In His Command

by Rie Warren

Not if I turn him in first.

  I clicked right, toward Corps Command.

  A hand clasped my shoulder, making me blow my wad because one more suggestive comment in his southern c’mon, boy voice, I was gonna fuck him until he couldn’t walk anymore, or I was gonna pull my Glock out and—

  Jesus Goddamn Christ. I saw why Blondie had stopped me. Dead in front of me stood Leon.

  Stood was a poor choice of words, but it was Leon all right. Looking one hundred and eighty degrees different from the last time I’d seen him.

  Held up between two military police, his hands were cuffed behind him, his shoulder stretched back. His face was a mass of swollen tissue in shades of purple with ugly greenish yellow mixed in, a thread of bloodied spit dangling from his lips. His mesh vest was torn to shreds, revealing slender muscles bruised by fists and metal-capped boots.

  When I marched up to the troopers dragging his floppy body by the elbows, Blondie kept pace.

  The traitor better not mess with my operations.

  I addressed the grunt closest to me. “Where are you taking this man?”

  At the sound of my voice, Leon drew his head up. His hair hung in sweaty clumps over his eyes, but he recognized me—the little shit had had his hands on my crotch only a few hours earlier. More cunning than I suspected, he maintained the same blank look Blondie and I adopted, with a hate-filled sneer for added emphasis.

  MP Coombes had a face like the sole of a boot and about as much charm. He and his hard-liner cohort were the opposite of the recruits I’d sent ass-backward at the never-ending beginning of this night.

  “He’s not a man; he’s a faggot,” Coombes spat.

  Being a ruthless bully, he grabbed Leon’s chin, digging his fingertips into one of the fresh cuts. Leon didn’t flinch when he jeered, “Ain’t you, boy? Like it up the ass. Fuckin’ dog. The queer’s implicated in the rebellion. Arrested him at that gay rave, the Amphitheater. All dolled up, wasn’t he, Jenoah?”

  The Jenoah in question was a bleak-featured bitch with eyes that held all the emotion of steaming shitholes in snow, except now there was a sick gleam to them, because she’d caught one of us.

  Landing a blow on Leon’s cheek, she agreed. “Sure was. Had to mess up that pretty face. The body too. Unnatural is what this shitpacker is. Bet he won’t get much action anymore.” She beamed at me, her superior, expecting a reward.

  Taking very deep breaths, I barely held in my hotheaded temper.

  “MOVE OUT!” A fresh wave of troopers deployed to the left of us, reminding me there was a lot more going down than just Leon, but he took top spec in my mind. Damned if I was going to let another good man end up with a rope around his throat.

  “He’s headed for the stockades for now,” added Coombes.

  “Under whose orders?” My hands curled into fists, ready to do something seriously stupid. Blondie touched my shoulder, murmuring something too soft to hear, but his light assurance delivered instant calm.

  “The XO.”

  No way around that.

  Leon’s eyes stopped spinning long enough to pierce me. “What you be lookin’ at, Corps cunt?” His insult came out gargled with fresh blood.

  That earned him another ball-kick before they hauled him away.

  His barb salted the open wounds from the entire messed-up night. There was only one way to deal with the duality of what I was—cut out all the emotion from my life.

  Another blast shook the ground. That would be the electrics grid shorting out.

  Blondie staggered into me with the earthquake hilling under our feet. For a second, I let myself be the fulcrum to his body.

  My D-P went off. I barely heard it through his low words, the rat-tat of gunfire, and the buzz of generators starting from scratch, relighting the Quad first and then hum-hum-humming halos outside the compound. Their weak illumination joined the rising sun barely visible through black entrails of fire and the rain of fat ashes.

  Leon was at the doors of the Tribunal.

  The acrid smoke choked me, stung my eyes.

  When Blondie said something about seeing what he could do for my moony-eyed boy, I figured my ears were still tinny from the explosions until he clasped my hand, holding it firm and tight and letting go to say, “I know you feel responsible for him. Not sure why.”

  A grin pushed up my lips. “Me neither.”

  “Should count him as competition and call myself lucky he’s off your grid.”

