Mike was startled but covered it by closing the distance between them and giving the young officer what he obviously wanted. The honesty of emotions, however unexpected, of sensations, of feeling, was more important in that moment than acknowledging the shades of gray and half-truths that pinged Mike’s guilt meter toward the red. Sergei tasted heavily of alcohol, but he relaxed into Mike as the high-content liquid started to hit his system full-bore. Mike pulled back after a couple seconds though, studying the half-hooded gaze. “If you could have whatever you wanted, go wherever you wanted, if you didn’t have to worry about where your duty lay…would you still get married and raise a family?”
Think, Sergei. Damn you. This was no longer about the Doctrine’s invading forces or gathering intel. Not right here in this moment. Mike wanted to give the man the Heimlich and force the Doctrine out of him once and for all.
Sergei stared somewhat wide-eyed, as if that had never occurred to him and he didn’t trust himself far enough to risk such a thought. “If nothing else existed…just me?”
“Yeah, just you. No duty, no Doctrine, no rank…” Mike flicked his finger at the metal glinting on Sergei’s epaulet. “None of that. Just you, no cage.”
“Would you exist in that…hypothesis?”
Gods, he looked so young. But Mike couldn’t deny the warmth suffusing him at those words. Might have just been the alcohol kicking in, hitting his system, but…“Sure. If you want me to.” He let himself be that young again too, and smiled.
“No, I wouldn’t.” Sergei looked around. “If I could have nothing else but what we have, without a time frame…I would not contribute anything to the state, but I wouldn’t be unhappy.”
Mike saw marks, then, as Sergei looked away, neck twisting, bare above the collar of his uniform. Irritated, abused skin, in ligature marks circling his neck. Not just a trick of moon shadows.
“What the hell, Sergei?” he hissed, not even thinking, just reacting, reaching up to brush his fingertips along the arch of the man’s neck. “What happened?”
Sergei stood, abruptly, then reached up to his throat. “Nothing. It’s not important.”
Mike held his hands up, a universal sign of surrender in any language or culture. Waited a heartbeat, then dragged the man into his lap. “Fine.” But when I find out, and I will, someone is going to fucking pay.
Sergei swallowed. “Just ignore it. I do.” He lifted Mike’s chin with a couple fingers and kissed him. “I need to go back to the barracks. I’ll bring dinner if I’m coming. If I’m not, don’t wait up for me.”
Mike had to laugh, but it was a soft sound, throaty. “And how am I going to know, one way or the other?” It took a great deal of effort to hold his rage in check, as he forced himself not to stare at Sergei’s throat again. Boiling rage. Confusing emotions, possessiveness, that feeling of being powerless. Unable to protect. Knowing, deep down, that he couldn’t even hold on to what he wanted. They were just too similar, despite being on opposite sides of some intangible political line.
“I can’t call you. It’s too risky.” Sergei touched his cheek. “Just…I’ll do what I can. But my superior sometimes just messes with my schedule. If he decides there’s an inspection due, that’s what I’ll do.”
“I’ll wait, then.” Mike leaned into the faint touch, then brushed his lips gently over Sergei’s neck. “I’ll be here. In the evening, or if not then, tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait,” Sergei murmured, and pressed Mike’s shoulder, before he took his cap and headed out the door, not looking back once.
Mike waited until he heard the heavy weight of the front door close. Then he slammed his balled-up fist into the couch cushion beside his thigh hard enough to stretch the fabric and leave a small rip. His breath came in ragged pants as the rage slipped its leash, and he fought to control it. It had no direction in the heat of the moment. No focus. Hell, he wasn’t just raging at the faceless individual who’d marked Sergei. He was raging at the reason he was there in the first place, the shackles of his own cage, the half-truths and shades of gray and the look on Sergei’s face, that trusting enraptured belief that Mike was some corporeal manifestation of truth.
The Mike who didn’t even damned well exist.
