“A spy.” Now he was playing for his career, his reputation, and quite possibly for Mike’s life. Sergei nodded.
“Indeed. I went so far as to ascertain the validity of the information. Our Alliance diplomat was able to verify it.” Nikishin looked over at Ulyanov, both of them as relaxed and unconcerned as if they were discussing the weather. “Brother Colonel, if you’d pour?”
The officer’s face flushed a pale pink, and he jumped up from the chair with the haste of a green recruit. “Certainly, Brother Lieutenant.”
Sergei realized he should have offered, but quite possibly Nikishin trusted his hands just as little as he did himself. Seeing the colonel serve them made him feel uneasy—which might be exactly the reason why Nikishin did it. “Where did the chip originate?”
“Inside the skull of one Andrew Miguel Villanova,” the lieutenant answered, watching the colonel’s every move. His tone was devoid of inflection, but the comment was obvious in its sarcasm. “Your translator is an elite Alliance soldier, attached to CovOps Command, one of their best, most highly trained. Thus, forgivable on some level, that you didn’t know. Yet one begins to wonder…what information he had access to. If his presence with the battalion had any correlation to the incident. We don’t expect you have all the answers, but he was, after all, embedded with you.”
Unspoken, in the arch of those brows and the calculated expression on the lieutenant’s face, was and I saw the look in your eyes when you carried him out of that cell like he was a brother, not an enemy.
Sergei lowered his face into his hands, elbows on his knees, flesh and bone connecting with flesh and bone, metal connecting with metal. Nausea rolled up toward his throat. Whom was he kidding? Nikishin knew. He knew everything, just from observation. The Revision officer was a master at this. He didn’t even need electroshock cuffs to get the job done. It took a few deep breaths to think clearly, but all thoughts rattled around in his head with no order. The pause dragged on. He hoped Nikishin mistook it for a trauma response. One of the many, many things wrong with him. He needed to answer the question, but answer it well. Keep hedging. Keep hiding the most crucial things, at least. Enough to get Mike out.
“He had the mission plan. And access to me. He quite conceivably knew our numbers and our composition, and where we were supposed to establish the forward base.” Which was entirely more than any outsider should know.
The quiet slurp of Nikishin sipping his tea filled the silence. “Did you never have any suspicions of your translator’s nature?”
If he said yes now, he was complicit, and the next in the queue for court-martial, right after the brother general. “No.” Sergei shook his head, stared at his knees. “I wanted him with me.”
The brother colonel cleared his throat. “It isn’t surprising that one wouldn’t suspect a local native. They were wholly receptive, cooperative, even eager to have the Doctrine’s presence here.” Why was Ulyanov still so supportive? Didn’t he realize what was going on here? Or did he simply play the part that Nikishin had assigned him beforehand.
“I’ll concede that point.” Nikishin murmured his assent around another sip of tea, gaze focused on some middle ground between Sergei and the colonel. “You wanted him with you? What did he do to earn that level of trust, Brother Captain?”
Sergei closed his eyes, tried to think, but he was still reeling. Andrew Miguel. Hurt, in pain and exposed. Which answer would get him mercy? Maybe if he took part of the blame. Nikishin already knew of his defect. It was the reason for everything. That he’d been seduced, played and finally betrayed. That he’d even, almost, welcomed the general’s attentions—which had led to his superior breaking all the rules when he’d tried to have Sergei killed off. Finally, the death of his men. That he’d broken under torture, that he’d begged his torturer to not kill Mike, or any of his men. Maybe, in the end, it made him too weak, too soft, unable to sacrifice his men—just mere drops in the ocean of history—like the brother general had so clearly been willing and able to.
Loathing and anger almost choked off his words. But he really only hated himself for all this. Some kind of hero. He didn’t deserve his aunt’s kindness and loyalty. He could trust Nikishin to finish all this in accordance with the Doctrine. Nikishin would punish him, and that was fine. As long as he could repay his debt to Mike first, before he faced what the Revision officer had prepared for him.
