“A mindwipe could reinstate you, though.”
“A cripple who doesn’t recognize the faces of his family? You think that would eradicate my flaws?” He’d even lose his aunt. He’d lose everything. It was excruciating and yet so tempting. He could forget his shame, his guilt, the way he jumped at shadows. He wouldn’t remember that he wasn’t a hero. That they’d called him that. That so many had died because he’d broken the rules, had allowed his weakness to rule him and had ignored his own doubts. He’d forget Mike, and what he’d allowed himself to feel—and the fact that it was all a lie. He could start again.
Maybe this way he’d even have the strength to do it.
Ulyanov stepped up to Nikishin’s shoulder. “The recalibration period is extensive, Brother Captain. They’ve refined the process a great deal. Your…flaws…will be gone.” There was something like pity in the man’s gaze. Sympathy, understanding.
Maybe his family would even keep him after that procedure. Help him adjust. He could still marry, maybe take up a civilian profession. Something where he wasn’t responsible for lives and secrets. Where he wouldn’t be tempted again. He wouldn’t be betrayed again. He’d forget what it felt like to desire a man’s touch. Mike’s touch.
“I agree.” Sergei said it before he was really ready for it. But then, he could never get ready for those words that were now sinking like rocks into his stomach. “That’ll mean my aunt’s career remains unblemished. Nobody on the outside will be the wiser. But you’ll have brought down a corrupt general, ensured the Cirokko campaign is back on track, and established a link with a native rebel group. All in one fell swoop.” And I receive my fair punishment and a second chance.
“With the general’s actions as mitigating factors in regard to you, I’m confident that my superiors will be satisfied with this solution. I’ll leave it to you to make contact with the natives and discuss the framework of the prisoner exchange. Consider it…an opportunity for you to demonstrate your good faith.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Going back to his quarters was oddly disturbing. The walk through Dedis reminded him of many other treks, always with one destination, one purpose. This time, though, Sergei was walking away from Mike. The building was empty, the stillness and silence almost a tangible weight against his chest. He pulled Mike’s palmpad out of his pocket. After finding Pat’s contact, he tapped a quick note to update the Alliance operative on Mike’s location and state. He closed the note with a request for an ETA, then went through his exercises to get his own healing process back on track. Even if he wasn’t quite sure what he was still fighting for. Whatever they’d do with the man he’d become after the mindwipe, he most definitely wouldn’t be a soldier. Maybe a desk job somewhere. Something. He couldn’t imagine not being a soldier. It was like imagining life after death.
In the time it took him to complete his full list of assigned exercises, Pat sent an answer. The small touchscreen glowed with the succinct response. Moonrise. That was it.
He somehow managed to spend the time just sitting there, waiting, waiting for the hours to pass. Watched the shadows grow long and then darkness settle, then the moon rise. He stood again and stepped out the back into the darkness, moon large enough to cast blue shadows.
The arid space outside was more of a courtyard than anything, no real plant growth to speak of aside from a few hardy scrub bushes and a spiny cactus. It was sufficient space, though, to accommodate the additional visitor.
In the night shadows beyond Pat, a winged lizard crouched beside the leather-clad native who was undoubtedly its rider. Its long, lean tail swished across the ground, kicking a small cloud of dust into the air and creating an eerie sound that set Sergei’s teeth on edge.
Pat murmured something to the native in an unintelligible tongue, then turned to face Sergei, keeping himself squarely between the lizard and them. “You mentioned diplomatic efforts, when we last spoke.”
“I did. Lieutenant Nikishin—he’s interested to meet them.” Sergei gestured toward the monstrous native. “No doubt to report to the Committee that there’s another species on the planet. What they’ll do, I don’t know. I’m not that high up. But the general’s replacement, Colonel Ulyanov, is very capable and less keen on gathering campaign medals.” Doing his duty, but not for the glory or to get into the Committee. Maybe men who desired power were exactly the ones who shouldn’t have it.
