Fire On Ice

FIRE ON ICE

…Beneath the smooth, cool skin, Gordon could feel the slow stir of blood and life. Even here in the frozen hell of Gelada, Bard smelled clean, no lurking musty odor like unwashed bodies and old sweat. There was a scent almost sweet, pure and fresh, like a pine forest or a mountain meadow on Bard’s skin and in his close-cropped hair. Gordon’s lips explored farther, testing and tasting the texture of Bard’s neck, the shape of his ear, the stubble along the side of his jaw. Gordon’s hand splayed across the other man’s flat abdomen. He felt the solid muscle, then traced the line of hair that marched down Bard’s chest, past his belly button and on to his groin. Its texture was crisp but not wiry, and although he couldn’t see, Gordon knew the color would be brown lit with glimmers of copper and gold like the rest of Bard’s hair. Ever so slowly his hand quested lower. He found the thatch of thicker hair and then the warm shaft that came alive at once to his hesitant touch. Suddenly he knew Bard was not asleep, not even playing possum anymore. At that moment, Bard’s hand also shifted. He found Gordon’s cock, pressed his palm against it through the soft fabric, rubbed its length. Gordon gulped back a groan as that caress reverberated through his whole body. Every cell, from his toes to the top of his scalp, came to tingling life in an instant. They couldn’t do this. Someone could come to check on

them any moment or the wasps could attack or…but there was no way in deep freeze hell that he could deny himself this time. It might only be once—it could only be once—but he would have it to remember for the rest of his life. Yes, oh, God, yes…

ALSO BY DEIRDRE O’DARE Armed And Amorous The Chess Master’s Queen Cowboy First Aid Cowgirl Up Daring Delights Daring Dreams Doggone Love Dude Ranch Nights Journal Of A Timid Temptress Karola’s Hunt The Maltese Terror Nellie’s Rogue Stallion Pickup Man Portrait Of A Cowboy Randi’s Hellacious Adventure Saved By Sam The Taming of Jaelle’n To Protect and…Seduce? Treading Dangerous Ground

FIRE ON ICE BY DEIRDRE O’DARE

AMBER Q UILL PRESS, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com

FIRE ON ICE AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2008 by Deirdre O’Dare ISBN 978-1-60272-232-3 Cover Art © 2008 Trace Edward Zaber

Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To the recollection of my first glimpse of “Sputnik” and “TeleStar” long years ago, and to the cast, writers and crew of the original Star Trek series. Mr. Spock is still one of my heroes! These impressions awoke in me a fascination with the idea of exploring the universe and an endless curiosity as to what might be found “out there.” My Uni-Fleet stories are my imagined efforts at space exploration.

FIRE ON ICE

CHAPTER 1 Gelada, 2285 They had it all wrong. Hell was cold, and Bard was there. Someone had said it was minus fifty-five Fahrenheit this morning, at least before the thermometer froze, the red liquid inside congealing like clotting blood in the bulb. On Gelada, the Uni-Fleet Troops fought two enemies—the illusive, barely-visible armies that harried them with continual swift-stabbing attacks and the weather. So far the weather had inflicted the most casualties. The natives were small, almost bug-like in appearance, and attacked in insectoid swarms, 1

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using cruel but tiny spears and arrows, glass-bladed war axes, weapons primitive almost beyond belief. Only the fact they could move lightning fast, in spite of the snow and ice, and were all but invisible until they fell upon you made them even marginally effective. Silence and surprise were their stock in trade. Woe betide the straggler who fell a few steps behind the unit. He was marked for death at once and taken down with merciless efficiency. Three of their number had been lost that way before word spread and everyone stayed closely bunched. Bard found a certain irony in the fact that, for all the technology at the Universal Council’s disposal, troops on the ground, armed with old-fashioned projectile firearms were still often needed to take and hold territory. On many of the worlds the council sought to conquer and add to their galaxy-spanning empire, much of the technology simply did not work. Gelada was one of those worlds. What value they perceived in this misbegotten ball of ice on the outer fringes of explored space, he had no idea. He only knew no electro-magnetic-based devices were reliable here. The experts had some lengthy explanation about magnetic fields and energy bands that he didn’t fully understand. Because of this, he knew his force was operating at least five hundred years into the past. They carried EM-25 rifles that used gunpowder and archaic metallic projectiles. They communicated with battery powered wire-linked “phones,” or tried to when the batteries didn’t freeze. At close range, some radios worked some of the time. The rest of the time it was shouts and hand signals, neither 2

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too effective with the constant howling winds and blizzard conditions that cut visibility to a hundred yards or less. His only reliable contact with the upper command structure, secure and comfortable in a large ship orbiting high above, was the telepathic link through an implant in the bone behind his ear. He could receive orders through it and send an occasional urgent message back in an emergency—provided a tele-tech was on duty at that particular console on the ship. “Ours is not to wonder why,” he muttered to himself. Captain Bardon Welstaad has no need to know the big plan. He has only to lead his unit of mixed army and marine troops and take control of a section of this icebound wasteland. If he doesn’t freeze to death first or fall victim to the snow wasps’ diminutive blades, that is. Right now Bard doubted he would ever be warm or see sunlight again. Sensing motion at his left, Bard turned his head. Easily recognizable in his bulky cold weather gear, Gordon Farrell marched beside him. The senior enlisted man in Bard’s command, Gordon was a veteran of numerous campaigns on worlds hot, cold, dry, wet, and filled with every horror one could imagine. The big man’s unfailing calm and almost uncanny ability to say and do what was needed had made him Bard’s de facto second-in-command. Without Gordon, he wasn’t sure he could even keep the unit together, much less maintain the discipline needed to press on and pretend to take control of this long rocky peninsula of arctic terrain. To the right lay the sea, black water that somehow did not freeze, perhaps due to the concentration of mineral salts it 3

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carried. The wind blowing off that body of water cut like razor blades. Down the other side was a river. They’d glimpsed it a few times, roiling water plunging down cataracts and racing through rapids in a mad dash to join the ocean. Neither offered hope of hospitable safety zone in an emergency. Supposedly other units moved up similar long fingers of land and they’d all meet somewhere ahead where the ragged arms joined a mainland. That was really all he knew. Lost in thoughts that had wandered too far from the moment, Bard stumbled at a sudden impact. When had his pack suddenly trebled in weight? The next thing he registered was hundreds of darts of pain as the cold flowed into his insulated body gear through gashes made by the sharp blades of a hoard of snow wasps. He’d read once of an ancient torture called Death of a Thousand Cuts. He’d never expected to experience it, even in this strange variation. Thought faded as first pain overwhelmed him and then hypothermia shut down his conscious mind. *

*

*

It was an instant before Gordon registered the attack on his commander. Just an instant, but almost too long. He gave throat to a howl of rage and pain, less coherent than the thoughts racing through his mind. No, nothing can happen to the captain. I can’t stand it. I won’t let it. There was no room to aim, little use in firing, lest he hit Bard by mistake. He swung his rifle in frantic arcs, using it like a bat. He felt impacts jolt up his arms as he knocked snow 4

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wasps every which way. Someone just ahead heard him yell, passed the word and the whole unit came rushing back, primed to fight. As they usually did, the natives called off their attack and scuttled away, vanishing as quickly as they had come. “We’ve got minutes to save the captain, maybe less. He’s losing heat way too fast. Somebody pitch a tent, two together if you can.” Every man carried a small shelter, pup-tent size, in his gear. Made of windproof nyla-max fabric, they where very insulating and durable but light. Two together with a small air space between the layers provided good protection from the cold and could be warmed with a compact catalytic heater or two, another part of each man’s gear. Within seconds, a tent was up, two heaters were going and they’d dragged Bard inside. Now he could be stripped of the damaged suit without instantly freezing. Gordon tore off his own gloves and opened the front of his suit, then went to work on Bard’s. He ripped away at the layered fastenings and peeled off the shredded fabric. It was in tatters, cut so many times that nothing could be salvaged. While he was busy with this, two other sergeants rolled out a sleeping bag. As soon as they had Bard out of his “Eskimo suit,” they maneuvered him into the sleeping bag. Gordon looked at the death-still form of his leader, his beloved leader. “That’s not going to be enough. He’s lost too much natural body heat already. We’ve got to help replace it.” He shrugged out of his own suit to squat briefly, nude, before he slid into the bag on one side of the captain. A junior 5

