“Just messages. Reports. Not important.” Sergei tapped the pad and it went dark. “I needed to spend the time somehow, you know. How are you feeling?”
Mike took a moment to take stock of his body, the general sensation of feeling like one large bruise, and shrugged. “I’m alive, not going to complain.” He tried to smile, but it pulled at his cracked lips, never mind the things it did to the abused tissues in his face. “You look good, Sergei.”
It was the best he could do—couldn’t make the question come out. Besides, it was the truth. If he’d possessed the energy or strength to get out of the bed and off his back, he wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands to himself. So…probably best, this way. He glanced around the room. They were still in Doctrine territory, somewhere. Yeah. Best keep his hands to himself.
“You haven’t seen me walk. Like the shambling undead.” Sergei gave a short laugh. “You’ll get your strength back. You’re a witness. Interior Revision will likely ask you some questions…” He leaned in, lips near Mike’s ear. “Your friends were in touch, told me you’d gone missing.”
Shit. Mike closed his eyes, riding the faint thrill the man’s proximity gave him, the warm huff of breath against his skin. He wondered what his fellow CovOp had said and what the Doctrine officer had managed to work out for himself. Though he tried to fight it, to relax, the tension wheedled its way into Mike’s muscles, made his body scream in pain. He took a deep breath and twisted his fingers into a fist in the sheet. His brain was too exhausted to function. “Questions.”
“Relax. So far, everything’s under control.” Sergei glanced toward the door and sat back, shifting to rearrange his prostheses. “We will have to talk…but not now.”
Mike didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The reversal in roles carried a malignant edge. He was still a prisoner. Had to assume they knew everything the general did. He didn’t doubt Sergei had worked it all out long before now; the man was too smart not to, even as young and…gods, inexperienced…as he was. As badly as Mike had bumbled things, it was a small wonder the Doctrine officer hadn’t figured it out earlier. So why was he sitting here so calmly? Why wasn’t he yelling accusations and demanding explanations?
Oh yes. That notorious Doctrine control. In his absence, Sergei had apparently slipped back into his zombie role.
“I just need you to get better. They want contact with the mountain people. There might be a diplomatic solution. The new commanding officer here certainly seems competent and willing to think outside the box.” Sergei laughed again. “I’m babbling.”
“Babble all you want. Good to hear your voice.” Too many weeks of remembering the last words those lips had uttered. Hearing that voice echo in his head. And maybe if the Doctrine officer babbled long enough, he’d work his way around to saying some of the things that needed to be said. In Mike’s mind, the unspoken questions were dirt and grime on the window. He couldn’t see past them, no matter how hard he tried.
“We’ll be good. We’ll get through this.”
“Yeah. We’ll get through it.”
Sergei chafed a hand over his scalp, agitating the barely-there bristle. He held Mike’s gaze for a brief moment before turning away. “They aren’t going to release you any time soon.”
“No less than I expected.” Simple truth. Probably wouldn’t hurt to employ that more generously now. Nothing to lose.
The Doctrine officer twitched again, prosthetic limbs moving in jerks that resembled nervous energy. Mike wished he could tackle the man, wrestle him to the floor. Trigger some rage, in the very least. Neither of them was in the shape for it, though. What a fucking pair they were. He couldn’t say any of that though. The space between them had widened.
“Gods, it’s good to see you.”
“Yes.” Sergei turned and gave a small, forced smile, but the expression never reached his eyes, and his gaze never made it as far as Mike’s. “Rest, Mike.”
Mike relaxed back into the pillow, studying him. The bulk of muscle, thicker in the neck and shoulders than he recalled. When Sergei shifted in the chair, the hint of “not normal” became even more apparent. Not enough time to acclimate psychologically, physiologically, to his body’s abrupt alterations. Surely not more than six weeks—by any standards, the man shouldn’t be out of the hospital. The rhythm of his breathing was faster than he recalled, too, eliciting a spike of concern.