Chapter Twelve
Sergei waited patiently outside the general’s office to be called in. He’d included the acquisition proposals for additional translators in a pile of routine requests and correspondence sent to the brother general’s pad earlier in the day. All on the up-and-up. Still, he fidgeted. Brushing nonexistent dust from his uniform, straightening cuffs and creases for the hundredth time. Not wanting the brother general to have even the most inconsequential reason to find fault in him.
“Brother Captain,” the general called, voice carrying clearly through the half-open office door. “Enter.”
Sergei stepped inside and snapped to attention, front and center.
“At ease.” The order was clipped, the general’s voice entirely smooth, professional.
Sergei didn’t even realize how relieved that made him until the tension started to leak from his shoulders, his muscles relaxing. He snapped to parade rest and watched the general without moving his eyes.
The general stood behind his desk with a stack of crisp printouts in his hand. Always one for hard copies. “This request for translators. I think a dozen hand-selected locals working with the deploying battalions would be a great asset.” He tapped his finger on one, glanced at Sergei. “This is going to be your project.”
The general slapped the stack of papers onto the desk, leaned forward, hands braced by his legs. “The time for patrols is over. The majority of personnel and supplies have arrived from Rhada spaceport. We are now in the second step of our Cirokko campaign.”
Campaign. That made it sound like a proper war, when so far only a number of squads had been exchanging fire with the enemies up in the mountains. The lowlands around Rhada and Dedis were quiet, with politicians and local tribal leaders vying for power and influence, while the Doctrine was beginning to get a hold of the planet. Oh, there were outbreaks of violence even in the two cities, but all intelligence reports suggested that these were small groups of rebels without a common leadership. There was a reward on Doctrine officers, but even that hostility—as distasteful as it was to put bounties on any heads—was limited to a few isolated incidents. No full-scale rebellion, no organized resistance.
“We’ll establish forward operating bases that will be crucial to maintaining stability as the mining operations move into place.”
Time then to move into the mountains—where the first expedition force had been annihilated. Sergei waited, pulse hammering faintly in his ears. Not sure what to make of this. Knowing this moment wasn’t the time to be interjecting with questions and requests for clarification.
“I’ve slotted you with the battalion scheduled to spearhead southeast via Zasidka Pass. Their success is of crucial importance.”
Exactly the spot where the expedition force had met a violent end. Deep into the heart of largely unexplored rebel territory, where all patrols encountered resistance and returned with very little to show for their losses. His very first field command. Yet the message was clear. You could’ve had a cushy desk job if you’d played nice. Now that you don’t, you’ll get a real taste of the war.
And as far as the general went, sending his right-hand man was as good as venturing out into the field himself. If Sergei died, it would be seen as the general’s sacrifice. Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been. It sent a very strong message.
Sergei kept his voice level, the mask screwed on tight. “I’m honored, Brother General.”
“As well you should be.” A smile twisted the general’s mouth; not friendly, not brotherly, not even tepid. Cold. Bordering on vicious.
Sergei blinked and understood. To a mere captain, the general’s behavior had laid the potential for blackmail. Not that such had occurred to him, until this very moment, when the general’s d
esire to dispose of him was so blatantly obvious that it screamed at him. He knew things that should not be known.
“I’ll want detailed reports, on a daily basis. Any questions, Brother Captain?”
“No. It’s all clear.” Sergei kept his face even, despite his pulse hammering against the collar of his uniform. He suddenly wanted to know what had become of all his predecessors. The last one had gone on to carve a great career for himself in the Space Navy, but spacers were always a bit strange. What about the others?
“The deploying battalions should be formed up and properly supplied within a week. That’s your deadline. Dismissed.”
One week. Once the door closed behind him, Sergei breathed deeply a few times, pacing, rolling his shoulders.