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sergeant did the same on the other side. They had to zip two bags together to accommodate the three bodies, but that only took a moment. Sparing a glance for the men hunched in the opening, crowding close around the tent, Gordon knew they were scared and miserable. They looked to him for leadership. “Get camp set up here. We can’t go on until we either bring the captain around or—lose him. Keep the circle close with all the entrances facing in. The spider’s blades can’t cut the tents as easily as the suits. Stay alert; one man of each pair has to be awake at all times. Hunker down, eat and rest. That’s all we can do right now.” He knew the men would obey. They were all near the end of their endurance, but their training kicked in and took over in times like this. When a senior man gave orders, they all obeyed. That was the only way they could hope to survive. In moments, the men had left, closing the tent’s flap against the cold. The immediate care of the unit seen to, he turned his whole attention to the icy body against which he lay. ::Damn it, Bard, you can’t die. I won’t let you. I love you, man, and I’ve never had a chance to tell you. You’re the best, the finest person I’ve ever known. You’ve gotta make it.:: He didn’t speak the words aloud. John Fordham, the junior sergeant, would be shocked to the marrow of his bones to hear such a thing. Soldiers did not love each other. They might be friends and buds, they might be partners and teammates and admit to esprit de corps, to a bond within their unit, but never to an individual fixation on one person. 6

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It was such a shocking notion the rules didn’t even address it, at least not in so many words. But now and then one man or two would suddenly disappear, and sometimes rumor had it they’d been caught in a compromising situation or turned in for behavior deemed unacceptable between two soldiers. To the unit they left, they ceased to exist. Gordon swore to himself. Hell, a circle jerk or a group grope could go unpunished, but let one man even hint at a personal interest in another and his career was over. He’d held his feelings in check and bitten his tongue on the words he often wanted to say out of regard for Bard and for his own career. Even if Bard had done nothing to incite Gordon’s regard, the knowledge he’d been the subject of another soldier’s lust would make him suspect as well. Gordon knew Bard came from a long family tradition of military service. He would not shadow the other man’s name, even if it broke his heart. This once he had a reason although not one he would ever have chosen to share a rare interlude of closeness. This situation provided a unique opportunity. John was not comfortable with the task and had his eyes screwed tightly shut. Gordon saw the younger man had kept on his inner layer, the thin suit liner they all wore. That might diminish the warming effect slightly, but not enough to jeopardize Bard’s chances. He turned to face Bard, wrapped both arms around him and turned him to lay spoon fashion as closely melded as they could. Bard’s skin felt like ice, but silken, polished ice. 7

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Gordon ran his hands up and down Bard’s torso, from shoulders to low on his belly, trying to stir some circulation and bring warming blood closer to the surface. His cock nestled between Bard’s frosty buttocks. ::I’d plug in the heater if I could, if it would help. I’d slit my wrists and pour my blood into you. Come on, man, you’ve got to pull through:: If Gordon could have opened his body and taken Bard inside of him, he would not have hesitated to do it, even if it meant his own death. That he could not do, but he could gather the slimmer, shorter man into a close embrace and keep him there, willing the heat of his own body to flow through their close-pressed skins. John rolled over, turning his back to Bard to lie stiff, touching, but as detached from the intimacy as he could be. Still the contribution of his natural heat was critical and Gordon was thankful to have it. He recognized that desire alone was not enough to save the other man’s life, but right now nothing mattered more. The seeping of blood from some of the myriad small wounds on Bard’s body was Gordon’s first clue that heat was gradually returning. Then he realized the total chill had begun to ease. He held a living body again, not an ice statue. And that made it even harder to maintain the iron control he must. His cock twitched, stiffening and pushing farther in between Bard’s cheeks. He knew the other man was still unconscious, but he could come awake any time. How would he react to Gordon’s obvious arousal? Somehow he had to calm himself before Bard came to—and before John Fordham realized anything unusual was happening. 8

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“I think you can get out, John. He’s starting to come around. I need to check and see if he has any wounds bad enough to need first aid. I can feel some blood seeping from a place or two.” Fordham was only too glad to scoot out of the sleeping bags and struggle back into his suit. “I’ll be in the closest tent I can fit into if you need help, Sarge. Just holler. Want me to send the medic over?” Gordon hesitated. As much as he wanted Bard to himself right now to savor the fact he had not lost his beloved leader, at least not yet, it would be wiser to have someone else around. “Yeah, send Dick on over if you can. Have him bring his kit in case some of these cuts are deeper than normal in a wasp attack. So far no one’s gotten infections and they don’t seem to use any poison on their weapons, but our luck could run out any time there. Pays to be cautious.” John scooted out through the overlapping layers of the closed entrances. For the moment, Gordon was alone with Bard. His hands shook as he pushed the sleeping bag back so he could squirm out. He donned the inner layer of his suit as fast as he could drag it on and jammed his stubborn cock down to fasten the suit from crotch to neck. Only then did he start to examine Bard for wounds. Before he had finished the first check, Dick Morris, the medic, wiggled into the shelter. “How’s the cap’n doing, Sarge?” “He still hasn’t quite come around, but he feels almost back to normal temperature. Some of his wounds were seeping, and I figured I’d better see if any of them were 9

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serious. Seems like that whole mob of wasps homed in on him. How did they know he’s the officer? We all dress just alike and carry the same gear.” Dick shrugged. “Damned if I know. They do tend to pick on one man at a time—they’ve learned they can’t go one on one with us. No telling what they think or understand or anything, though. Those squeaks and clicks seem to be how they talk, almost beyond the range we can hear. Damned stinging wasps. They’re nasty, like spiders and roaches. They make me sick.” The medic knelt beside the improvised bed and started his own examination of Bard. Gordon sat back on his heels and observed, trying to hold onto some detachment. This is just another man in the unit, one who happens to be in charge, but that’s all. Yeah right, and all that white shit out there is vanilla ice cream. Dick found half a dozen wounds that were deep enough to be salved and stapled. He worked quickly and soon had them taken care of. “That should do it,” he said. “Soon as he comes to you need to get some hot food into him if you can. Got any soup?” “I can fix some,” Gordon replied. “And I’ll add some of the high-energy powder if he can keep it down.” “Yeah, that’d be good. Holler if you have any problems or he shows any bad signs. I don’t know what else we can do right now. He ought to be coming around pretty soon. I checked his temp. It’s up to ninety-six or so now. Seems to be rising. Better wrap him up again, though, just to be safe.” 10

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CHAPTER 2 Bard came awake by degrees. His whole body felt sore, abraded and raw. He was bundled in what he finally identified as a sleeping bag, or perhaps two, and they seemed to weigh him down. He wanted to shove them back, but he didn’t have that much strength. An even greater weight bore against him on one side. After a minute he realized it was another body, one that pressed against him from neck to ankles, closer than he had been to another human being since his last liberty on Quaydeshaar. That desert world was well-known for its talented prostitutes and dizzying drinks. He could only remember bits and pieces of his time there. By slow degrees, the attack came back to his recollection. 11

