Betrayal

A first-rate Glorious Heritage Class starship of the line and he still couldn't get water hot enough in the shower. Something he'd put Harper on, maybe; kid seemed to have a brilliant interface with the ship. My ship. I'd be jealous, if she were a woman. Dylan loaded his scrubber with the crisp-scented gel and worked it over his chest, spreading the suds in brisk circles. She's all mine, now. New crew. New Commonwealth. New start. He skimmed a handful of lather from his chest and smoothed it down his stomach, rubbing his fingertips through soap-slicked curls to slide and cup between his legs. At the comforting stroke his spirits, irrationally, rose. "I am a Captain of the Guard/ I am a rider of the universe...."

The door sounded and his hand tightened. Tyr?

Rommie announced Rev Bem. Not a guest he wanted to entertain in a towel, all due respect to his faith. He came out of the bathroom in rec pants and a robe, drying his hair. "Something I can help you with?" This was normally an hour for the Wayist's meditation. In fact, he could smell the incense on his coat.

"Merely a question. I wanted to access some of the library files but I seem to lack the necessary clearance." Rev crossed his arms in front of a still-bare patch on his ribs, a leftover from the guard station nastiness a few weeks back.

"Library files?" Flimsy excuse. He could smell a psych probe in the wind.

"Comparative religions; historical documents."

"High Guard training texts and Special Ops tactics. Rommie said you'd shown an interest." And sat up with him one night red-lining material to lock against casual access by the newcomers. He draped the towel around his shoulders and sat at the table. "Care to explain?"

Rev pulled up a chair and crouched in it, his eyes lowered. Dylan picked up most of his nonverbal clues from the Magog's eyes; a trans-species tendency that didn't always work. He wasn't sure whether the Rev was aware of it, or if he was showing deference. Whatever the case, Dylan decided this qualified as evasive behavior.

"Nothing sinister, to be sure. You have a wealth of information here, far beyond the limits of the Maru or even the archival net. Some of your directories list writings I thought had perished in the wars."

"Really? Where else have you searched for classified military protocols?" A pointed attack might drive him out of here before the obligatory dig into his mindset. He'd had enough reminiscing about Nietzschean treachery for the time being.

Another shift in the chair; then a direct and serene look. "The Wayist discipline is wide. Personally, I was curious about the philosophy of your service. The High Guard was the most successful military force the universe has known. And the most successful at maintaining peace."

Slippery answer, Rev. "You want to know about my training; what I'll do under attack."

"I want to know why your response to an anticipated takeover was threatening to blow up yourself, your ship, and your crew." The sustained gaze was disconcerting; such warm intelligence from a nightmare face. "You never warned us that you expected Tyr's betrayal, though we advised you his mission would fail. You never told us that you had initiated an overload that would kill us all. I thought you had instructed Andromeda to lie to the invaders and falsify readouts: but they were genuine. You actually planned...."

The slight raise in his spirits had evaporated. "I counted on Tyr to do exactly what he did. To have a backup plan that would get him out alive, and the ship as well. To protect his self interest."

"You risked our lives so casually on such an expectation. You could have warned us to evacuate the ship. You could have lied."

"This isn't a democracy." His skin prickled under the robe; he felt his pulse quicken and his vision narrow--a primal reaction to having his orders questioned. One he was reluctant to communicate; he leveled his voice. "The fact that it's you here asking this and not the rest of the crew speaks for itself. They know what was at risk."

"They think you planned it with Tyr. And respectfully, Captain, none of us have enlisted in the military." He lifted a hand to the table and stirred the bowl of go pebbles with a claw. Mixing black and white. "What do you fight for, Dylan?"

"You know what I'm fighting for. The mission. A renewed Commonwealth, a return to peace and law in the universe." A clean system, from the start. But that's not what you're digging after. "Something bigger than any individual."

"The mission. A very fine and laudable cause." He stirred, and the pebbles clicked and slid together. "Is that what you fought for before you lost your time? The idea of the Commonwealth?"

"It was my duty then and it's my responsibility now. Anything I can do, within my power, to set things right." Still the steady gaze. "What else did you expect?"

Rev Bem folded his hands in his lap. "I have spoken with a great many warriors in these troubled times. I've asked them the same question. And often enough, from the soldier or the revolutionary or even, the Divine knows, the monk, comes the same thing: I'm fighting for a purpose, an idea, a little piece of ground to gain. But as often, I hear another answer: I'm fighting for the person standing next to me, for my fellow in arms.

"I can't speak for Tyr. But for myself and the rest, we are fighting in part for your cause because your cause is you. Whether or not that is ultimately wise is in the hands of the Divine. But I ask you to understand and respect that feeling."