Despite all that, the man was the same as he remembered. Same pale eyes, same curl of his mouth when he smiled. Same voice, warm and rough, making Mike’s body tingle with a single syllable. And yet different. Mike couldn’t put his finger on it, and it had nothing to do with the parts of Sergei that weren’t living flesh anymore. It was something in the way he carried himself, something Mike saw in his gaze that he couldn’t put into words.
He shifted his head on the pillow, trying to ease the dull throb in his jaw and cheek. He felt tired, exhaustion turning muscles to water where minutes before stress-fed adrenaline had made him taut as wire. Couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes, didn’t want to let Sergei out of his sight. That bubble of fear, whispering that if he disappeared again, it would be for good. Nobody could be this lucky, not twice in one lifetime.
Mike’s eyes slid shut despite his will to stay awake. Despite the things he wanted to say, and couldn’t. It was okay though, for now. A thousand thoughts pinging around in his head, but no energy to process any of them. In that moment, none of it mattered to him beyond the warm, solid strength of Sergei’s fingers, curled around his.
Don’t make me leave you here. I love you too much… He remembered uttering those words, and the stiff guilt-ridden defiance radiating from the man who’d etched his name on Mike’s soul. And what had he done, but walked away and betrayed that confidence, that trust. So carefully earned.
Mike opened his eyes again. He had to ask, though it came out in a rasp of a whisper. “Why are you here?”
On the verge of pushing to his feet, Sergei’s knuckles went white on the arm of the chair as he paused. Gaze fixed on the far wall, but his brows lowered. “What do you mean?”
“Sergei.” No response. “Look at me, damn it. Please.”
The strong line of the officer’s jaw moved, muscles and tendons in neck and face cording as he clenched his teeth. But he turned, finally, and met Mike’s gaze full bore. Cold, challenging.
“You’re smarter than this. Why are you here?”
“Here?”
Mike narrowed his eyes. “Yes. Why the hell are you sitting here, after what I did.”
“I repay my debts, Mike.”
“Is that so.”
Sergei sat there, still not moving. His nostrils flared on a deep inhale.
“What debt do you have to me? After what I did.”
The Doctrine officer glanced away, down. To follow his fingers as he traced the crease of his uniform slacks up the center of his right thigh. “What you did was save my life.”
Mike fisted his hands in the coarse linen bedsheets as Sergei surged to his feet and headed toward the door.
Halfway, he stopped and turned back after a heartbeat of hesitation. “It might not have meant anything when you did it, but that matters little to me.” His alloy hand clenched rhythmically, as if betraying a nervous tick that the officer would’ve usually had no issue controlling.
When he drew breath to respond, Sergei cut him off with a curt shake of his head. “Rest, Mike.” And he turned and disappeared into the hallway without another word.
Mike flopped back into the bed and stared at the ceiling, chewing on his abused lips. “First time I’ve ever seen that fucker retreat.”
Sergei instructed the medical officer to keep him updated on the patient’s status, then took the pad and returned to his rooms—in the diplomatic quarter, not the barracks. Not only to make use of the perks while he had them, but because Pat had said he would return there.
Not that he was looking forward to meeting the man again. Like any unpleasant duty,
he’d have to deal with it, ideally without giving away how disturbing he found the proximity of his torturer. All part and parcel of the PTSD. All avoidant behavior, as if staying away from Pat somehow, magically, ensured that he’d never be tortured again. Well, that at least could safely be called a delusion.
He did it because he owed Mike this much, at least. Mike had gotten him back to his people. It was only right to do the same for him, before he could play his final few moves. Part of him knew how it all had to turn out. He was no match for Nikishin—or Ulyanov. Neither of them was the type of man who did things by half.
He opened the doors to the balcony and settled in one of the chairs, pad on his knee, responding to a few messages from his family and a long one from his aunt who asked him how he was doing and what he had learned. He doubted she was keeping tabs on Nikishin’s reports—she might not have the clearance to see them before they were vetted.
Sergei struggled to not tell her everything, but he’d much prefer to do that in person. He could never know who else read those mails, and he didn’t want to compromise her worse than he already had. There might be a time when she might have to pretend that she wasn’t close to him and that she didn’t particularly care.
