted them.

  It was also clear by the way the rookies looked ready to shit themselves when they recognized me and my fear-inducing scowl.

  “Holy hell. Sorry, Commander!” The youth’s thin voice turned into a squeak. “We were told to keep an eye out for unusual goings-on. Didn’t know it was you. This sector’s on lockdown.”

  “So it is. I was just checking to make sure everything was good. So I suggest you two skedaddle before I report you for compromising your positions.”

  They hustled away and I called, “Don’t make the same mistake twice, boys. Liable to get you court-martialed.”

  Parking outside my apartment block, I peered around from the slits of my eyes.

  Always on guard. Again.

  “Fuck this.” I punched in my code, crossed the cold lobby, and rode a mirrored elevator eyed with security cameras, cracking my knuckles instead of flipping the bird.

  Because I was one of them.

  Commander Caspar Cannon of the Elite Tactical Unit, Alpha Territory.

  I wanted Blondie.

  And now I would never get his name.

  Chapter Two

  Within the confines of my two-roomer, my all-due-haste receded in favor of licking my wounds. I felt like a pussy for feeling snubbed by Blondie, all because he didn’t need a lift home. Truth was, I’d put myself out there for him beyond anything considered smart or reasonable by my own rules of engagement only to get shut down.

  Loneliness wasn’t an emotion to whine about. It was a way of life.

  Checking my tackle, I made sure my balls were swinging and my cock was still attached. Yep. At least that was something.

  My isolation was compounded by the hair-raising feeling of constant scrutiny combined with the utter CO dependency forced upon all Territory residents. Almost all the roads once webbing outward from this city had been systematically destroyed. What little movement there was among the Territories had to be approved well in advance, and a ticket out was given only for a damn good reason. In the eyes of the Company, there weren’t many excuses legitimate enough to warrant leave.

  Communications crawled with spyware.

  Entertainment meant chaperoned socials or meeting friends for the latest propaganda blockbuster. Not the kind of knees-up I was talking about.

  Hookups were damn near impossible and nearly always a bad idea.

  The few freedoms to be had were saved for those who worked for the CO and their best little breeder families. The rank and file had something to aspire to, at least, which led them to step left, right, left, right, left into the authoritarian ideals.

  Independent thinking was discouraged. By discouraged I meant you’d get thirty in lockup for anything unsanctioned. Books, music, art were branded a big bad no-no unless on the list of endorsed materials.

  Given my rank, I had a little leeway but not much. Not enough to, say, uproot and leave Alpha. Besides, there wasn’t really anyplace else to go.

  Guess I’d keep making do with right here and right now.

  I was stationed in the epicenter of Alpha Territory, one of four map points in North America, where humankind resided, one of the sixteen divvied out among the other died-out, dried-up land masses across the globe. The rest of the continental United States—the Wilderness—had been left to the primitive Nomads, who protected their land with fierce savagery.

  This particular southeastern enclosure of razor-wire barricades, blank-eyed buildings, and budding regeneration became home after I left Basic, my skills needed in subduing any fomenting nonconformists. My intonation didn’t fit the southern drawl hey, y’all at all. In fact, there wasn’t anything smooth about me, care of Corps boot camp, which had beaten all the sweetness out of me. But I wasn’t the only one. We were a mashed-up population made of migrants from the Purge.

  Delayed waves of death and environmental destruction had annihilated an ever-decreasing circle until the survivors became exiles in the final four Territories of North America. It was the same all across the world, if the rumors could be believed. People were forced closer and closer to the hearts of big business—London, Tokyo, New York…Atlanta—as if willed by the CO itself. Those cities no longer existed, having been swallowed into Delta, Nu, Beta, and Alpha Territories, to name the Big Four.

  Each Territory had its own CEO voted in from a pool of Company applicants to convene with the InterNations Ruling Committee. It was a pretty incestuous affair, but they didn’t seem to have a problem with that. Especially since it left the general pop with no say over their leaders or laws.