  “Leon isn’t even in the running.”

  The smirk. The wink.

  My error.

  “I’ll get him off the stockades, see about delaying the Tribunal. They’ll have more important things to deal with than your Leon.”

  My Leon.

  Those words rang a hollow tune inside my heart. I had a wish, a dead plant, and no relatives. I didn’t belong to anyone and for damn sure I didn’t possess Leon, Blondie, or any other man. I wheeled left. All thoughts, all memories, all wants that were not gonna happen got stuffed into the Happily Never After crypt. “Pick you up in six,” was my curt goodbye.

  I didn’t have to look back to know his hands were on his hips, his cheek curved upward, his eyes merry over my words. This was exactly the weak in-love stuff I steered clear of. Men like him. Guys who slashed into my heart with their free-and-easy grins, until those grins were ground out of them right in front of me.

  Maybe I preferred the anonymity blessed unto us by the Company. Whatever. I shoved it all into the lockbox, inside the vault of my memories, contained behind a reinforced entrance, then strode to the indestructible doors of Command. After a thumbprint and a retinal scan, I was in.

  Making my way through Central Command, I might have been a little shaken by the night’s events—with Leon the unpopped cherry on top—but I wasn’t gonna show it.

  The room I entered was a sight for sore eyes. Guess I got my sense of decorating from the Corps, because the bland gray walls finally settled my balls. One long table glowed from the multifaced D-P vomiting streams of information from its center. A cold, concrete room, the only color in it came from the rows of Territory flags, sixteen identical sentinels stationed against the walls. Regeneration. Veneration. Salvation. The standard salvo was printed in blue across thick bars of gold. Stars and stripes rebranded to bars and strips.

  The Roman numerals on each was the only bit of individuality allowed, denoting the separate Territories. Repetition was crammed up our asses until it was ingrained in our brains.

  The air vents stalled as generators went to work on the most important electrics—halos, security, data banks—leaving the banners hanging like limp prisoners from their posts. Liz stood between two of the flags, their edges caressing her shoulders. Her posture was precise whereas they drooped in defeat. Only her slow popping of knuckles from one finger to the next gave away her worry.

  “Give it to me, sir.”

  I joked, “Like this? Here? Goddamn, I thought you women were into the romancing.”

  Her short dark hair created a sharp cap on her head, the sharpness reflected in her narrow eyes. She didn’t crack a smile. “Our troops are suited up, awaiting your orders.”

  “Change of plans.”

  Pushing off the wall, her chin jerked up. “What’s our detail?”

  I clasped one hand at the back of my neck. “My detail.”

  Other than the visible gulp in her throat, she showed no reaction. That’s my girl. “You’re going outside.”

  “Affirmative. Personal escort to the head of technological acquisitions.”

  “This Head-of got a name?”

  “Yeah…Asshole.”

  That won me a short-lived snort.

  She didn’t fidget or fight when I brought her to me, folding her inside my arms. She grabbed my shoulders and held on, too.

  Fucking hugging and hand-holding.

  “You know what you’re doing?”

  “Always.”

  She cupped my chin, brought it to her shoulder, whispering int
o my ear, “I know you’re different.”

  My arms dropped and my head shot up. Shock was replaced by sternness when I said, “You’re in charge now.”

  “Commander—”

  “Clear the streets of Nomads and rebels, enforce the curfew, and evacuate the civilians to Beta Territory. They’re more capable of handling this blitz. They’re bigger, with better resources.”

  “Cannon—”

  “Restore order, Liz.”

  “Is that really what you want?”

  “I have no opinion.” Because the other one would put her in danger, and there’d be a great big grave with my name on it.

  She tugged down the sleeves of her jacket. “Caspar, you better stay on your game out there.”

  “I’m always on point, Lieutenant.” I drew a line in the sand, using her title instead of her name.

  “Right.” She drew herself up.

  “Got my six?”

  “Always.”

  “Liz…”

  “Don’t say it, Commander.” She pivoted on her heel and aimed straight ahead. “Don’t send me off with some bullshit story.”