He’d run himself ragged to achieve this, and it would be impossible with any other army. It might work. More disturbing was the fact that he was expected to “spearhead,” one of those words that really meant atrocious losses. There was no spearing in those mountains. It was not a place for an open battle formation. By all accounts from the patrols that limped back, the place swarmed with insurgents biding their time. Spearheading that kind of territory only made sense in the aftermath of sound orbital bombardment—and then only to gather genetic traces for IDing high-profile targets after they’d been ground to mulch.
Sergei switched his terminal on and logged into the mainframe to begin work on the logistics. He recognized that he was quite deliberately not thinking about the repercussions of this turn of events. Here and now, he wasn’t capable of tackling it.
He grimaced at the time display in the corner of his pad. He’d told Mike he’d bring dinner. He pondered taking the pad, but only for a little while. He wasn’t giving anything away. Well, not much. Nothing crucial. Mike would soon be part of all this. Mike was on his side.
He skipped exercise, not wanting anybody else to see the marks on his body, and went to the mess to gather food before he headed out, glad for the respite, glad he didn’t have to worry about any of this for twelve hours.
When he knocked on the door, Mike opened it as quickly as he had the previous night. Sergei felt his brows lift. Did the man stand by the door in anticipation of him knocking on it? The very idea was hilarious. He liked how relaxed he felt in the man’s company. No tension, no reason to be on guard.
“You made it.” Mike’s smile was as warm and welcoming as Sergei hoped it would be. The hair along his forehead, the nape of his neck was darker, damp with sweat. “Come in, don’t just stand there like a sniper’s wet dream.”
“Thank you for that image.” Sergei ducked in and handed the food over. “It’s some of the better choices on offer today. Might still be warm.” He took the cap off. “Sorry for being late. I had to prepare for deployment.”
Mike had already turned toward the kitchen at the back of the house, but Sergei caught the twitch at the corner of his eye. “Deployment?”
Sergei pulled out a copy of the dispatch he’d drafted for delivery to the translators, following into the kitchen. His silence drew Mike’s attention, and the man slid the food onto the crude countertop, turning to face him full-on.
“Your copy.” Sergei set the folded missive on the abused surface between them, slid it closer to Mike with two fingers.
Mike remained still, silent, staring at him. Sergei hadn’t looked over at him yet. Wasn’t sure he’d know how to read what he saw there. Wasn’t sure he was ready to let Mike see what was likely beginning to show on his face. Finally, the man exhaled slowly, reached over and slid the paper from under Sergei’s fingers, deliberately tangling his own in them, stroking his thumb over Sergei’s knuckles. He shook the folded paper open with a sharp snap of his wrist, scanned the document quickly.
Sergei peeked at the man’s face, caught the clenching twitch of the muscle in his cheek. “Is this job…not acceptable?”
“It’s fine.” Mike’s eyes were dark, intense but utterly calm. So why did it feel like there was an explosion broiling just below the surface? “When is the battalion set to deploy?”
“The brother general tells me it will happen in a week.”
“For how long?”
Sergei shrugged, moved away, pulling at the buttons on his uniform, suddenly wanting nothing more than to take it off. As fast as possible. “Undetermined.” If I even see the end of it. He shook his head. Fuck this. He began to undress, at least boots and jacket. Maybe get some civilian clothes? It would feel strange, to say the least. “As long as it takes to pacify the region.” He lifted an eyebrow to indicate irony.
“Right.” A twitch of Mike’s lips, the word drawn out in sarcasm. “The vacation I’ve always wanted.” He jutted his chin in Sergei’s direction. “Need some help there? I mean, yeah, I’m hungry for dessert and all, but I thought we’d eat while the food is warm.”
“Good point. Dessert can wait.”
They piled the food—an interpretation of Liberty cuisine, but cooked by a native and with native ingredients—into bowls and sat in the living room.
Mike seemed thoughtful, possibly mulling over deployment, or something else. It might not be the smartest idea to get him involved, but a little selfish part of him at least wanted Mike with him if he had to go into the teeth of the enemy. Another part was worried for Mike’s safety, above all, and didn’t want him anywhere near danger.
Not easy. Not the kind of decision he’d ever expected to have to make.