  The governance of the Company, including our little piece of paradise, had been welcomed. With parades, promotionals, and cleanups. Followed by raids, rules, and rat-outs.

  The business sector of this formerly large city had folded in, conscripting the citizens and reprogramming them. Consumption, consumerism, connubiality, for those who kowtowed of course. Capitalism had a new brand name and an awesome marketing strategy. Unless you were gay.

  By the sound of Blondie’s accent, he was homegrown, and he sure as hell seemed gay when he was on his knees with my cock down his throat.

  Fuck. I need to stop thinking about him.

  In my bare-bones apartment, free of curtains, carpets, clutter, and any sense of interior decoration, I figured I had enough time for a shower before my order came to report for duty. Dropping my clothes, I stepped into the shower stall and set that shit to cold. Freezing cold. As cold as Blondie’s face when he’d dismissed me.

  Still thinking about him.

  The arctic trickle didn’t help my erection, and since I hadn’t turned on my Data-Pak yet, I had some leeway. I went for a jag-off in addition to my rinse-off. Turning the weak jets to steaming hot, I got really warmed up with a lather in my hand, my dick in my fist, and images of Blondie licking his lips before sliding that naughty mouth down my shaft to my balls, coming back up with a curl of his tongue. Figured the sweet bastard knew just how to suck me off. The memories were all the masturbation aid I needed. And more lather to add to the fat drops of preejaculate dotting out and dripping down the tip of my cock.

  My hand the most faithful lover I had, I glory-holed my fist, taking it easy on the upswing, loosening over the crown of my head because I liked a damned good tease, and if I was gonna get myself off, it better be worth my effort.

  A hand planted on the shower wall, I dropped a pair of fingers to my balls, filled with the image of Blondie’s plump lips wrapped around my cock. My stomach muscles tight as a drumhead, my cockhead taut at maximum PSI, I went up on my toes and rammed harder. Gasping, I thrust the hefty handhold of my dick in and out in a pounding rhythm, groaning when my sac banged my knuckles, wishing I had him between my legs, parting my ass with his tongue—

  Ripping aside the shower curtain, my hand flew across the scant distance to the back of the commode and came up with my SIG cocked.

  Liz.

  She grinned at both weapons I hefted, one as rigid as the other. “Thinking about me, Commander Bravado?”

  I lowered the muzzle, tempted to shoot between her feet. I shut off the water, not bothering to cover up. Number one: She’d seen it all before in the locker room. Number two: I didn’t give a fuck who saw my junk.

  I draped a towel around my neck. “How’d you get in?”

  “Better question is where the hell you been, and ho
w’d you let me get into this pisshole without tripping your sensors?” She referred to my internal sensors, not a series of security alarms my pisshole definitely didn’t possess. I wasn’t into the techy bullshit shoved down our throats on a daily basis.

  Lounging against the door, Liz had the presence of a sleek, well-oiled Luger, her tall frame coiled like a hairpin trigger. “You left the door unlocked, sir.”

  Jesus. I never left anything unchecked. Not my surrounds, not my rooms, not my troops.

  I covered my lapse with a brusque, “You forget to salute me?”

  “Think you’re doing enough saluting for both of us.”

  She was right. There was no willing my hard-on away. But I could ignore it. After painting my cheeks in foam, I started scraping the few hours’ growth of dark stubble from my jaw and neck with precise moves. In the mirror, I kept my eyes on the motions of razor blade over soap, softening the turns around my chin, lengthening up the width of my neck.

  Possessing no compunction at all—another thing to like about Liz, that and she threw a mean right hook and had sharpshooter aim—she kept up with the observation…on my groin.

  “Yep, still hard enough to hang my jacket on.”

  Her staring had me deflating, finally. I flung a towel around my hips now that my cock wasn’t gonna punch right through it and smirked over my shoulder. “Thanks for that.”

  She slunk to the opposite side of the doorway. “Way to stroke my ego, sir.”