“He…” The next breath was almost strangled. “I made him my lover.” He had to grab his knees to keep himself from shaking. “But he helped to defend the base against the attack…that was when I realized he must have had some kind of military training. But I couldn’t act on it. I was wounded and taken prisoner. He convinced them to let me go, and when we were attacked by the general’s air support, he kept me going until help arrived. I’d be dead.”
He was now shaking, despite trying everything in his power not to. As if Pat’s electrocuffs were strapped around his biceps again, jolting him. He tried to stand but failed. The leg, never properly calibrated anyway, oversteered, confused by Sergei’s misfiring nerves. He lost balance and, in reaching for the chair, fell, crashing into it.
The clatter of porcelain accompanied a splash of liquid on his metal arm, wet warmth. Nikishin muttered a curse under his breath and crouched on the floor beside him, firm hands supporting and easing him into a sitting position. The grip didn’t loosen until Sergei felt the couch against his back.
“At ease, soldier.” Voice firm, commanding. “Brother Colonel, have a team of medtechs come out here. They need to do something. He shouldn’t be having this much difficulty.”
“Right away, Brother Lieutenant.”
“It’s…my fault. What happened up there.” Sergei clenched his teeth to keep them from clattering. “Don’t…” Don’t kill him. Just let him go. Sergei knew he was fighting hysteria and doing a bad job of it. PTSD, survivor’s guilt, he knew all the words and they’d told him these might manifest, but that didn’t make any of it any less real. He didn’t want to wallow in it, just get on with it, move on, but he was seemingly incapable of it. “I’ll be all right. Just…believe me. He helped me. But I got him into this. My…choice. My mistake.”
Nikishin’s dark gaze flicked over his face, hard, intense, weighing. No mercy or pity, just detached calculation again. “First things first. You’re not all right. I can see that.” His lips tensed into a flat line momentarily. “And you’ll sit here and let the techs recalibrate you properly.” He shifted, resting a knee on the floor, propping his forearm on his other knee.
“Perhaps your aunt was right, this is too soon. But you’re here now. And no matter what you think, the responsibility for the lives of that battalion ultimately rests with the general who deployed them.” Nikishin’s strong hand clamped onto Sergei’s jaw, forcing Sergei to hold his gaze. “Into a known hot zone, without sufficient support. Do you hear me, soldier?”
Another violent tremble passed through Sergei, noticing that the “brother” was missing. Taking orders. He could do that. And as disturbing as it was, part of him welcomed Nikishin’s touch on his face. The simplicity of human contact, that intimacy he’d had with no one, until Mike. Nikishin was the last man on the planet he should be thinking such thoughts about. “Yes, Brother Lieutenant.” He focused on his breath, gradually fighting down the panic. It wasn’t in his hands. Nikishin knew everything he’d asked for. Sergei doubted very much that anything could sway the man. “I’m sorry.”
“I appreciate your cooperation, Brother Captain.” Nikishin released his chin, but held his gaze. “Don’t fall apart on me just yet.”
The colonel’s hand landed on Nikishin’s shoulder, drawing him back. “The techs are here. Let them work.” His voice was soft, strained.
Sergei stared at the colonel, shocked that anybody dared touch Nikishin. Let alone pull him back.
A medteam piled into the room, carrying all the equipment that the leg and arm required, and within moments, Sergei was flat on his back, cab
les attached to his wrist and ankle. A probe went into the back of his neck, and again his brain floated in the pleasant illusion of everything being just fine, whatever they were doing to the other body.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mike sat on the edge of the bed, collapsed there, really, after his short trip to the bathroom and back. He felt tired just from the effort involved in relieving himself, but he’d managed, and it was a vast improvement over the state he’d been in just a day ago.
“Never thought flushing the toilet would be such a luxury,” he muttered, fingering the IV lines still pumping saline and nutrients into his veins. It had been difficult, watching Sergei walk away like that. Unable to stop him, like he’d done in the past. He felt so…impotent.
But really, he couldn’t blame the man for it. Couldn’t help but draw the parallels between himself…and the general.