Chapter Thirteen
Mike pushed the food around in his bowl, appetite waning though he forced himself to eat. Watching Sergei from the corner of his eye was more interesting, but the sight didn’t distract him from his thoughts. He doubted Herschel would be pleased with this development, for various reasons. The handler couldn’t just pull and relocate him; too much had gone into seeding his presence and relationships with the locals. Not that Mike couldn’t manage the task of translator and whatever it entailed. He could, in his sleep. It was just that it removed the intel source from the command post location, and Pat and the other embedded CovOps would have a rougher time for it.
The trade-off might be a gold mine of intel, though.
“What’s going on in your mind?” Sergei asked, elbows on the table, leaning forward, fork dangling from two of his strong fingers.
Mike popped a forkful of food into his mouth the moment the soldier began speaking, giving himself a buffer of time to collect his thoughts and choose his words. The move was obvious enough that Sergei smirked at him, though he appeared content to wait him out.
“Lots of things.” Mike took a drink and shrugged. “I know I’ll need to bring my own kit, just wondering how well I need to outfit myself, for one. How well the battalion will be supplied. What I’ll be able to depend on them for. Seven days isn’t much notice.”
Not much notice at all. So little, in fact, that it caused Mike to question the Doctrine general’s sudden decision to deploy. Haste made waste, and dead men, and failing equipment. Avoidable with careful planning. And though he certainly wasn’t rooting for the success of the Doctrine forces, Mike had just naturally assumed that the Committee would have placed individuals at the head of the beast who knew how best to steer it. Guide it. Cattle-prod it. Whatever.
“No, it’s not.” Sergei glanced down at his bowl. “It might be healthier if you stayed out of this. We’re spearheading. I expect heavy losses.” He sounded dispassionate.
Mike lifted his brows. “There are always losses. The concept of spearheading seems more than a little out of place, given the terrain and other factors. But it doesn’t necessarily concern me, not directly.” That made the food hitting his stomach feel like a stone, all the same. What was the logic behind it, throwing away good men and resources with such…He needed to stop. It didn’t matter how much he thought about it, because he wouldn’t suddenly discover the rationale. Unless…
Unless there was something the Doctrine’s Committee, the Doctrine forces, desperately wanted their mining operations to have acc
ess to, in that direction. Specifically. Herschel would be salivating at the prospect of what that might be.
Surface scans from space had shown little of value or interest in the southeastern region.
“Yeah, it’s just one of those words they like to use.” Sergei put the fork down and leaned back. “I’ll think about it tomorrow. Maybe I’ll find a solution in my sleep. Let the rest of my brain think about it.” He stood. “Want something to drink?”
“Something stronger than this water? Yeah, I think I do,” Mike agreed, pushing his bowl away. The food was good, but the circumstances were definitely detracting from the experience. He felt bad, suddenly, for even bringing it up while they were eating. Not surprising at all, since he’d lost his innate knack for social niceties quite a long time ago. If he’d ever had them.
Sleeping in the barn with your horse is definitely subpar. He trailed along behind Sergei as the man headed for the study. Nice scenery, from where he was.
Mike stopped in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame and crossing his arms. “I should apologize.” Sergei paused with the decanter above the glass and stared at him. Mike felt sheepish. “I didn’t mean to ruin your appetite. And dinner. Thank you for bringing it.”
“Beats eating alone or going hungry.” Sergei smiled. “You don’t know much about the Doctrine, do you?” He poured one glass, then offered it to Mike before pulling the other one closer to pour it.
“Not much at all, no. Generalizations, political implications, yes. Not specifics.” It didn’t help that there was a lot of propaganda out there. About brainwashing, chemical triggers embedded in Doctrine troops’ brains, high-end psycho-manipulation, which earned Doctrine soldiers the nickname “zombies” among Alliance troops. But Sergei wasn’t the violent lunatic propaganda had made him expect, not even when he found his Doctrine questioned.
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