Dark Edge of Honor

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Mike had betrayed him to the enemy. Just as the brother general had done, throwing him to the natives with no hope of survival. Tricked him into giving up his password. What if it had been Mike who’d told the natives where they were? Which route they’d traveled. Was that why Mike had stood there in camp in the evening? Relaying messages by some secret method? Talking to his accomplices. His comrades? Mike had had access—extensive access—to him, his pad. All that made it easy enough to plan an attack and create mayhem without much effort. He’d trusted that man with his life and with those of his soldiers. And how had he repaid that?

  By saving his life. Mike had gotten him into a transport and tried to return him to Dedis. The why of that action escaped him. Guilt?

  While he tried to process all this rationally, to find alternative explanations for what had happened, it had to be true. Mike had sold him to the enemy. Mike was the enemy. Had likely been sent to seduce him, maybe to blackmail him with it. Maybe he still had photos and files secreted away. Sergei’s guts churned at the thought that somewhere, hidden, were all the things he’d so carelessly spoken. Done. Allowed to be done to him. The passion, the trust. That other feeling, so much bigger and so impossible. He pushed it down and smothered it beneath the creeping shame of his weakness, exposed so utterly.

  Blackmail. Nothing but a blackmail plot. Not that plotting had been necessary, since Sergei had told him everything and even involved him in the operation. How Mike must have laughed to himself.

  That kind of pain was just as bad as breathing too hard. Wanting too much. Wanting something forbidden, and that would only bring him pain. And more pain if he didn’t manage to let it go.

  He reached over for the personal communications pad his aunt had provided. It switched on when he touched the screen, projecting the information up in holographic format. Top of the line tech, of course. Alina had that power. And it was much easier than trying to focus on a small backlit screen. The headaches weren’t as severe as they had been, but his eyes still bothered him, strained easily. Residual effects of direct sonic cannon impact, the medtechs had said.

  Four in the morning. Weather forecast fair. A communication from Central that his G12 was approved. Another from his aunt, in audio format. It gave him a small thrill, and no end of comfort, to hear her familiar voice echo in the empty, sterile room.

  “Your brother general’s documentations are too orderly for the chaotic nature of the independent reports coming out of Cirokko. Have launched a formal inquiry into the nature of the occupation. Also getting some heat and noise from Alliance sources. Mostly extremist and preservation groups. Something about nonhumanoid life forms. Any details you can share from firsthand experiences or encounters would be valued, as there’s no indication of such in the official reports. Or the unofficial reports. Rest up and heal well, brother soldier. Yes, that’s an order.”

  The Alliance was a huge power block that rarely, if ever, got involved. Growing up, Sergei had thought that ultimately the Doctrine would have to conquer the Alliance’s territory, but his early military trainers had explained that the amount Liberty and all other Doctrine planets invested in furthering the Doctrine, the Alliance plowed into defensive measures and technology, keeping a soft, complacent population in luxury and decadence.

  They’d be the ones protesting environmental damage on uninhabited planets, but their rhetoric grew especially hostile when native species were involved—and that was only developed mammals. What they’d do over the lizards of Cirokko, Sergei couldn’t imagine, but they would get worked up over it.

  Bits and pieces of conversation filtered through the fractured memories. Mike, and his so-called “native” conspirator. The native who wasn’t, obviously. Sergei doubted there was any coincidence there. What the Alliance truly wanted on Cirokko he couldn’t begin to fathom, but their interest wasn’t strictly nonaggressive. Even if that was their official position.

  He typed a response, relaying his encounters with the lizards and that his captor had referred to them as an intelligent species. He could trust his aunt with that much knowledge. She’d know what to do with it.

  He wanted to ask if she had any news of Mike, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Even without solid proof supporting his suspicions of betrayal, his instincts told him he was right. And that pain was too fresh, too raw, for him to poke at.

  And nobody he could tell. Nobody who’d understand. Not even his aunt. Breaking the rules wasn’t contagious, but he didn’t have the strength to deal with her disapproval.

  It would be easier to just move on. Forget about it all. The betrayal. Those emotions.

  Messages from his parents began pouring in shortly after that. He returned from his first session of physical therapy, sore and tired despite spending an hour in the jet-bath, to find his pad crammed with profiles of prospective wives. Hi-res images, complete dossiers, so many it was mind-boggling. They must have sent him every available woman on Liberty—all the ones who would make an acceptable match, at least, whether the compatibility aspect existed or not.

  That would be his mother. Never willing to overlook even the slightest possibility of success, however slim. Ever the optimist, she was. It made him smile. And she’d found good matches for his siblings. No doubt she’d fed the computer with terms like war hero or such a good boy—she’d know how to sell him well. He just scrolled through, unwilling to risk being intrigued. He still had all these unresolved problems—like the very real possibility of court-martial—he didn’t want to pull an innocent outsider into all this. Burdening a bride with a convalescent stuck in a military investigation simply wasn’t fair.