  She didn’t think I was returning any more than I did. I performed an internal check, and yep, that notion hurt. Not enough to let her know though. I winked and gave her an easy smile. “Don’t say what? That you better keep this place tight until I get back?”

  “You’re such a dickhead…sir.”

  “Just don’t go soft on me.”

  Grabbing her crotch, she grinned. “Not possible.”

  “I’ve got my D-P, so we’ll be in touch. And you’ve got your orders.” I spoke through a throat working overtime. “You take care.”

  Blinking rapidly, she saluted and marched from the room without a backward glance. Palms down on the table, I rolled my neck a few times, loosening that shit up. Sucked in a couple deep breaths and let ’em out slow.

  Fucking errand boy. I wasn’t gonna fall apart over this situation. I took a moment to inventory my arsenal and nodded. So be it. If this was my mission, I was gonna be the best damn errand boy money couldn’t buy. Make sure no harm came to Blondie unless the blow was personally delivered by me.

  I allowed myself a nasty grin at that thought before striding outside.

  * * *

  I had some details to square away, and sleep ranked low on my things-to-do-before-I-got-fucked list. My remaining time in Alpha also didn’t include being pussy-whipped about Blondie or wondering whether he would bring me flowers. Oh, and that goldfish I had to feed? Little turd went belly-up the week after Liz gave it to me. Surely had something to do with it being one of the pet clones the RACE team worked on in their spare let’s-fuck-with-nature time, not the fact I knew nothing from nurture.

  My things-to-do were nothing compared to the Company’s. The initial catastrophe dropped the orderly CO into chaos, and I would have liked that if it wasn’t so damned detrimental to the people.

  The smoke from the S-5 blazes had some serious hang time, swathing the area in great gray clouds. On my way into the sector, the water plant was cordoned off and more suits swarmed around, but this time the suits were less business attire and more neon, neoprene outer-body shells to protect against possible contamination.

  With most of the rebel action taking place near City Center, civilians in this area were contained and housebound. I hoped to get a private moment with Mrs. Cheramie. The least I could do was let her know her son was alive, if not exactly safe.

  Stripping off my helmet, I leaned my bike on the kickstand. The square plots of weeds that passed for lawns in S-5 were scorched, but those pretty red flowers blossomed brighter than fire in the early morning’s haze. I bounded up the crumbling stone steps toward the door, which hadn’t ever hung straight from its jamb.

  Before I could knock, the door swung wide. Close up, Mrs. Cheramie was younger than I’d thought, making me realize her son had been born when she was barely legal. She had the long wild hair of a Nomad—loose, sun-catching waves. A small slight to the Company. There was a little rebel in everyone.

  “You be here about Leon.”

  A painful twist of guilt knotted my stomach. I should never have left the kid alone at the Amphitheater. Holding her strong summery green gaze, I told her, “I’m Commander Cannon, ma’am. Leon’s been taken into custody.”

  Mrs. Cheramie stepped back, inviting me inside. “He be mentionin’ you.” Her voice richer than her son’s, she growled out the words in a thick accent.

  I must’ve looked panicked, because she hastened to reassure me while she ushered me through the doorway. “Only dat he respec’ you, Commander.”

  “Caspar, if you please, ma’am.”

  She beckoned down a hall lit by candles, overwhelming in its colorful scavenged disorder from patterns of dried flowers forming makeshift wallpaper to beads shimmering from lamp shades.

  There was a reason I hated untidiness like this. Climbing with shelves of books that were surely restricted and jars of this and that, the hall sent me into a claustrophobic nightmare of memories. It put me in mind of a place I’d once considered my second home, small rooms overflowing with similar types of shit that had pissed me off on the one hand and become loveable on the other.

  Since I couldn’t control my desires, I maintained brisk control of my area. My small rooms were devoid of visual interest so no remembrances could sneak up and fill me with unattainable ideas of what-if.

  Running my fingertip down a crack in the wall that zigzagged from ceiling to floor, I couldn’t see how I was gonna maintain my distance from Blondie for four weeks. He represented the whole big ball of what-if, bringing it together in one sexy, strong, eager package.

  When Mrs. Cheramie called over her shoulder, “Dem put da fah-yuh out; let’s do da same, boy,” she threw me back to a different era.