“The terms of meeting for negotiation are this. One vehicle, unarmed transport. This Nikishin and the colonel may bring a lightly armed guard of four, to the place where your camp was. This is the chief of the Zasidka mountain clan. He has given assurances that only he and…his second, and one other pair, will attend. The Doctrine officers bring no fleet of gunships, and the natives bring no murder of lizards.”
Murder seemed an accurate expression for a flock of them. Sergei nodded. “I’ll tell him. He might not agree, but I’ll tell him. When?”
The lizard swung its head in a weaving motion, garbled something, bumped the native with its nose. The man batted the lizard’s head away from his hip in an affectionate gesture and said something.
“Day after tomorrow, an hour after sunset.” Pat hesitated, inhaled deeply. “Thank you.”
Sergei gave a nod. “One last thing. What about the prisoners? What state are they in? How many?” My men, left behind, decimated by claws and teeth and bacteria.
“They’re doing. I’ve been able to keep them from a fate similar to what I spared you. For now. The ninety men who survived are…well treated, all things considered.” Pat’s tone was dry, laced with an underlying emotion that Sergei was unable to interpret.
“Would they—would you exchange them for Mike?”
Pat studied him. “You think that colonel would let him go?”
“If you release the prisoners. Ninety to one is a good deal.” He was getting sick of politics and bargaining. But it helped a little with the guilt. Ninety men alive. Just over a third of the number that had followed him up into the mountains. Crippling losses. But getting them released would alleviate some of his guilt at least. He’d done what he could. He could walk into the oblivion of mindwipe without the full load of guilt.
“Yes. We can’t feed them much longer. I’ll arrange for release at the meeting. Make sure the colonel is equipped to transport. We can’t have them running around freely in the mountains. The lizards would pick them off.”
“I understand. I’ll present this to Nikishin and Ulyanov.” Sergei took a step back, not feeling much relief at gaining distance between himself and the creature. Relief could only come when they were out of sight.
“Let me know what they decide.” Pat walked over to the lizard and vaulted up behind the chieftain with all the familiarity Sergei would expect from another Cirokkan native. For an operative, he seemed to adapt rather well.
“Yes, I’ll send you a message.”
Sergei stepped back further, more hastily, giving a greater buffer of space, as the winged reptile moved toward him. It swung around, tail sweeping over the ground inches from his feet, wings unfurling, to leap into the air with a massive lunge and downthrust of its wings. The snap of air was like a rifle shot, dust whirling up off the ground in contrails. Sergei turned his head away, closing his eyes against the grit, and moved back into the shelter of the quarters.
A brief message was all it took to get a response from the Revision officer. Contact. Terms set. Drop/Swap in 48 hours.
Nikishin arrived at his quarters shortly after sunrise that morning, and he brought Ulyanov. Sergei had begun the final sequence of his physical therapy exercises when the lieutenant rapped on his door.
Sergei couldn’t help being nervous again, despite his confidence that things were coming together the way they should. At least Pat was cooperating. Things would work out, unless Nikishin took things personally and went out of his way to bring Mike down, too, in the end. Was Nikishin spiteful?
He served them tea and reported on the meeting w
ith Pat, detailing their demands.
“They truly expect us to drive into that valley with no gunships, after the stunt they pulled?” Ulyanov sounded far from pleased.
“This Alliance operative doesn’t know us very well if he believes that the presence of hostages will influence our actions.” Nikishin seemed to consider that thought for a little. “Or he knows us too well, knows that the Committee can afford to lose us. In that case, he will not take us hostage but simply kill us.” He didn’t seem overly perturbed.
“Like the general wrote off the entire battalion the minute he put me in command.” And like I couldn’t. Can’t. I can’t just leave them all to their fates. “I assume the Alliance is familiar with the goals and motivations of Doctrine personnel. And at times, they’ve even acted honorably. They are capable of it, at least.” Yeah, after they ruined your life, your career, and used you in that way to get an advantage. Don’t think about it. “Despite what they did here, they value an individual’s right and freedoms highly—too highly, of course.” It’s what he told me, at least. What do I know? What do I really know about how much of that was real and how much just lies to get me to trust them? “I mean…what can the Committee gain at this point?”