  “Aw. You wanna get your sissy card stamped?”

  While she continued to watch me, she curled her arms around her waist in an uncharacteristic gesture. I glanced back when she said, “My dad used to shave just like you. All routine, efficient, in the same order.”

  I reached over and clasped her shoulder, just once. Her father, a noted Corps surgeon and geneticist, had died gruesomely at the hands of Nomads during a repair-and-retrieve mission gone wrong in the Wilderness. We didn’t talk about it before. And we weren’t gonna talk about it now. I could tell by the way she straightened up and pulled her face back together, pressing her fingertips into her hips to steady herself.

  I’d joined the Corps because I needed to do some ass kicking after the Plague. When I came of age ten years ago, I was Johnny-on-the-spot with joining up. Who knew I’d have a fucking flair for it, quickly scaling the ranks? The bonus? Because of the lethal nature of the job, we weren’t expected to reproduce. Condoms and birth control were doled out in abundance to us, whereas they were ratshack commodities for civilians.

  Certain items remained widely available: lube, for instance. Sex toys had been banished unless Company sanctioned and straight-couple orientated. That didn’t stop the backstreet hustlers from coming up with their own erotic aids. I had a snug cock sleeve myself, hidden in my closet and used only when my hand became old hat.

  Likewise, abortions were illegal backdoor affairs, the stuff wire hanger nightmares were made of. The aftermath of the carnage liberally propagandized during the day-long helpful promotions on the public Data-Pak because planned parenthood was something to aspire to and promiscuity was discouraged. The CO was raising good, wholesome single-family units in healthy home environments.

  Aside from being a looker, Liz was as asexual as they came, so I figured she hadn’t made the Corps her calling to keep the heat off of her own forbidden behaviors. In fact, I didn’t know what she got out of it. A vendetta against the Nomads who’d done the number on her dad, or maybe a genuine belief in Company credo. I didn’t ask, she didn’t offer, and I didn’t care. It was nice to have some camaraderie, and we kept our lips sealed about anything that could get us in trouble.

  “What you been up to?” she quizzed me.

  “Just a day in the life, Lieutenant.”

  That earned me a brief chuckle. “Oh yeah? Been a good little drone today, have you? Let me guess.” Liz tapped her lips, scanning me head to toe. “Did your time at the clothing factory, but forgot to pick up your own identical uniform, which explains why you’re still dressed in a towel. Or maybe you got your hands dirty culturing food and splicing together oh-so-tasty new tidbits for us to gag on?”

  I’d gotten my hands dirty all right. Grinning at her, I played along with a wink. “Yep. Joined in with the civvies; wasn’t mind-numbing at all.”

  We made fun of the CO’s worker bees, but we knew all about their colorless existence. Food and goods such as electronics, munitions, and a host of other gadgets were churned out from the chain gang. Always just enough and not one bit more.

  But what were you gonna do?

  Tie up your bootlaces and do your duty no matter how despicable it had become.

  At least my daily duties included hitting the gun range with Liz. Drills, raids, and keeping the streets clean of any little hint of revolt added the thrills. My free time was spent working out, working on my bike, and working on the kink in my dick.

  “You had your Data-Pak turned off?”

  “It’s my birthday. I’m on leave.”

  “You want spankings or to blow out some candles?” She referred to some old notion from a time when birthdays were something to celebrate, winding her hand back to smack my ass.

  “How about you get the fuck out?”

  “I could, but I won’t. You missed the party starter. Where were you? Other than having another mind-blowing date night with your hand?”

  As soon as she said party starter, a growl of excitement in her voice, I jerked around. “What?”

  “Hand. Cock. Fucking it.”

  “Liz, what starter? What happened?”

  “The rebellion.”

  “I heard it was a raid.”

  “Re-bell-ion.”