The son I never had.
He just didn’t know how to do any of this. They’d taught him war, but not deceit beyond what was necessary to survive. And he hadn’t cared much for those lessons. Yet if he didn’t play the game, Mike had no chance at all of getting out of this mess.
A faint sound from above, the kind of scuffling scrape that comes from an animal scurrying across roof tiles, was the only warning Sergei got.
Pat dropped onto the small balcony, hunkering in a crouch against the floor to break the impact, and remained there. Unmoving, almost more beast than human in some respects.
“What news?” Whispered words, the strain unmistakable.
“He’s alive. We found him.” Sergei breathed deeply against the near-physical revulsion of the man’s presence. Part of him wanted to sound an alarm or at the very least draw a weapon. But he was convalescent and thus not armed. Armed. He really hoped that joke would get so old his mind would stop stumbling over the expression. “Bruised, battered and starved, but otherwise unharmed. I told him you’ve been asking for him.”
Pat relaxed a little. Propped a forearm on his knee, resting the other leg on the stone of the balcony. He still watched Sergei with a measure of wariness, and Sergei tightened his mental controls, pushed his resentment and anger away. And part of that was fear. His body had learned to associate the man’s presence with pain and danger, to respond accordingly. It felt like cutter ants crawling all over his body. Thankfully, the enemy was more concerned with his surroundings. His gaze roamed constantly to take in the doorway leading into the house, the rooftops and windows across the street.
“Would take more than a bit of torture and questioning to break that one.” Relief, almost palpable. “Still being held, I assume.”
“In the hospital, yes. Revision doesn’t seem overly interested in him. They have bigger fish to fry. I’m not sure how long that good luck will hold.”
Pat’s attention flicked up along the roofline again. Edgy, not willing to relax completely, he was trying to look everywhere at once. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a slim pad of unfamiliar make and slid it across the floor toward Sergei. “Use this to keep me up on any…developments. If it becomes necessary to get him out, I’d like to be aware. It’s Mike’s.”
Dangerous and incriminating. He did need a way to keep in touch with Pat, but if Nikishin caught him sending messages to the enemy, he was in even worse trouble than he already was. He slid the pad into a pocket. “I will make sure he lives. Whatever the cost.”
The man grunted. “Don’t be dramatic. We’re prepared to bargain for his release if the situation calls for it.”
“You know little about us.” Sergei forced himself to push the dread away. “The Revision officer is your best bet. The new colonel is very much his creature. I don’t know yet who will be in charge after that—it’s an interim solution.”
“I know enough.” Pat looked as if he’d say more, but then he snapped his mouth shut and turned away.
“Guess you do.” Sergei felt unspeakably weary, much like after the first few electric shocks. Apart from both of them caring for Mike, there was nothing that connected them. Pat was outside the Doctrine too. He owed him nothing. But then again, he did, despite the torture. “I’ll send you an update as soon as I have it.”
Pat twisted back toward him, focusing on Sergei finally, head canted. “I know as much of you as you do of me, I should think.” He straightened, the movement so abrupt that Sergei stilled and tensed in an effort not to flinch. Pat stepped toward him, deliberately cautious, and held out his hand. “If nothing else, honor amongst thieves?”
“Soldiers, not thieves.” Sergei straightened and, after a long pause, offered his remaining meat hand. He didn’t want to do it; he didn’t want the man anywhere near him, never mind touching him. To shy away would’ve betrayed his weakness and fear. And that, in the face of an enemy, was unacceptable.
Unfazed, Pat took Sergei’s left in his right and gave it a firm squeeze. Pat’s gaze drifted to the small scar on Sergei’s neck, where his blade had left its mark. “It’s all a matter of perspective. What would we be, if not for war?”
He released Sergei’s hand and moved away, taking in the lay of the rooftops once more. Then he leaped up, grabbed the lip of the overhang, hauled himself onto the tiles and was gone.