  Physical therapy became his new hell. They fed him a high-protein diet thick with accelerants to encourage his muscles to rebuild. Every session made his body burn, ache. Sergei thought he could sometimes feel the muscles pulling, sliding over the meshed metallic alloy of his prostheses, not fully incorporated. The eerie, foreign sensation made his skin crawl, goose-pimpling beneath the sweat that layered him from head to toe.

  A week of silence, no word from his aunt, nothing but the endless stream of dossiers from his ever-hopeful mother, which he skimmed over. It was a subliminal frustration for him, and Sergei dreaded returning to his hospital room after the peaceful relaxation he was able to find in the jet-bath after his therapy.

  This time, however, voices emanated from his room. He heard them resonating off the bare walls and, adrenaline pumping, he eased along the hallway up to the edge of the door. Tense despite the bone-deep soreness and exhaustion, he cradled his right arm against his chest, right hip leaning on the wall, weight on his left, not wanting the unintentional scrape of alloy on plascrete to give away his presence.

  Recognizing his aunt’s voice, keyed low, the stress obvious, didn’t relax him any. “Make no demands of him. Ask. The details are crucial, but the man has sacrificed enough, thus far, to the Doctrine.”

  “With respect, madame, uncovering the truth is of greater value than any one man, is it not?” A deep baritone, unfamiliar, that grated at Sergei’s nerves and made his hackles rise. Not an ounce of respect in that tone, either, not that he could discern.

  “Yes. And won’t the people of the Doctrine, especially Liberty, just love you for grinding their hero to dust beneath your heel? That will certainly further your career.”

  Sergei’s gut twisted. Straightening off the wall, he stepped into the doorway, gripping the jamb on either side to steady his balance, muscles limp and liquid from being pushed to the point of failure over and over again. “I’m no hero, aunt.” He accorded that title every ounce of respect her position demanded, and took in the battleground of his room.

  She had her hands clasped behind her, back ramrod straight, chin angled slightly upward. Defiance in every inch.

  “My business is not heroism, my business is corruption,” the man said. His uniform was a light gray, denoting some form of involvement with the Committee. His rank was a mere lieutenant, though. With dark eye
s and hair, he was good-looking in a cool, aloof way that forbade thinking of him in that way.

  “Brother Captain, I should make introductions. Lieutenant Nikishin, charged with investigating the happenings around your deployment to Cirokko.”

  “Is that the timeline?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Are you going to look into just my deployment, Brother Lieutenant, or that of my superior as well?”

  Nikishin paused, thoughtfully. “We of the Interior Revision are flexible to expand the scope of the original time frame, certainly.”

  Sergei only wished he’d been more together, less exhausted and in pain. “Very well. I would like to get dressed. I prefer not to display the extent of my…” He still didn’t have a word for it. Replacements was the politically correct term, but the word injuries was the first thing that came to his mind. “Alternative appendages.”

  Alina covered her mouth with a hand and turned away, but not before meeting his gaze long enough for Sergei to catch the glint of humor in her eyes.

  He smiled and pushed into the room using the jamb as leverage, not much caring about the unnatural grating sound of alloy as his right hand delayed in releasing.

  The lieutenant, oddly, skittered across the room like a bug frightened by sudden illumination, and headed for the door as Sergei moved away from it.

  As humorous as the situation was, he couldn’t blame his brother soldier. Nobody liked reminders of their own mortality, the dark and ugly possibilities. Even with a flesh-toned alloy that held a temperature moderately similar to body heat, the unnatural sheen was enough to whisper the truth.

  “Right. We’ll just wait for you in the conference room down the hall.” Ever the tactful diplomat, his aunt. Brisk and all business. “Your doctor and specialist will be there as well. No doubt they’ll have a list of reservations about your involvement in this. And a million restrictions to arm you with.”

  He refrained from any clever comebacks that punned on arm or leg and merely concentrated on getting out of his shorts and into his uniform.

  The collar was tight when he buttoned it. He remembered it had fit snugly but never tight. Maybe he’d gained weight. Or there was too much fluid in his tissues. Or the modestly different gravity made his body play up in other ways. He brushed his hair back. It felt too long. But locating somebody who’d buzz it short would be dawdling.

  Interior Revision. The ultimate guardians of the state. Their power trumped even the Committee’s. Not an enemy he wanted to make—or could afford to.

  But then, he’d already lost everything else. Now it was time for other people to lose.

  The moment Lieutenant Nikishin breathed the name Cirokko in the conference room, the team of doctors and specialists exploded like a gaggle of doting hens with ruffled feathers. They came up with a list of reasons for Sergei not to go back, which likely rivaled Liberty’s original Doctrine surrender documentation a hundred years ago.

  “Your lung will not handle it well. High altitude, low oxygen saturation. It will be prone to future collapse, and such an environment will only exacerbate that.”

  “You should have, in the least, another six weeks of physical therapy before the prostheses are incorporated fully. It’s an unnecessary risk that could potentially create any number of unforeseeable issues. They will need a series of recalibrations over the course of your therapy and the ensuing acclimation period, which requires an additional six weeks. Minimum.”

  And on and on. At one point he thought his aunt was going to blow a gasket and tell them all to go hang themselves. Sergei wanted to, as well. He wasn’t an invalid. He could take care of himself. Granted, he’d likely be more of a burden to this investigation than he would be assistance, but that was beyond the point.