Sergei deserved better than that.
He scooted back into the bed and focused for a few moments on rearranging his pillows before flopping back against them. Sick of lying on his back, the unavoidable sensation of helplessness in that position. Every tattoo of footsteps in the hall outside his room made his pulse spike, until they passed by, kept going and faded off again without pausing. He tensed when the heavy tromp of feet sounded louder than the others. More than one, out of place. Not the demure stride of a medtech trying to be discreet.
Two officers stepped into his room without bothering to knock, and Mike sat up. When Sergei appeared behind them, it didn’t reassure him any. The man looked pale and flushed at once, tension in his shoulders. Like the evening he’d showed up on Mike’s doorstep, with ligature marks encircling his neck.
A dark-haired, gray-clad Doctrine lieutenant led the small pack, with a colonel in his wake. “I’m Lieutenant Nikishin, Interior Revision. Colonel Ulyanov, and I believe you know Captain Stolkov,” Nikishin said.
Behind them, a nurse opened the door, saw Mike’s visitors, then drew back and closed the door discreetly.
Nikishin didn’t lose a beat. “We need to ascertain a number of facts, Mr. Villanova. I’m rather hoping for your cooperation.”
Mike pulled his attention from Sergei to study the Doctrine officer. “You’ll understand if I can’t make any promises in that regard. Assuming you’re up to speed on the general’s difficulties with me. Sir.” He could be all kinds of uncooperative. They should be glad he was considerate enough to converse in their native tongue. As opposed to rambling in some backwater slang of Alliance standard.
“We have the brother captain’s side of the story,” Nikishin said. “But first things first. Did you witness violence against the brother captain here? Of what nature, and who did it?”
“Violence? Or abuse?” Mike had to clench his jaw, fist his hands in the blankets, to keep from threatening the Doctrine officer with bodily harm. They had Sergei’s side of things, did they? If they’d laid a hand on him, Mike wouldn’t care about anything but getting his hands around the culprit’s neck.
He looked past the lieutenant, caught Sergei’s gaze though it took a moment. Couldn’t find the words to ask what he needed to know. “I witnessed abuse. And the evidence of violence.” He stared at Nikishin, hard. “Abuse of power. Of rank. That, I witnessed firsthand, though neither the general nor Captain Stolkov were aware of it. The violence I did not witness. But I saw the fresh ligature marks on his neck afterwards. Sergei’s a strong man. Not many could injure him that way, unless he permitted it. And I have difficulty thinking of anyone besides a superior who’d hold that kind of power.”
“So he didn’t tell you who did it.” Nikishin’s sentence was very nearly a question.
Mike closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Scrounging for patience, civility, when the line of questioning hit too close to the track his own thoughts had been taking only minutes before. “I asked, that evening. He refused to tell me. Didn’t want to talk about it. Said it was over, wouldn’t happen again, didn’t matter. After what I’d seen? There was no question in my mind of who the aggressor was. He confirmed my suspicions, later.”
Nikishin folded his hands in front of him. “How did your…relationship come about? Did you approach the brother captain as a source of information or did the captain approach a handsome native?”
“I told you it was me,” Sergei said, pale.
Nikishin half turned and stared at Sergei, making him even paler. “Mr. Villanova?”
“Just what is it, exactly, that you’re after, Lieutenant? If you’re expecting me to fuel you with enough leverage to drag an honorable soldier through the mud, I won’t cooperate. Nothing in it for me. Is that what he told you? That he approached me? You already know I’m an agent of the Alliance. I won’t sit here and deny it. He’s an officer, the aide-de-camp to the general in charge of the invasion forces. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you’re smart enough to add two and two and not get three or five.”
In the ensuing silence, the Doctrine colonel shifted his stance wide and made a sound that Mike couldn’t translate.
“What information did you give your handlers? Did you gain access to personal files and correspondences?”