What a question. Most women chose not to be soldiers; civilian workers existed in the Doctrine, but they were seen as outsiders, sometimes defective. The committee, viragos, Interior Revision—everybody was military, whether they fought, healed, maintained gear or protected installations. Only those who gave birth and raised and educated small children weren’t.
As an able-bodied—or formerly able-bodied—man, Sergei couldn’t have imagined any other career. Even the injury didn’t mean he had to be zeroed. No reason yet to reset the first digit of his ID code to 0. He knew other societies worked differently, but the thought seemed bizarre. What did people do with their lives if they had no purpose? He pulled Mike’s pad from his pocket, noted that the password was disabled. Open access. Some folders were encrypted individually, and there was very little else on it.
He noted a folder marked Private and opened it. Images. High-resolution images of him. There was something uncanny and disturbing about seeing himself on surveillance images. They were large enough to study every pore of his skin, every hair. Him in his uniform, looking impassive and formidable next to the general. The general with a hand between his shoulder blades. A strange look passing between them. It took little imagination for those who knew what to look for.
Sergei clenched his hands and forced himself to move the pad into his meat hand. Wouldn’t do to crush the piece of tech in a fit of anger. He could see it. Mike had been gathering intel, had spotted this…exchange, and then moved to seduce him. A very simple, effective strategy, used by the intelligence community for thousands of years, if not longer. He’d been identified as a weakness, and that weakness had then been exploited. Due to his defect. He’d opened himself wide for blackmail or worse. He wondered if the encrypted folders held images of him and Mike—to be used if they had need of more leverage.
Sergei set aside Mike’s pad carefully, hands still trembling slightly, and stared at his own. Nikishin had sent him an extensive medical file on Mike while he’d been waiting in the hospital, but he’d stalled opening it, and then Mike had woken up. He hadn’t figured there was anything in there he didn’t know, didn’t even consider anything in it would be of monumental importance.
The file of images though. Not just a few, but dozens, almost a hundred. That changed things. The sharp rap of knuckles on wood echoed up from the street below, and reverberated through the house behind him. Loud and in stereo, it jolted Sergei out of re
aching for his pad. He slid Mike’s device out of sight under his own.
He walked over to the door and opened it, assuming that an enemy wouldn’t knock. Nikishin and the colonel stood outside, and Sergei felt their sudden appearance like a blow to the chest.
“Please, do come in,” he said and stepped to the side.
“Thank you, Brother Captain.” Nikishin took a few strides into the main room, and the brother colonel trailed after him. Sergei’s own words echoed in his head. Very much the lieutenant’s creature. No question of it. “We apologize for intruding upon you this evening.”
The colonel paused and took in the quarters with a slow, measuring gaze, making Sergei wonder what it was he expected to find.
“I was just going to begin my calibration exercises, but they can wait. Tea?” Whatever the reason for the visit, there were no guards. It might not be that bad. Yet.
Nikishin moved farther into the room, made himself comfortable in one of the lounge chairs. “Tea would be lovely. Is it fresh, by any chance? I must admit I’ve developed a weakness for the native brew.”
“I made it half an hour ago.” Sergei fetched two more cups and set them down on the table. Unspoken that the colonel would have the same. He murmured an apology and sat with no small amount of relief. Not because the prostheses hurt, but because he felt weak on his legs, unbalanced, and preferred to put his hands somewhere. It might not give away he was nervous. The benefits of his mental discipline seemed to have weakened. Or maybe he knew he couldn’t fool Nikishin with his little routine tricks that projected images of competence, authority and duty.
“Did you have a chance yet to review the file I sent you? The brother colonel and I reviewed it at some length this afternoon.” Nikishin arched his dark brows a fraction.
“I started on it, but didn’t get the chance. Should I read the summary now?”
“It’s not necessary, Brother Captain.” Colonel Ulyanov eased into the conversation with the same slipstream quality he used to settle into the other chair. “The sum of it appears to be that the general discovered an Alliance spy. Fully decrypted chip data can’t be falsified.”