  Boy. Mom used to call me that when she was pissed off.

  In our family, Erica had been the tearaway, but as the oldest I was always the one facing the boy charges. I’d been well aware something was wrong with me that I couldn’t get over with a quick fix, so I’d tried to fit in any way I could, unlike my sister. There wasn’t much trouble to get into up in Epsilon, but she sure made a point of sniffing that stuff out. I could never talk her out of her harebrained ideas and I couldn’t let her go alone, so I ended up shadowing her.

  That last time, she’d wanted to see the ocean. “C’mon, Cas! It’s what? A four-hour hike? We leave at sunrise, return at dusk. We can do it.”

  I’d been sixteen to her fourteen. I’d never been a pushover, but give me those big brown eyes and the pout from Sis’s mouth and I was much more moldable than now.

  Escape was easier back then, some saved-up scrip in the right hands bought a day of liberation. It had been August, a hot one. During our hike, I’d marveled at the massive trees with Erica making fun of me in her free-wheeling way, nothing I’d ever take slight to. When we’d finally hit sand, we’d thrown off our clothes down to underpants and T-shirts, racing each other into the wild surf.

  She’d hooked her fingers behind her ears, shoving her tongue out, taunting, “Scared to go deeper, Cas?”

  Diving into the cold water, the effervescent bubbles coating my skin, I’d grabbed her ankles and dragged her down. I’d come up triumphant while she rose to the surface like a spitting cat, shaking out her hair.

  “Ass.”

  “Pain in the,” I’d replied with my teenager’s insult.

  Salt. That’s what I remembered. That frothy water had tasted like salt on my lips. The ocean pounded so hard, knocking us back only to have us come up from the depths sputtering, laughing.

  The northern ocean had been limitless, the sun glorious, the day unmatched.

  We hadn’t made it back before sundown. Worn out from the surf, Erica dragged ass until I’d hefted her across my back, carrying her through the dense Wilderness. There was no scrubbing away our sunburns or the smell of sea water; the foreign air clung to us. There was no excusing the de
merits on our records for a day missed from the institute.

  Once home, Erica was sent to her room, leaving me to face our mom. Already she was shorter than me, but she was still capable of inspiring fear. Anxiety had gnawed a hole in my stomach.

  Looking up at me, brow furrowed, eyes wide, she’d whispered, “Damn it, boy!”

  She’d backed away from the windows, making me follow her into the kitchen, where everything was labeled, organized, shipshape. Chair legs scratching against the floor, she pushed the four matching seats tableside and smoothed the napkins laid out for breakfast in the morning. Her lips trembling, she’d shut the curtains with quick yanks, though not before I saw her peeking outside.

  Tears had spilled from her eyes, fear fading to relief. “Get over here.”

  She’d embraced me while I listened to the catch in her voice whispered against the new stubble on my cheek. “You know we do everything we can to keep you safe. But when you disobey the rules, Cas…”

  She hadn’t finished her sentence.

  It was already fully loaded.

  When I disobeyed, people—my family—got hurt.

  There was only one time I’d told Erica no and I’d regretted it ever since.

  Trying to hide away my reopened wounds from the past, I double-timed it into Mrs. Cheramie’s kitchen, hitting the top of my head on some hanging gewgaw.

  I rubbed my skull and glared at the decorative eyesore. “Could use a top-up, ma’am.”

  She scooted me to the side, rising on tiptoes to stop the clash of the mobile I’d swung into motion. “Shoosh, grand beede! Gar ici, dat be from my mamère. Dem shells seen da best and worst of it. From da Grand Isle.”

  “Grand beede?” I sloped across the floor, measuring out the small space with my paces until I found a homey corner with a view of everything.

  “Big clumsy man.”

  I went red in the face. “My apologies, ma’am.”

  Waving my courtesy aside, she picked up a bottle of liquor from the counter overrun by tiny plant pots and mugs whose glaze was cracked, half their handles chipped away.

  “You take your libation here, you call me Evangeline.” She swirled the bottle, its potent fumes lifting between us. “Don’ be reportin’ me?”