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Of course, his suit had been shredded by the wasps’ obsidian blades. Though small, they were all sharp beyond any metallic blade technology could devise. Volcanic glass seemed never to go dull. He was damned lucky to be alive. Once his suit was breached, cold must have replaced heat in seconds and he’d gone into hypothermia. They must’ve acted fast to save him. Gordon. It had to be Gordon’s doing. Now he owed the big, somber man even more. His breath leaked out in a long sigh. He could never speak of it, much less act on the horribly incorrect things he felt. To do so would be a piss poor way to repay the older man’s steadfast loyalty and support. Chances were he didn’t feel the same way at all and would be horrified if he knew. About that moment, Bard registered several things in a rush. The strong arms that held him close were those of his hero, his… He had no word to give to what he felt. But undeniably it was Gordon’s solid body pressing close behind him—and Gordon’s stiff prick between his buttocks! Oh. My. God. It was and the other man was hard as a pole of the Gelada ice, but a whole lot hotter. And it felt so damn good. It took all Bard’s will not to wiggle his butt back as close as he could get or reach back to grasp that big, solid cock and guide it into him. Instead, he pretended to be still unaware, lying stiff and unresponsive while first someone on his left and then Gordon slithered out the bag. Gordon started checking his wounds, and then Dick Morris came in and dressed those that were apparently the worst. After he heard Dick leave and the small 12

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sounds Gordon made as he pulled a canteen out of his suit, he began to stir and then groan a little. He didn’t have to fake the pain—he hurt all over. They all carried canteens in inner pockets of their suits, the only place water did not freeze solid. He heard the splash as Gordon poured some into a plasteel cup and set it atop one of the heaters. When it boiled he’d add the dehydrated mix to make soup. After that, Bard opened his eyes and rolled to face the other man. “Thanks, bud. I know you had to take charge. Nobody else could have done so much so fast. And if you hadn’t, I’d be dead.” His voice came out in a ragged croak. The big man jumped at the sound. “Ba..er…cap’n. You’re gonna make it. Hell, man, you scared us all shitless out there. Fucking wasps came outta nowhere and they all jumped on you. Sliced your suit to rags in about ten seconds. You were cut some, but Dick said none of them look dangerous. It was the cold that almost got you.” “I know. Sharing heat is about the only way to pull a person out of that kind of hypothermia. I owe you my life.” A tumble of other words wanted to burst free, too, but he held them back. Gordon glanced at him just once, anguish keen in his expressive gaze. “Did what needed done,” he muttered. “Can you eat a little?” “I think so.” Shifting, Bard tried to lever himself up with one arm. He couldn’t do it. He was as weak as a newborn. “Lay still,” Gordon ordered, speaking with a growl in his 13

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tone. “I’ll help ya in a minute.” He mixed the soup, stirred it a few times and turned to Bard. With one arm, he raised Bard’s shoulders from the pallet and held him, while bringing the cup to his mouth with the other. “Just sip until we make sure you can keep it down.” Bard nodded his acquiescence before he took one cautious sip and then another. The warm broth felt good, soothing and heating as it slid down his throat. He felt the warmth spread as he took more, as it began to puddle in his stomach and warm him from the inside out. Another warmth spread from the solid support of Gordon’s arm behind his back. Too soon the cup was empty and both comforts were withdrawn at the same time. He felt abandoned and bereft, as if the cold were overtaking him again. “Don’t go…” Gordon flashed him a look, half exasperation and half something else, something Bard didn’t dare try to decipher. “I’m not going anywhere—we put your tent and mine together here. Where would I go? I’m going to make you some more soup. Dick said you needed to get some food and heat inside you. You’re still fighting to keep your body temperature up.” Two more cups of soup later, Bard began to feel drowsy, but it was a natural weariness, not the sudden blacking out the cold brought on. “Still not warm,” he muttered, “but better. Just don’t have any strength.” “It’ll take a few hours,” Gordon said. “Think of it as coming back from the doorstep of death. That’s a long, cold march.” 14

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Bard nodded as he slipped into a hazy, dozing state. He knew when Gordon crawled back into the joined sleeping bags a little later, but it was more a deep inner knowledge than an actual mental awareness. *

*

*

Gordon had waited, watched Bard drift back into slumber, but this time it was a healthy sleep and not the frightful mock death of hypothermia. He hesitated, knowing Brad needed both the sleeping bags to protect him in his current fragile state, knowing that even more warmth would help…and yet not trusting himself. Being so close yet keeping his hunger in check would be the hardest battle he’d ever fought. Could he do it? With a slow, exhaled breath, he peeled off his outer suit, but kept the liner on when he turned the heaters down a couple of notches and slid back into the combined bags. Bard made a slight sound and turned onto his side, edging closer to Gordon once he settled into place. ::Gawd, Bard. You’re killing me. Do you have any idea what a struggle I’m going through here? I never thought we’d be this close, not ever. Likely we may never be again, but I’d be taking unfair advantage, wouldn’t I?:: He didn’t speak the tormented words aloud, but he had a distinct feeling that somehow, in some inner part of himself, Bard heard him. The captain shifted, one arm sliding back toward Gordon. Then his hand settled on Gordon’s thigh. It was too much. Gordon wrapped his right arm around Bard’s 15

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body and gathered the other man snugly against him. There was just one thin layer of fine silk-like fabric between their skins, between Gordon’s throbbing cock and its goal. Bard moved slightly, mumbled something. Gordon froze. “It’s all right, bud. I don’t mind.” Had he heard right? He didn’t dare ask. The slurred words might have been spoken in a dream, might not have been meant for him at all, much less the things he was thinking of doing… The smooth skin of Bard’s shoulder and neck, inches from Gordon’s face, drew him like a magnet. Before he could stop to think, he moved enough to press his lips against the closest spot—the curve where shoulder arched into neck, a somehow vulnerable spot, a tender yet sexy spot. Beneath the smooth, cool skin, he could feel the slow stir of blood and life. Even here in the frozen hell of Gelada, Bard smelled clean, no lurking musty odor like unwashed bodies and old sweat. There was a scent almost sweet, pure and fresh, like a pine forest or a mountain meadow on Bard’s skin and in his close-cropped hair. Gordon inhaled it, for a moment letting himself drift away to long-ago memories, a time before soldiering and a harsh life had taken his innocence and joy. Somehow Bard seemed to have kept his goodness, managed not to be sullied and warped by the politics, the violence and the stark, ugly realities of a fighting man’s existence. Maybe that was the measure of true aristocracy…the ability to hold on to something finer when your whole world fell to pieces around you. At any rate, those were the qualities that had drawn Gordon from the day 16

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Captain Welstaad had assumed command of the unit, now almost two standard years ago. Gordon’s lips explored farther, testing and tasting the texture of Bard’s neck, the shape of his ear, the stubble along the side of his jaw. Gordon’s hand splayed across the other man’s flat abdomen. He felt the solid muscle, then traced the line of hair that marched down Bard’s chest, past his belly button and on to his groin. Its texture was crisp but not wiry, and although he couldn’t see, Gordon knew the color would be brown lit with glimmers of copper and gold like the rest of Bard’s hair. Ever so slowly his hand quested lower. He found the thatch of thicker hair and then the warm shaft that came alive at once to his hesitant touch. Suddenly he knew Bard was not asleep, not even playing possum anymore. At that moment, Bard’s hand also shifted. He found Gordon’s cock, pressed his palm against it through the soft fabric, rubbed its length. Gordon gulped back a groan as that caress reverberated through his whole body. Every cell, from his toes to the top of his scalp, came to tingling life in an instant. They couldn’t do this. Someone could come to check on them any moment or the wasps could attack or…but there was no way in deep freeze hell that he could deny himself this time. It might only be once—it could only be once—but he would have it to remember for the rest of his life. Yes, oh, God, yes. “I haven’t been so damned scared in ten years,” Gordon admitted in a whisper against Bard’s shoulder. “We—I came 17