“I’ll not divulge every detail of my activities. Nor should you expect that.” Mike narrowed his eyes, studying Nikishin again, more closely. And the colonel, arms crossed, formidable, more like a bodyguard in this setting than anything else. The dynamics were…fascinating, to say the least. He’d care more if the man hadn’t just glared at Sergei like a scientist pinning a bug to a specimen table.
“Then why did you actively help fight off the attack that you helped prepare? In your position, you could have sabotaged the defensive measures, greatly reducing losses among another intelligent species?”
“I wasn’t willing to jeopardize Sergei’s safety.”
Both the Revision officer and the Doctrine colonel tensed visibly. After a heartbeat, Nikishin turned slowly to stare at Sergei. Mike clenched the bedsheets in one fist, frustrated by his own awareness that whatever was about to happen, he wouldn’t be able to do anything to diffuse it.
“Brother Captain. A word. Outside.”
Sergei’d never seen Nikishin angry, but now the Revision officer paced outside, dark face even darker now. “I did mention that your cooperation would suggest a more lenient treatment of yourself, didn’t I?” He came to an abrupt halt and stared Sergei in the eye. “You are aware that omission is no better than outright obstruction.” A statement, not even a threat. Nikishin held all the cards.
Sergei glanced to the side when he noticed the door open. Ulyanov slipped out into the hallway with them and stood nearby. Why? Did the colonel fear he might attack Nikishin now that he’d been driven into a corner? He’d noticed a certain protectiveness toward Nikishin. If that wasn’t a ridiculous idea.
Think. He wasn’t good at this, but inside that room was Mike, who couldn’t protect himself. Relying on him. And even though part of him wanted nothing more than to beg Nikishin for forgiveness and mercy, he didn’t think there was much space for either. Not with Revision.
“I’m sorry to have offended you,” Sergei said. Because that was it. They’d had an agreement. Full cooperation. In Nikishin’s eyes, he was a traitor, a defector, a wayward element obstructing the Doctrine’s path to ultimate victory. And it was the Revision’s duty to remove and neutralize such elements. He got the uncomfortable feeling that Nikishin had been on his side—maybe even liked him—and that had now changed. It was probably strange to encounter anything but full cooperation when dealing with ordinary citizen-soldiers. Maybe it was now personal. Or he had turned into an irredeemable loss, a traitor and enemy.
He glanced over Nikishin’s shoulder, expecting the Revision guards to come marching in to take him into custody. He cleared his mind, knowing that a single mistake now would spell his doom. He didn’t want to think about mindwiping. Having body and mind broken, and his memory erased, would leave him with nothing.
“I have a proposal,” he sai
d softly. “You want to meet the natives. I can…arrange that.” Gambling high, because he couldn’t be sure that Pat would cooperate. But he had to make a start somewhere.
“Just how deeply are you entangled?” Nikishin asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“I have a contact with the natives.”
Nikishin’s eyes narrowed, reassessing him. His face expressing the cool contempt reserved for enemies. “You are severely compromised.”
“Yes, but not in that way. I was tortured. You’ve seen the burn scar.” He touched his remaining meat arm, where the tissue had scarred over in a thick band. A permanent reminder of where the cuffs had sat. “I can make contact for you. And negotiate the release of the prisoners. I know there are brother soldiers still being kept up in the mountains. The least I want to do is negotiate their release. But they’ll want Mike for that.”
“And yourself?” Nikishin’s voice was cold. “You expect me to release a spy and a traitor to go about their lives without punishment?”
“No, I’m not expecting anything.” Sergei looked at Ulyanov, whose features betrayed nothing, but he didn’t seem hostile. “You want to initiate communications with the natives. Without my contact, you will lose a lot of people hunting for them. And the prisoners…it would be one man against a lot more.”
“The prisoners could be written off,” Nikishin said.
“I know.” Sergei rubbed his face. One hundred percent losses would damage even Doctrine morale. Of course, it would also get more volunteers, so it would pay off in the medium term, like it had already, once before. Losing the first expedition force hadn’t had just negative effects, after all. “I understand that I need to be punished. Yes, I was compromised, and I can’t imagine coming back. I don’t want to lose what I have left…of myself.”
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