  “Rebellion?” Rinsing off the razor blade, I faced her. Liz and I could be twins. Her dark hair was regulation short, spiky as a jackknife. Her lips full but hard, her eyes a daunting and deadly brown where her pupils bled into the irises. She could have been my sister, but Erica was gone. Liz was my family now. We’d made a pact. Always have the other’s back, because this shit could turn ugly in an instant.

  Sounded like it just had.

  “Confirmed.”

  “Where’d it start?’

  Suddenly, First Lieutenant Liz Grant was all business, just the way I liked her. Twin chrome Desert Eagle .44s were holstered on either hip. She had a hard-on for the classics, same as me. Her lightweight flak jacket buttoned like her lips; she didn’t distract with unnecessary gestures.

  “Sector Five, water supply shorted, then contaminated.” She let loose with a grin and added, “Guess I should’ve told you as soon as I saw you in the shower.”

  S-5. I knew it, where the water-purification plant was and where Leon lived with his mother. The four-block neighborhood was a desolate afterthought on the fringes of Alpha. Leon’s mom’s house always boasted flower boxes filled with bright blooms hanging from the windowsills. I had no idea where she got the seeds, but among the squalor of S-5, her home was the only standout.

  I sped to my spartan main room, flicking on the in-house Data-Pak. Broadcasting secure intel channels to Corps and Company execs only, the flat screen dripped a different IV-feed to civilians. Anti-Nomad, antihomo, pro-CO programming with a side of sexual brainwash, such as best timing of the month, basal-body temperatures, optimal sexual positions, all rounded out with scare tactics.

  The feed was scientific to a fault, sucking the fun out of fucking, making it more a job than any whoremonger ever had. No wonder needy heteros got a healthy leg-over at the Theater too.

  “Isolated?” I asked, skimming the updates.

  “Territory wide.” She came up beside me, her eyes leaping back and forth in time with mine as I ingested the details. “All the Territories. InterNation insubordination.”

  Holy fuck. I hardened my expression until my jaw didn’t even tic. “We gotta get to Command.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Where are the rebels?”

  “Converging on the Quadrangle.”
>
  “And the infantry?” I asked.

  “Holding pattern.”

  “Someone’s behind this besides plain old rebels.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For half a century, people had been pretty accepting of the regime. It was amazing what you put up with when your basic needs were met after teetering on the brink of extinction.

  Noble in the abstract but clumsy as fuck in action, dissent had been fermenting recently. Last time there’d been any excitement had been the surprisingly well-oiled assassination attempt on CEO Cutler eight weeks ago. Backed by my troops, with Liz at my side, I’d busted into his swanky apartment to find him swathed in a towel from the waist down, hand clutched to his neck, and fury mangling his mouth. Of all the goddamned things, he’d been attacked by the stand-in masseur sent to service him. Massage him. Whatever.

  No sign of forced entry, no love note from the would-be assassin. No matter how deeply we scoured the streets, we’d met only closed lips and blank looks from our usual cache of canaries.

  The only reason he escaped with a nick on his neck instead of bleeding out all over his thick, white carpet was because we’d been tipped off just in time from the head honcho in charge of hack jobs, some CO kid called Rice.

  The renegades were becoming more organized, less stupid. This water workup smelled similar to the kill-Cutler attempt, minus fair warning.

  Armed, in uniform all the way to the cap sitting on top of her head, Liz was ready to move out. Meanwhile, I stood in nothing more than a towel, rather like Cutler. Called to action, I hauled dark blues up my legs and over my arms. Firearms were the only accessories required. Double cross-chest holsters snuggled my SIG P229s and were joined by a set of matchy-matchy Glock 40s at my hips. A nice even four guns—I was ambidextrous, as I’d been about to demo on my dick—and my pointy friend, a KA-BAR knife, strapped to my thigh, for more delicate work.

  When I flicked on my handheld D-P, I got a shock. Hell, I should be used to that; it was only the third pube-curler of the night. I expected to be called into Corps Command along with Liz. Instead I was to be briefed by CEO Cutler.