“The Committee’s goal is to determine any and all major factors influencing Cirokko, which is now in the Doctrine’s sphere of interests. Where they will take it is their decision, not mine. Or ours.” Nikishin turned his teacup in his hand, as if to look at it from a different angle, maybe for completion’s sake. “I accept the demand. The brother colonel may or may not join me. In the latter case, I will acquire a different member of the armed forces to assist,” Nikishin said softly, in a low tone that likely didn’t carry that far. He seemed faintly amused and sipped his tea. “Brother Colonel, let me know by this evening. I would not want to unduly disturb a replacement’s duty roster.”
A muscle twitched in Ulyanov’s cheek. “Do you advise against my presence at this meeting, Brother Lieutenant? Am I not as expendable an asset as you? I cannot viably construct a strategy, military or otherwise, without intel on the true natives of this planet. Therefore, I will be accompanying you.”
Sergei stared. That was as close to a fuck you as he’d ever heard someone deliver to a Revision officer. Had he been wrong in calling the colonel Nikishin’s creature, after all?
“I trust your judgment,” Nikishin responded without much discernible emotion.
“Indeed.” Ulyanov sipped his tea, staring off across the room at nothing. Or perhaps attempting to bore a hole in the wall.
Sergei was relieved the colonel didn’t aim that gaze at him. He waited for Nikishin to finish his tea and straightened in his chair to draw the Revisionist’s attention. “Could I be present at the prisoner exchange?”
Both the colonel and the Revision officer blinked and turned to look at him in unison. Nikishin cleared his throat. “It would seem optimal, given the circumstances of your familiarity with the native contact the Alliance has embedded.”
Ulyanov tapped his fingertips together, forearms braced on his knees. “Would you require some form of medical release or assistance?” He glanced at Nikishin. “I wouldn’t want to engage any unnecessary or complicating risk.” A faint thread of sarcasm in his voice sent a chill down Sergei’s spine. Not clear who the target was intended to be.
“I’ll shoulder the medical risk involved. I’ve been advised against altitudes, but Zasidka isn’t the highest point in the mountains.” I just want to see Mike go free, and I want to see my men released. It wasn’t asking too much. The Revision officer had won all the other battles. “Psychologically, it would give me some closure.”
“Understandable, to want that.” Nikishin even went so far as to offer an encouraging smile. Very much like a parent indulging a wayward child who was making an effort at restitution. “I imagine your battalion would feel reassured by your presence at the meeting, as well.”
Sergei swallowed hard. Selfish and wrong, stupid and weak. Not like an officer at all, not a leader of men. “Thank you.”
And how to face the men he’d led to ruin?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mike was on the verge of attempting something stupid—like escaping—out of sheer restless boredom, when the Revision officer returned to his hospital room with a bevy of medtechs in tow. No emotion registered on the man’s face, and he stood in silence to one side of the door, wearing battle dress in a strange camo pattern Mike hadn’t ever seen the like of before.
Then again, he mused, as the medtechs removed his IV lines and checked his vitals, there wasn’t a great deal of information regarding Interior Revision available to the Alliance.
“You going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked, glancing at the steel-gray drab flightsuit that had been tossed on the bed as an afterthought by the retreating swarm of medtechs. Looked like standard-issue POW garb, if ever there’d been such an official thing.
The Doctrine officer stared at him in silence, gaze intense, as though he were trying to see inside his brain.
Wonder if he thinks it’s empty, or full of nothing but Alliance egomania.
“A prisoner swap,” the man said, at long last. “Get dressed, Sergeant Villanova.”
He twitched at the sound of that, his true name and rank. Hadn’t heard it spoken as a direct address in so long, it was strange to his ears. He did as he was told, though, adrenaline spiking in his blood at the thought of finally being released. Not sure what would follow his return, though, and he disliked the unknown.