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so close to losing you before I had the chance to tell you how much I love you. Yeah, I know I have no right, no reason even, but I do.” “I can’t believe it, not yet, that you’d feel that way. You’ve been my rock, my support, the one thing I could count on ever since I took over this outfit. It took a while for me to see just how things were, but I realized soon enough. I broke the cardinal rule of the Uni-Fleet—a commander never singles out one subordinate. But it happened and there’s no way I could undo it.” Bard exhaled a deep near-sigh. “Not that I wanted to, deep down. I’ve needed you, needed the anchor my feelings for you provided. We may not have another chance, and we may live to regret taking this one, but it’s ours. I’m asking you not to waste it.” The catalytic heaters gave off a little light, but other than that, the tent was dark, an island of safety and comfort in the midst of the frozen horror. Bard pulled half-free of Gordon’s embrace and rolled to face him. They lay face to face, arms and legs tangling and their breath mingling as their faces came within a whisper of a touch. “Gord, my God, I’ve dreamed of this a hundred…no, a thousand times. I never thought I’d live to see it become real.” “You never let on, didn’t give me even one hint. If I’d guessed…” “We’d both be out in disgrace because only by trying to hide it from each other did we maintain control and the proper degree of separation.” “But that way we wouldn’t be here, struggling through this 18

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damned, ice-bound Hades. There’s no way to know if we’ll both get out of here alive, Cap’n—er, Bard. If I have to go on without you…” His voice broke, the thought too painful to contemplate. “But we have tonight.” Gordon felt Bard shift the infinite bit closer until his mouth came against Gordon’s. Bard’s lips still felt cool, but tasted of the salty broth he’d consumed. Gordon traced across them with the tip of his tongue, tested the seam and slipped inside when Bard opened to him. A dizzying spiral of heat flashed from his tongue to his cock. The suit liner he wore seemed unbearably confining. He could feel the moist warmth of Bard’s cock, pressing against his belly, searching for haven and comfort. Then Bard’s hands got busy with the hook and loop fasteners, ripping them apart, the sound shockingly loud in the silence. The crotch panel came open and Gordon’s cock sprang free, surging into the clasp of Bard’s waiting hand. Bard muffled Gordon’s groan with his mouth, swallowing the soul-deep sound. He stroked a time or two before slipping his hand down to fondle Gordon’s balls, hefting and rolling them with the most gentle yet stimulating caress. Gordon almost stopped breathing, the sensation was so intense, so compelling. For some time they lay without speaking, exploring each other’s bodies with hands hesitant yet eager, testing for the most sensitive places, the differences between their two very masculine yet dissimilar forms. They might almost have been 19

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of different species, yet a common sensitivity of spirit made them kin. Gordon descended from Highland Scots and a few rebel Irish. He was big and raw-boned, with a hard, angular face that looked graven from granite in a crude yet not unpleasant way. Heavy, near-black hair grew thick on his body, almost a pelt, an inherited protection against the damp chill of a far away homeland. He had fled the poverty-stricken world on which his people had been settled and found a home of sorts in the Uni-Fleet. Fifteen years now, shuttling from one remote planet to another as the Uni-Council solidified their empire and their hold on the known universe. He had all but lost contact with the remnants of family that still lived. The fleet was his family. It was enough—until the new captain took over his unit. Bard came from a Germanic race of old Terra, aristocrats when Gordon’s people had lived little better than animals in the harsh remote regions left to the Celts in that long-ago place and time. Military traditions were bred in his bones, fine and strong bones that they were. His face was fine as well, ice blue eyes set deep on either side of a keen blade of a nose, with the face of an artist or an aesthete, not a soldier, yet a fine soldier he was in spite of that. Gordon lacked the schooling to understand some of Bard’s obscure literary allusions, but he was an avid reader when time allowed and his level of knowledge had grown much during the time he had served. Once Bard caught Gordon reading, the officer began to slip him digitized books when he could, 20

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encoded chips that would play in the devices they all wore that served as comm links, rule books and much more. Only here on Gelada they didn’t work well. But there was no time to read anyway. All of Bard’s small kindnesses ran through Gordon’s mind now. They lay together, touching each other reverently and with love, letting out the long-banked tender feelings for which soldiering had no time or place. Their pricks dueled briefly and then found shelter between each other’s thighs, slipping back and forth in a slow dance of arousing friction.

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CHAPTER 3 In spite of knowing they could be interrupted at any moment, in spite of fearing that this would be the only time they’d ever have, they didn’t rush. This shared interlude out of time was too precious to meet with haste. They had to savor every second of it, and they did. Bard ran his hands slowly over as much of Gordon’s body as he could reach. He traced the scars of old wounds, mapped the hard muscle and harder bone beneath that, felt the coarse hair on Gordon’s chest against his questing palms. Beneath hair and skin and bone, Gordon’s heart beat a strong, steady rhythm that throbbed through Bard’s being, while his own seemed to alter to match it. Somehow none of it seemed 22

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strange or even new. How many times in dreams had he done just this? How had he known in those dreams exactly how it would be? Only reality was better. He dipped one hand lower again and found Gordon’s dick, thick and hot to his touch. He drew it out of its shelter between his own thighs and cradled it for a moment. The heartbeat felt even stronger here, throbbing against his clasp. “What do you want me to do?” His words emerged in a hoarse whisper, taut and urgent. “I was about to ask you that,” Gordon replied. “Anything you want, I’ll try to do…anything. It’s been a long time—I had a lover when I was young, back home. We were both just kids, but we learned with each other. Since then, I never really wanted anyone. Oh, yeah, I visited the whores sometimes on liberty, but that wasn’t any better than jacking off by myself. About as good as fucking a bucket of lard.” Bard had to chuckle at that image, disgusting as it was. “Oh, man, that desperate? Well, it’s been a while for me, too. And I’d have to agree about the whores. Most of them, no matter how skilled they are, are so cold, so—empty, I guess. Like no one’s home in their heads, their hearts. Don’t get me wrong…I like sex as well as the next guy, but if there’s some feeling with it, it’s so much better.” Gordon nodded, and when he spoke again, his tone was somber. “You’ll get it with feeling from me, Bard. I couldn’t hold that back even if I tried.” He reached down between them and caught Bard’s cock in his big, hard hand. “I want to suck this. Taste you and feel you come apart in my mouth.” 23

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The two sleeping bags were confining, but they both knew it was too cold to crawl out of their shelter. Bard lowered one of the zippers to give them a little more room. Then Gordon crawled around to get his head level with Bard’s crotch, the bag still draped over most of his body. He clasped Bard’s dick near the base and held it steady while he brushed first lips and then tongue across the tip, already slick with pre-cum. An urgent shudder pulsed through Bard’s body at that touch. “Yeah, oh, yeah. I’ll give you about a week to quit that!” A few more licks and Gordon took the head and then a good half the shaft into his mouth. The heat, the slow friction as he bobbed his head in a gentle rhythm, the connection of it. Oh man, oh God, this is so good. At first Bard didn’t realize the groan of delight came from his throat. Sound did not carry too well in Gelada’s constant howling wind, but he couldn’t risk it. He jammed his fist against his mouth to stifle any more sounds. Out of practice or not, Gordon knew how to give an extraordinary blow job. He knew just when to pick up the rhythm, when to pause and swirl his tongue around the groove beneath the head to tickle every one of those nerve buds into feverish excitement, when to relax his throat and take Bard as deep as he could go. The pressure built in a tightening coil of ecstasy so intense it almost hurt. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He came in an explosive rush, spilling into Gordon’s mouth. The other man didn’t withdraw, but stuck with him until the last shuddering pulse ebbed away. 24