  He wanted the truth to come out. Well, not all of it. Just enough to bring the damned general down. Preferably in a fiery, spectacular crash of twisted metal and scorched plastic.

  The specialists gave him a detailed list of exercises, precautions, and a supply of supplements. Dietary restrictions. Activity restrictions. Admonitions to the Interior Revision officer that routine attention of medical staff on-planet was a requisite of his prolonged involvement.

  Alina pursed her lips, obviously restraining from rolling her eyes as she skimmed the file on her pad, tapping at it with a good bit more force than strictly necessary. “Rest assured, doctors. He’ll be coddled like a newborn.”

  Sergei glared at her and ground his teeth, but permitted her to herd him out of the consultation room all the same.

  “Will we leave immediately?” Sergei asked, not caring who’d answer.

  “The next transport to Cirokko,” his aunt said and lowered the pad. “Diplomatic frigate. Should be pleasant.”

  The Revision officer smirked wryly. “I’m taking my leave to pack, madame. Brother Captain—I’ll see you at the spaceport.”

  Sergei watched the man walk off down the hall and glanced back at his aunt, who stood there, studying him. The urge to ask, to utter Mike’s name, returned with a vengeance so strong he had to bite his tongue to contain it. She wouldn’t be fooled. She’d know, and she’d be disappointed. Hero, she’d called him—maybe not being a hero was ultimately harder than being one.

  “I have to go back,” he murmured. “Too much left unresolved. And that’s where it all started. Everybody who’s involved is there…Nikishin will have them all in one place.”

  “Keep me updated, Sergei.” Alina touched his arm, the touch said she thought him brave to face his demons so soon. But being alone—without Mike—was the real demon. Not knowing why Mike had betrayed him. How it would end. What Mike really felt for him. He could probably even deal with the man laughing at him, telling him he’d been good to fuck, but why would a—what did they call the Doctrine sometimes?—Doctrine zombie actually believe he’d felt anything more than lust? Had done all he’d done to make Sergei think there had been more, but it was just to addle his mind.

  He had confidence he could slay the other demons, but that one…was another matter altogether.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Weeks of nothing. Confinement, boredom. The mundane routine of food and sleep, interspersed with occasional visits to the barracks gym and exercise yard. Always with the double shadow of his Doctrine guards. For lack of anything better, Mike nicknamed them Bull and Toad in his head. Making fun of them gave him something to do. After the first ten days, it became glaringly obvious that the general intended to hold him indefinitely. He wondered why the man hadn’t just killed him outright.

  The only anomaly in the routine was the medical staff. It was four days after the initial checkup when the guards escorted him back to see the doctor again. White walls, sterile steel, the smell of antiseptic. A technician sitting in front of an odd-looking piece of equipment that hummed a constant white noise.

  His survival instinct screamed, echoing in his skull, gut twisting. Had no idea what it was about, but it couldn’t be good. The moment he tensed, showed the first sign of resistance, he got pumped full of drugs by one of the guards. Toad, of course. He was the smart one. Sneaky little shit.

  He’d woken up back in his cell—for all the immediacy of basic amenities, that’s what it was. No bars, but a lock and a guard and a barracks full of Doctrine soldiers at hand ensured he’d have no possibility of escape. Woken up in a heap on the thin, useless excuse of a mattress, his head pounding as if someone had driven a tenpenny nail into his skull.

  A sharp stab of panic seized him, but cautious exploration with his fingertips found no damage to the spot where CovOps had inserted the ID marker. He found little to reassure him in the lack of evidence of tampering—gut instinct screamed it was gone. Thankfully though, without the right equipment, it was meaningless.

  And then nothing. Nothing but sit-ups, and push-ups, and studying the cracks in the paint on the walls. He slept little. Spent most of his nights executing flows, using the familiar movements all but programmed into his muscl
es to clear his mind and blunt the edge. Knowing he was a POW now. At least he received marginally civil treatment. He wondered if things would’ve been different if they knew he wasn’t just a rebel sympathizer, a native translator who played them false. If that was all the general thought, then no surprise the man didn’t see him as a threat.

  Still, why keep him alive?

  Mike could think of only one reason. Sergei had to still be alive. Had to be. It didn’t make sense to him, but aside from Sergei—and the natives—he was the only person who knew the details of what had happened out there in that damn valley. All of it, from beginning to end.

  He was so fucked.

  Wasn’t anything unusual about Bull hauling him from his cell that afternoon. But he and Toad didn’t turn right and take him out to the yard. They went the other way, each with a firm grip around his biceps. Fingers digging in, brooking no leeway, no opportunity for resistance. The room they escorted him to was bare, save for a table and two chairs facing one another across a broad expanse of plas-covered steel. Innocuous enough on the surface.

  Much like the natives.

  No reason to fight when they sat him in the chair. Not even when they cuffed him in place, ankle and wrist. The restraints made his hackles rise, but there just wasn’t any fight in him. He couldn’t dredge it up no matter how hard he tried. Like trying to lift the ass end of a land transport, single-handed.