No chance of a re-embed. Not after this debacle. Herschel would have his ass in a sling. Pat wouldn’t want to be burdened with him, not when the natives would consider his consorting with the Doctrine as an irreversible taint.
Where was Sergei? His curiosity was sharp, but he didn’t dare ask. Something told him there was a precarious balance being walked in this situation, and Mike wasn’t about to risk upsetting it. Not if it meant he could walk away from this, from the months of inhumane treatment, relatively unscathed.
Best not to worry overly much about Sergei, anyway. The man is better off with a clean break, cutting all ties. Deserves better.
And he’d managed to convince himself of that, until the Revision officer escorted him outside with a heavy grip on his biceps. Two transports idled in the courtyard outside the Doctrine headquarters. One smaller, similar to the one he’d ridden up into the pass, and a larger, massive troop transport.
Shit, how many prisoners am I being traded for?
Nikishin shoved him into the backseat, and gods help him if it didn’t land him shoulder to shoulder with none other than Colonel Ulyanov. And Bull.
But the biggest shock was seeing Sergei sitting in the front, wearing Doctrine standard camo, with his rank still in place. He hadn’t been demoted. Maybe not yet. All Mike could really see of him was the shaved neck, a peek of blond hair and stubble, the pale skin between hairline and uniform collar.
The silence in the car was heavy. Even Ulyanov and Nikishin remained silent. So silent that Mike could hear Sergei’s breathing, or maybe he imagined it at first, but he wasn’t imagining it when they got farther up into the mountains. Sergei’s breath became audible, short gasps of air that seemed like a lot of work. Not as bad as when Mike had cut him, but bad enough that it reminded him of the moment.
Want to make love to you again.
Dredging up that memory was its own kind of hell. The echo of rotorblades whipping through the air. The pained expression on Sergei’s face. The damp, cloying weight of his camo pants and sleeves, saturated in blood.
“You doing all right up there, Captain?” He blurted the question finally, unable to stand it anymore, and glanced at the colonel. “Did you think to bring some oxygen for him, at least?”
“Just a bit—short of breath.” Sergei turned in his seat and looked at Mike. His gray eyes darkened immediately with what Mike could sense was sheer pain. He knew the man. Could read behind that zombie face. “Thank yo
u for your concern.” Voice flat.
Mike rubbed at the corner of his eye, where the muscle twitched sporadically. That concept of a clean break didn’t seem very attractive, right then. All it did was feed the need to punch something. Like the officer sitting next to him. Or the source of his torment for weeks on end.
Bull actually cracked his knuckles and glared at him. Mike couldn’t even turn and look out the window to avoid the confrontation, flanked as he was by the Doctrine soldiers.
The silence dragged out through the trek up through the pass itself and down into the valley. Evening sunlight was fading over the ridgeline when the decimated remains of the Zasidka base camp came into view finally.
It resembled a vagrant’s camp. Debris, mauled earth, darkened in large blotches here and there. No trace or remains of the lizards that had died at the hands of the gunships and their sonic cannons. Carried off and given the Cirokkan equivalent of last rites, most likely.
Just a few unsalvaged transport skeletons, twisted beyond recognition.
“Wheel around…to the southwest,” Sergei instructed the driver, pointing. “Will give them…a clear view of us…on their approach.” His breathing hadn’t gotten any easier for having come down out of the pass.
“Stop here,” Ulyanov ordered after a few more moments.
The doors opened, Sergei pushed out, then the others followed. Mike, by virtue of being boxed in, was last. He noticed Sergei glancing at him again, then he tightened his jaw muscles and shook his head when the driver offered him a dust filter. Maybe Sergei meant to suffer up here, shrugged off anything that would make it easier for him to breathe. Mike wanted to punch that out of him, tell him there was nothing he could have done and that there was no reason to punish himself.
“Ah, yes, I understand the situation much better now,” Nikishin said, turning and looking around. “How easily the tactical advantage could turn into a disadvantage.”