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Bard rested his hand for a moment on Gordon’s shoulder and then pressed it against his stubbled cheek. “That was amazing. Now I want you to fuck me.” Gordon hesitated. “Are you sure? I’m big, and we don’t have any lubrication.” “Yeah, we do. Your mouth is still pretty juicy, isn’t it? Rub some of that on your cock and it’ll be fine.” He rolled over as he spoke, shifting to point his ass in Gordon’s direction. When Gordon grasped Bard’s hips, the clasp was not quite steady, but his dick clearly knew where it wanted to go. Bard relaxed, opening as much as he could to the blunt probing. He knew Gordon had been stone-hard all night. The older man could no more stop now than fly. Bard sensed the other man’s urgency in the faint tremors he felt as Gordon wrapped Bard close in his arms and slid in, a tight fit but not painful, not painful at all. In, almost out and in again, a slow slide that gave Bard time to adjust to the pressure. He didn’t need much more of that. “Come on, man,” he urged. “Let go. I can take it. I want this. I asked for it. Fuck me, and do it right.” That was all the inducement Gordon needed. He unleashed his tightly held control and gave in to his need, driving hard and fast into Brad’s ass until he came with an explosive burst. He muffled his triumphant groan against Bard’s shoulder. After that, they lay spooned together for a while, both relaxed and drifting on the afterglow. Gordon’s cock softened and finally slid free, but he continued to hold Bard close. As 25

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much as he hated to, Bard knew they’d better separate soon, take the two sleeping bags apart and give the appearance they’d slept that way the night through. Someone was bound to look in on them before long. Finally Bard broke the comfortable silence before they both went to sleep. “We’d better get these two bags apart and make things look good. We don’t need to be picked up and sent back to headquarters in disgrace.” Gordon blew out a harsh breath. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ve been lucky so far. Guess it isn’t smart to push that luck. Thanks, man, for keeping your brain in gear through all this.” He pressed his lips against Bard’s bare shoulder for a moment and then let go of him. Bard felt cold at once, but he helped to separate the sleeping bags, dug a suit liner out of his kit and put it on, then zipped into his bag alone. His lingering elation ebbed to leave a soul-deep sadness. One shared night would never be enough, but it was probably all they were going to have. As thankful as he was for that one gift, the pain of impending loss cut him to the depths. For a moment he almost hoped he would not make it to the rendezvous point and have to go on from there. Pretending none of this had ever happened was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done. *

*

*

They’d separated and settled down just in time. The faint brightening that heralded morning soon had the rest of the unit stirring. First one and then another of the soldiers poked a 26

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head into the tent. “What do we do now, Sarge? Is the cap’n going to be able to move today?” Bard answered for himself. “I’m a little shaky still, but we need to move. I may need some help, one of you on either side of me, but we’ll press on. Staying here much longer is risking another attack, maybe worse this time. Everyone get some hot food in you and then pack up. We’ll move out in half an hour.” Fortunately, he was one of the smaller men in the unit. With his own spares and borrowed bits and pieces of uniform from some of the others, he put together enough of an insulated suit to provide the protection he needed. Some of the parts hung on him, but that was all right. He could still move and the extra air space just provided a bit more insulation. With Gordon on his right and one of the corporals on his left, they moved out. He tried not to lean on either man too much, but the two steadying arms were very welcome. It took all he could give to move one booted foot in front of the other and press on into the angry teeth of the wind. They forged on in that manner for three more days, mercifully spared any more wasp attacks. The command ship, claiming to have plotted their location, said they’d be at the rendezvous point in two more days’ march. In their bivouacs, they followed the old rule of different men bunking together each night. Perhaps that long-term custom was intended to discourage any untoward intimacy. Bard had no idea, but he didn’t dare go against it, as badly as he longed to spend 27

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another night with Gordon. By unspoken agreement, Bard and Gordon both worked not to betray, by word or deed how their relationship had changed. Whether they succeeded or not, he had no idea, but he didn’t catch any sly sidelong looks or questioning glances from the rest of the men. Still, what might happen when they did reach the rendezvous haunted him. In spite of his fears, he drove on, compelled by a sense of urgency that grew stronger each day. Several of the men were showing signs of frostbite and they were all beginning to lose focus and edge as the brutal cold continued to erode their energy and gnaw away at judgment and alertness. In the end, the weather was still the worst enemy they faced. There were a few more hit and run attacks by the wasps, but the unit stayed close together and repelled them with little damage. Tragedy struck on what should have been the final day. One minute they were stumbling forward, almost blinded by stinging, crystallized snow blowing in their faces, and the next they were sliding and tumbling into a crevasse that opened abruptly in front of them, unseen until it was too late. The last few of the band managed to stop in time, the only hope the unit had of possibly getting out of the icy death-trap with all their members. Bard was in that trailing group of five men. Gordon was not. In the blizzard, there was no way to gauge how deep the crevasse went. It appeared to be about two meters wide, which would make getting across or around it a challenge, even if no one had fallen in, but twenty of the remaining members of the 28

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unit had fallen. Looking down, Bard could see most of them, clinging to protruding snags of ice, perhaps rocks with ice over them. Visibility was too poor to identify which men were where. Bard set the four men still topside with him to work in deliberate haste. They pounded pins into the ice, rigged ropes and set up the best rappelling points they could. Each set of pins would have to hold the weight of two men as one went down and two came back, if those below had avoided injury enough to help haul themselves up. One by one they retrieved the fallen. Most were not badly injured, but there was a broken arm, dislocated shoulder, sprained ankle and plenty of bruises. Suits had sustained some damage as well, which was the biggest concern since a compromised suit meant entry of the deadly cold. Within an hour they had fifteen of the fallen members back up, most of them settled in double tents to warm up while Dick Morris, who had been lucky enough not to fall, tended to the injured. Gordon was not one of the fifteen. Early darkness was starting to fall, making the spotting of and descents to the last five men more difficult. A chill of dread settled in Bard’s belly and would not budge. :: Hang on, man. I’ll get you back. Don’t let go, don’t give up.:: He had no idea if the big sergeant heard his urgent plea, but he had to hope. At least down in the gap, the wind was not much of a problem. Their lanterns were not the best, but shone a hundred feet or so once they were beneath the wind-driven, 29

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gritty snow. Bard strapped a light over his headgear and snapped into a harness to go down. The other men were tiring, and he hadn’t made the descent yet. It was his turn. He’d find Gordon or die trying. The first man he found was John Fordham. The junior sergeant had grown weak with the cold, but was able to help some to hoist himself to the rim. Using geared ascenders, they edged slowly up the supporting ropes, harnessed together. Once John was safe in the hands of the others, Bard went down again, shining his light in slow arcs, searching. Nothing. No one. Not a single betraying shadow of a body draped over an icy spur or ledge. He’d been down almost the agreed upon time. No one on the rescue effort was allowed to be down for more than half an hour. Once that time elapsed, those on top would begin to haul him back, assuming he might have been hurt or run out of strength to continue to maneuver. He had about five minutes left. Then his light penetrated a hollow, a ledge beneath a beetling brow of ice. The white suit barely contrasted with the faint blue cast of the ice, but the shadow of a bulky shape looked enough out of place to catch his eye. Bard made his way along the face, swinging out and then in again like a pendulum, edging closer to the fallen man. It had to be Gordon. No one else had the same bulk. It seemed to take forever to get there, but in reality only a couple of minutes elapsed. The bigger man was unconscious. Bard refused to consider the possibility he might be dead or so far gone in hypothermia 30

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that he might as well be. Working in clumsy haste, he rigged a harness around the other man’s inert shape. Once he had Gordon linked to the ropes, he gave three sharp jerks on his line and then simply held on, unable to make the ascender work against their combined weight. Gordon was the heaviest man in the unit. The ascent seemed to take forever. All he could do was hold on, try to steer Gordon’s body clear of major obstacles so his suit would not be damaged any more and pray. He saw one of the others going down again a few meters to his left, They were still missing three, but hopes of finding them were fading fast. The crevasse seemed bottomless. At least his light would not penetrate to the depths of it. They’d come down about as far as their ropes would allow, too. He could not weep. His eyes would freeze shut in an instant, but he wanted to. Instead, he cursed the power structure that sent men on such insane missions, senseless quests, used them like expendable equipment and discarded those who fell without remorse or sympathy. In that dark moment, he vowed to resign his commission if he made it out alive. He’d had all he would endure of this. I’ll lead no more men to their deaths. There’re already far too many ghosts on my conscience. And that’s just the dead friends. Now there’ll be more. If there is a God, Gordon will not join their ranks. Weary and fearful as they all had to be, many willing hands reached to take Gordon and help Bard when he got to the brink. They’d joined forces to heave on the ropes and bring comrades out of the bowels of this frozen Hades. Now 31

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they rushed Gordon into a waiting shelter, stripped off his abraded suit and hovered close while Dick Morris examined him for injuries. The big sergeant had a broken leg and maybe some ribs as well. Dick didn’t have the instruments to see beneath the skin and verify this, but he said several indications pointed to it. Bard hovered, too, aching in every muscle, cold to the bone, but he could not see to his own care until he knew how Gordon was and then the others who had been injured. In a decision that sealed the death warrants on the men they hadn’t found, Bard told the rest not to go down again. They were too near exhaustion and running short on food to help them build back the energy they needed to march the rest of the way to the rendezvous point and fight off the cold. They huddled in for the night, three to a doubled shelter in most cases, drawn close for comfort and warmth, and the feeble security they might gather from one another. After he had seen the unit bedded down, everyone having consumed at least a cup or two of soup with the high energy powder added, he finally ate, then shrugged off his mismatched insulating suit and dragged his weary frame into a sleeping bag, sharing a tent with Dick and Gordon. He thought sleep would never come as he tried to come to terms with this latest catastrophe. How would they get Gordon to safety? Could they find a way around the crevasse or a spot where it narrowed enough to be crossed? How, why, what… where… when… He lost the train of thought as sleep claimed him. 32

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CHAPTER 4 Gordon awoke to a sensation of motion. At first he had no idea where he was. Every breath hurt as if the snow wasps’ blades were slicing into his chest. His right leg throbbed with a dull, steady ache and the jolting motion added to his misery. Where am I? What’s happening? The cobwebs in his mind cleared by slow degrees, finally returning enough clarity he could recognize he swung in some kind of litter, apparently borne by four of the members of the unit. They’d rigged something with sleeping bags and shelters to protect him and carry him. Why was he not walking, though? Then he recalled the fall, the shocking jolt of pain when he 33

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landed on a jagged ledge that broke his fall, but also broke his body. Somehow they had dragged him up and out of that hellish hole. How many others had been similarly saved? He’d been in the first rank, three moving abreast. Suddenly the surface had vanished from beneath their feet, too abruptly for them to react in time. They fell, and others coming behind did, too. He recalled muffled yells, screams of pain when some hit and of terror when others just kept falling. Shutting his eyes and trying to shut his mind did not help. He’d remember the horror of it until he died. He had to doubt all of them had been saved, and the thought brought a sick pain, even worse than that of his injuries. Then another troubling question arose. Where’s Bard? He’d thought the captain was near the rear, urging the men along and making sure none fell behind, even as exhaustion and the deadening cold dragged them down. Had he managed not to fall? Gordon prayed to all the saints and martyrs and ancestors that Bard had avoided the crevasse. As far as he could tell, the unit was marching on in an orderly way, indicating someone was in charge. If not Bard, then who had the strength and courage to maintain the unit’s order and discipline? He doubted John Fordham could do it, but sometimes adversity drove a man beyond the limits he set for himself or those others imposed on him. Gordon couldn’t concentrate long enough to follow any of his questions to a logical conclusion. Some inner sense told him Bard was with them. Holding that comfort to him, he let himself drift off. He fell into a fitful doze, a hazy grayness clouding his 34

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thoughts and dulling his pain. He wasn’t quite asleep, but close enough everything seemed dim and distant. He could almost sense his spirit hovering over his aching body, held to it by the thinnest thread of connection. If he severed that gossamer cord, he’d be free. No more pain or cold and no more ache of a love he must deny and ignore. It would be so easy… But he couldn’t quite do it. *

*

*

Bard stumbled along, pacing beside Gordon’s litter, moving in an automatic way, with barely a sense of where he was. They’d found a spot where the crevasse narrowed to less than a meter and managed to cross it. Then they forged on, while he kept praying they’d come to the rendezvous point before strength and courage utterly failed. They were all running on empty. He wasn’t sure how he kept going, much less the rest of the men. He drove himself to get Gordon to safety. That was really the only purpose he could hold to now. What mission had possibly been accomplished by the unit’s trek up this icebound peninsula? He could not even imagine. They’d killed some snow wasps, but there was really no way to tell how many, and lost a total of eight men. They hadn’t even been able to map the route because of the limited visibility and lack of any clear landmarks. What’s the bloody fucking sense of it? Sometime in mid-afternoon, they stumbled into the large base camp before they even realized it. Bard looked around as the fact finally penetrated his fogged mind. The rendezvous. 35

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We made it. Too weary for exultation, the men staggered into the nearest prefab shelter, which turned out to be the one housing the base headquarters. Inside, they found warmth, light and an absence of the incessant wind. The litter bearers eased Gordon’s litter to the floor, along with those of two others seriously injured who’d also been carried. Then they collapsed, deflating like empty parachutes. The crew at the base camp gathered quickly, bore the injured off to the hospital hut and helped the rest to food, beds and unexpected blessed comfort. Bard forced himself to report to the commander of the camp, a lieutenant-colonel of the Fleet Marines, who he’d known slightly on another assignment. It took all he could summon to relate an even half-coherent story, but he did his best. As if the senior officer sensed the captain before him was running on his last fragile fragments, operating on sheer will, the colonel dismissed him. “Go get some rest, Captain. Some of the other units should be showing up soon. Yours is the second one in. Once they all report, we can take stock of where we are and what we’ll do next. You’re in sore need of some sleep and food. Get it. That’s an order.” An orderly led Bard off to a small mess hall, where he managed to slurp up some hot soup and then on to the officers’ barracks, along a tunnel-like passage. He wanted to go check on Gordon, but that would not be wise. He didn’t have the energy to follow up on all the men, he knew. To only check on one, even if he was the most seriously injured, would 36

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be the wrong thing to do. Tomorrow…he’d do it tomorrow. He was asleep almost before his head hit the bunk. *

*

*

Upon waking and cleaning himself up enough to look halfhuman, the first thing Bard did was seek directions to the infirmary. Before he got there he was limping, suddenly aware his feet felt like blocks of wood, numb and yet painful. He ignored the distress, bent on finding out the status of all his troops. He asked for Gordon first. After all the big man had been his second-in-command and had suffered serious, possibly even life-threatening injuries. The corpsman at the main desk glanced down, slipped a record chip into his ’puter brick and read off the screen. “Sergeant Farrell’s been evac’ed, sir. The mother ship sent a shuttle down earlier this morning and took Sergeant Farrell and two others up top. They’ve got facilities to regenerate frostbitten tissue and do a lot that we can’t here. If the three men can be saved, it wouldn’t happen here. We can treat minor things, but nothing like that—internal injuries compounded by frostbite and exhaustion.” Bard realized the two other gravely injured men they’d carried in had also been evac’ed. At least they’d have a chance. Once he learned none of the others were deemed in imminent danger, he turned to go, stumbling on feet growing steadily number. The corpsman stepped around his makeshift desk and grabbed Bard by the arm. “Wait a minute, sir. What’s wrong 37

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with you? You aren’t walking right.” Bard didn’t resist when another man appeared and shoved a chair up behind him. He sank onto the welcome support and watched them as they unlaced his boots, peeled off the liners and then his socks. Feeling like a detached spectator, he looked down at his feet, red and oozing with some spots stark white and some already turning black. “You should’ve come in at once, sir. You got frostbite… bad.” One of the troopers scurried away and returned with a doctor. The medic took one look at Bard’s feet and shook his head. “Captain, you should’ve been on that shuttle with the others. Why didn’t you come in last night?” Bard had no answer. He knew his feet hadn’t felt right, but he’d been too close to brain dead to think about why. He shrugged. “Didn’t realize how bad they were,” he mumbled. Although he’d slept a good ten hours, he was still operating in a fog. It got steadily more dense and impenetrable as he sat, listening to the voices that seemed to come from a growing distance, aware of pain and building nausea, yet somehow apart from it all. A few more minutes and everything faded into emptiness. *

*

*

It was over a standard month later that the expedition ship UFS Alan Shepherd settled into orbit over the Uni-Fleet main base on Titan. A parade of shuttles took the crew down to the 38

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surface, bringing back the maintenance personnel who’d go over the massive craft from stem to stern before it set off on a new mission. Two weeks in re-gen and a massive infusion of drugs had done their job. Gordon Farrell was back on his feet, ribs and leg healed and only a memory of frostbite, falling and frozen Gelada. He still felt tired, dull and weary, but the medical staff assured him a good R&R would take care of that. He just needed to go on leave to a sunny, pleasant place for thirty days and he’d be ready to go again. He didn’t agree. It was time to leave the fleet. He had twenty-two years of service and there was not one reason to re-enlist. He’d made a few discreet inquiries, but no one knew where Captain Welstaad was, or if they did, they weren’t telling. That worry added to his malaise. Had the captain made it off Gelada? Could he have been on the Shepherd all this time? Might he even now be on one of the shuttles sinking rapidly toward Titan’s blue surface? I think somehow I’d know if he was dead, if he didn’t make it. Gordon had to believe that or go stark mad for the want of any factual information. It would be enough just to know the other man had lived and was all right. I don’t have to see him, much less speak to him, but I’ve gotta find out. And then I’m gonna put in for my retirement. The shuttle docked then, the hatch opened and the restless men aboard began to jostle their way off, crowding down the linkway to the main port. Gordon shuffled with them, trying to mute his anxiety. He had to go through the required debriefing 39

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and processing before he could go on liberty or do any personal business. He was in no hurry, was he? Not really, at least not to leave the main base. From their talk, most of his comrades could not wait to go enjoy the temptations of Quaydeshaar or one of the other resort worlds. None of the normal carousing, gambling and whoring held any appeal for him. He’d never been all that impressed with the things most of the fighting men called fun, but now they seemed almost repulsive. Although in many ways it seemed more like a dream than a real happening, the time he’d shared with Bard lingered in his mind. That memory was too precious to be tainted by newer and less heartfelt sex. He was not quite sure where he’d go once he mustered out. The fleet had been his home for all his adult life. His childhood had been spent in savage, raw poverty on a ragtag world where rebellious Celts had been shipped, a bit like the penal Australia of long ago Terran infamy. There was nothing for him there. He decided it didn’t matter. Any place he could find an isolated corner to crawl into, a remote nook where he could hang out and just exist for the rest of his allotted time would be all right. *

*

*

On two feet renewed by the re-gen treatment, Bard made his way off the shuttle. Back on Titan again, where he’d begun his career with the basic training all junior officers had to complete almost ten years ago. He’d learned Gordon and several of the other members of his unit had been aboard the 40

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Shepherd on its trek home, but he hadn’t even tried to see them. A lethargy gripped him, one he could not shake or ignore. If he could just hang on long enough to put in his papers to resign his commission. After that, he really didn’t care. He could die or lose his mind or become a vegetable and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. The old military tradition of hurry up and wait still prevailed in the Uni-Fleet, more so at headquarters than off in the remote outposts. How in the name of all holy can they still require men to stand in line for hours only to put a thumbprint on a touch screen to release their pay? Why should it take hours to accomplish each of a dozen other tasks readily handled electronically with data flowing from each person’s ID chip and wrist unit direct to the mainframes monitoring and managing everything that went on? It must be a ploy to enforce discipline, Bard decided. He found himself praying once he returned to civilian life, he’d be free of all this. If I never stand in another line, it’ll suit me just dandy. The long periods of waiting sapped his strength still further. Four days into the ordeal of processing out, he almost gave it up as too damn much trouble. The only thing was, he was now neither fish nor fowl, not in the service anymore, and yet not out of it either. There was no going back. He had to finish the job. Finally, it was all over. He was no longer Captain Welstaad, but simply Mr. Bardon Welstaad, civilian, standing in one final line to get aboard the transport Deliverer which would, in time, deliver him back to his home world of 41

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Valhalla, one of the planets orbiting Aldebaran. Two parallel lines inched along, as one after another the passengers cleared security and moved aboard to their assigned seats and compartments. Bard never knew what made him glance across at the other line, hardly more than an arm’s length away. But he did. He glanced and then looked back, suddenly coming to total attention. The big man looked different out of uniform, but Bard would know Gordon Farrell anywhere from the gates of hell to paradise’s portal. It took a moment to make his voice work. “G…g…gordon? That is you, isn’t it?” Gordon’s head whipped around so quickly Bard could almost hear his neck pop. For an instant he stared, as if unable to believe what his vision reported. “Bard. Oh, Lord, you’re alive, and you must be out, too. Am I seeing things, or is it really you?” They each moved a half-step out of line, holding their places while coming close enough to reach across and clasp hands. An urgent jolt of pure energy leaped across between them at the first touch. Bard’s right hand almost disappeared in Gordon’s left, engulfed in the big man’s grasp. “Where are you heading?” they both asked at the same time, then stopped, grinning like a pair of fools. “I’m supposed to go to Valhalla. That’s where my family is, most of them. They aren’t going to be happy with me, not staying until retirement, but right now I don’t give a damn what they say. And you?” “I’ve got passage to Trebeck. It’s a relatively new world to 42

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council settlement, but sounded like a place I could live. I grew up on Derry Down, and that’s sure no place to go back to. I figure most of my kin is dead by now. The life expectancy there was about forty years standard when I left at seventeen. I’d be an old man by their measure.” “I could change my destination,” Bard offered. “In fact, I think I’d like to. Turn on your comm unit. I’m going to text you the number of my compartment once I get everything changed. As soon as we get the all-clear after lift off, come on down. We can talk there in privacy. Unless you have one, too.” Gordon shook his head. “No. I saved my mustering out pay to try and get a home when I land. I just have a bunk/seat in economy class.” “Okay, I’ll look for you this afternoon.” Bard’s line was moving and he had to go with it or step aside and go back to change his destination. Gordon squeezed and released his hand. Suddenly he wasn’t tired any more or lethargic. Life had new meaning, hope and a destination for him.

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CHAPTER 5 At first Gordon didn’t recognize the emotions surging through him, All at once he felt light, a bit dizzy, something wild, wanton and wonderful singing through his veins. Then he found a name for it—happiness. The line, the wait no longer chafed. The next few hours would pass too slowly no matter what he did, but they would pass. And then… His pounding heart would not let him follow the line of thought much farther into a future rife with possibilities. He found his seat, strapped in, and tried to relax while the ship lifted off. Compared to troop transport, even economy class was pure luxury. The seat shifted to mold to his body, supporting him fully in the high-g force of lift off. The 44

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protective helmet had headphones, which poured forth soothing music with an option to turn on entertainment vids inside the goggles. He didn’t bother with that. Once the ship was clear of Titan’s gravity well, there was no sense of motion at all. A bevy of attractive young men and women moved among the passengers offering food and drink, small game and reading consoles, almost anything a person could possibly desire. Then the message came through that passengers could get up and move around the decks as they chose, except for a few areas that were off limits to all but the crew. That was the signal he had waited for. He almost shot from his seat. Glancing at the screen of his wrist comm, he double checked the number of Bard’s compartment. Seventeen B forty-two. He had to ask one of the attendants for directions. Moments later, he stepped off the elevator on the correct deck level and hurried down the wide corridor, scanning portal numbers as he went. Then one swung open as he approached. Bard stuck his head out, his face breaking into a wide smile when he saw Gordon. “I figured it was about time you got here. The all-clear was a good fifteen minutes ago!” Gordon let himself be dragged into the small room and waited until the door clicked shut behind him before he reached out to pull Bard into a crushing embrace. For long seconds they held onto each other, letting the wonder of it seep through their bodies, into their minds. “It’s okay,” Bard said. “It’s really okay. No more hiding, 45

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no more dread and fear and worry. This is really the first day of the rest of our lives, and I think we’re going to spend them together, aren’t we?” “Damn straight,” Gordon said, bringing his grin down to meet and mesh with Bard’s. They kissed for almost as long as they had embraced, taking time to savor the intimacy, the assurance no one would break in on them or challenge their right to be together. It felt so damn good. Almost too good to be true, but in time he figured he’d grow accustomed to it. Happiness—the feeling was so new and yet so incredibly wonderful. It was a better buzz than the best malt whiskey, a higher high than the finest hemp grown on Quaydeshaar. He’d never enjoyed anything like it. Still holding each other, they stumbled toward the inviting bed commanding one side of the compartment, suddenly both weak and dizzy with the intoxicating joy of being together. “I thought I’d lost you forever,” Bard said. “Back on Gelada, I learned they’d taken you up to the command ship. That told me what bad shape you were in. I know the re-gen and other things the medics use can work wonders, but I was still scared. I expected I’d never see you again. Then they found out my feet were almost gone to frostbite. I’d torn my boots going down that crevasse after you and never even realized it. That meant I got sent up top, too.” He took a deep breath. The intensity in his eyes was almost more than Gordon could stand. There was so much care there, so much remembered pain. “I was able to find out you were alive, but that was about 46

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all I could learn. By then we were heading back to headquarters anyway. At that point, I gave up. I’d made up my mind I was getting out, leaving the fleet, but I figured you’d be off to a new assignment before I could process out. All I could think of to want was just to crawl off and die quietly, alone.” Gordon felt himself nod, understanding on the deepest level. “I know. I couldn’t quite let myself commit suicide, but I sure wasn’t working very hard to stay alive. I picked a place to go and that took all the ambition I could summon. But then there you were this morning. I thought I was dreaming.” They fell onto the bed together, lying side by side and face to face. Their bodies pressed so close they seemed to share a heartbeat, breathe the same air. A few minutes of that and they began to find clothing an intolerable barrier. Four hands made short work of unfastening the more casual apparel of their new civilian lives. Shirts and trousers, shoes, socks and underwear scattered around the compartment to fall haphazard as tossed by impatient hands. “It’s not cold. It’s not confined. We don’t have to worry about anyone hearing or coming in unannounced. Is this heaven or what?” “Tir-nan-og,” Gordon agreed, naming the paradise of old Celtic folklore. Bard propped himself on one arm and looked at Gordon, the heat of his gaze as tactile as a touch. Then he followed that look with an actual touch, a slow slip of his palm from shoulder to pecs to abs and lower, fingers wrapping around 47

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Gordon’s dick, already rising in anticipation. “I’m going to love you all over,” he said. “And then probably go back and do it again.” Following words with action, he took Gordon’s cock in one hand and, at the same time, began to kiss and lick his way down Gordon’s torso from shoulder to hip bone. For a few moments Gordon lay still, passively absorbing his lover’s ministrations. At last he could stand it no longer. He had to take a more active role. When Bard reached his groin and pressed warm lips against the head of Gordon’s prick, he couldn’t remain unmoving. “Turn around, man. Kneel over me so I can taste you while you’re going down on me.” Bard hesitated a long few seconds until Gordon began to fear he’d refuse. The old habit of deferring to his commander was still too deeply ingrained to make demands, however badly he needed to give as well as take in this exchange. But no demand was necessary. Hardly lifting his head, Bard edged around until he straddled Gordon’s torso. That placed his balls and cock within easy reach of Gordon’s hands and made it a not-impossible reach for his mouth. He didn’t intend to bring Bard to a climax, but if he could tease him to the brink of it, that would be perfect. He stroked the velvet sheathed steel of Bard’s cock, feeling the powerful throb of blood pounding through its length. He cupped Bard’s sac and rolled the testicles gently between his fingers, and was rewarded with the other man’s sharply indrawn breath and the tremors in his muscled legs, 48

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pressed close to Gordon’s sides. Still, Bard continued to suck him, taking more and more of Gordon’s erection into his mouth, far more than he would have expected to be possible. The moist, heated cavern of Bard’s mouth cherished and tantalized him, Bard’s swirling tongue dancing along his most sensitive areas to send swarms of fireflies flashing through his veins. In another moment, he was going to explode. He paused in his caresses as the pressure built and everything else faded from his awareness. Then his climax burst forth, a hot gush of sticky cum flooding out a shuddering series of jolts that left him limp and trembling. Bard released Gordon’s cock, which subsided to lie limp between his thighs. He felt like he had been wrung out and spread to dry. “Oh, man, where did you learn to give a BJ like that?” Sitting back on his heels on the bed at Gordon’s side, Bard grinned like the proverbial Cheshire Cat. “Not too bad for an amateur, eh? I think I was really inspired.” Gordon wanted to sock him in the shoulder, grab him and press that grin into his sated but still sensitive flesh. But he was too trashed for the moment to do anything. “You wise-ass bugger, you. I don’t know what to say. How about if, as soon as I get my breath, I turn over so you can fuck me? You’ve still got a woody there.” Bard’s grin didn’t dim. “I could go for that. Any time you’re ready.” 49

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As he rolled onto his stomach and then heaved himself up onto his knees with his ass in the air, Gordon knew he was grinning like an idiot himself. If this was a fair preview, their new life on Trebeck was going to be hot enough to melt the polar icecaps, and after Gelada, hot sounded like the best thing since aged whiskey and freeze-dried hemp.

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DEIRDRE O’DARE

Deirdre O’Dare, who also writes milder (roughly PG-13 rated) romance as Gwynn Morgan, has loved reading and writing since early childhood. Writing came naturally to Deirdre/Gwynn, who scribed her first simple verse at age eight. An avid reader, she devoured hundreds of books while growing up and later as an adult. Somewhere along the way she found romance and then romance with more explicit and detailed love scenes. “Ah ha,” said she, “I think I have found my niche!” In the last decade after leaving her “day job” as a civilian employee of the U. S. Army, she finally settled into romantic fiction writing as a second career. Deirdre has a growing number of shorts and novellas, all published by Amber Heat. With Irish and Welsh ancestry on both sides of her family, Deirdre has always been enthralled by the history and customs of the Celtic peoples as they have come down to us. The Mother Goddess idea particularly resonates with her as well as the notion that physical expressions of love between consenting couples are both a divine gift and a sacred duty to honor the Mother. Deirdre admits her favorite heroes are cops, cowboys and Celts. *

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Don’t miss Treading Dangerous Ground, by Deirdre O’Dare, available at Amber-Allure.com!

Seasoned Starfleet officer Jayce Hightower takes care of his troops. That includes supporting green soldier Balt Donovan through his first exposure to combat. What Jayce has not expected, however, is that the striking young man will soon come to dominate his dreams, stirring unfamiliar and disturbing desires. Once Jayce learns Balt is similarly attracted to him, the situation starts to careen out of control, putting both of their careers in jeopardy. Jayce almost welcomes the hazardous assignment that sends him alone to a distant, dangerous world. But when Jayce’s mission is betrayed, Balt comes to his rescue. Will Jayce finally be able to accept the unconditional love Balt offers him?

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