Dylan could appreciate this: he'd experienced the charisma of the Captaincy himself. It wasn't the discipline and respect indoctrinated in a real crew, but he could work with it. "Everyone on this ship--my crew--belongs to me. I'm not sacrificing anyone. You have to trust me to make decisions as I see fit." He recognized that expression as a frown.

"Surely among your former commands you had some close associations...."

"I had a best friend." He stood. "Detail the files you want and Andromeda will work up a clearance. Always good talking with you, Rev." He keyed open the door; after a scant moment, Rev Bem rose and bowed, then left.

Life meant routine: Manning the bridge. Meals. Exercise. Admin review and briefings, except there were no incoming reports, no mail, no orders, nothing to review but Rommie's daily summation. His regular go match and basketball game were off, with no one to play. The known universe was three weeks and four days gone to hell; he wondered how long it would be before he stopped keeping track. Still plenty to do: Repairs. Reading up on history and current events from the Maru databanks. Setting their course. And now, a minor problem to sort out with a crewman. He tugged down the bottom of his uniform jacket. "Engage privacy mode, Rommie," he ordered and keyed his code at the cabin door.

"You missed dinner again."

Tyr looked over the intruder in his doorway, then went back to his book: "I assure you, I won't starve."

Insular son of a bitch, Dylan thought, then censored himself: vicious insinuation to a Nietzschean. Tyr sat cross-legged under a spot lamp on the huge bed, ignoring him. Bare feet, a soft shirt, thighs packed round and tight in those leather pants.

"Three nights in a row. Trying to tell us something?" Damned if he was going to play games. He walked into the center of the cabin and planted himself, taking a good look around. Less furniture, rather more rugs than he remembered--private stock? How? The wall shelves were almost empty. Some solidly bound books, simple boxes; a knife and a silver cup. No pictures.

"How'd you end up in here? You were assigned the Second's quarters."

"I liked the tanks; Valentine didn't." Tyr looked up, finally, seeking Dylan's eyes. "And it's a big bed."

With you in it. Not interested. Not after one sleep-lagged, desperate tumble and two weeks of waiting for the Nietzschean to push for advantage. Not after the Orca fiasco. He turned his back on Tyr's questioning gaze and crossed to the long aquarium set into the opposite wall. "Fish."

"You didn't know they were here?"

"Haven't seen them in a while."

"Then whose room did you use?"

His back stiffened with irritation before he could caution himself against being read. He took up the bantering tone he knew annoyed. "Tactful as ever, Tyr. You're hunting down the wrong trail."

Tyr snorted. "Enlighten me."

"None of your damned business." The light from the tanks reflected blue on his hand. "What did you do with Rhade's things?"

"I pissed on them then built a little bonfire in the shower."

That brought his head around. Tyr's lip curled at his expression. "They're in storage somewhere. Ask Ship where she put them."

Ask why she didn't inform me. "Later. When there's time we'll look for heirs."

"And tell them what?" Tyr abandoned his book and stretched his arms. "I killed your ancestor when he betrayed the Commonwealth. Let's be friends. They'd slaughter you before you unpacked your souvenirs."

"You're a cynic, and I'm not an idiot. They'd want his honors, at least." He had a craving for a drink, for a little social cushion. Something to take the edge off, like old times. Not the brightest idea, all things considered.

Tyr grinned. "One medal. And his direct line is extinct." He rose from the bed and pressed past Dylan to pull a flexi from a drawer. "I checked myself: Dre-Weasel Pride. There might be some lateral descendents on a rock somewhere."

He didn't try to hide the shock, this time. "He had two wives; children."

"There was a war, remember? Millions of our people died." Tyr gave him another slow, assessing look. "You really didn't check? For descendents of this bosom 'friend'? For the enemies he might have bred?"

He didn't have the energy for this, tonight. Not in this room, not with this man. "You're the one hunting ghosts. He wasn't always an enemy." Just a Nietzschean, like you. "He was my first officer for three years. We were friends. We talked." He frowned. "We played go."

"And you're here to play games with me, too?" Tyr leaned against the wall, his legs crossed; a familiar pose that displayed his carved and tended body.

If you weren't such a son of a bitch. "I'm here because you've been avoiding the rest of the crew. You want a place on my ship, you work together; you find a way to get along." Message delivered. Time to go. He leaned closer to the heated front of the tanks, instead. An odd movement caught his eye. "What's in here?"

"Something special." Tyr closed in behind him and leaned an arm on the tank. Dylan caught the man's heat and scent. Within licking distance, he thought. Striking distance. Tyr smelled smoky; flinty; and of something subtler, darker, that haunted the edges of his memory. He swayed fractionally back, or Tyr stepped forward: flesh brushed against his arm and he was sharply, painfully aroused.

Tyr moved his arm and Dylan shivered. In the tank there was a swirl of tentacles, flowing bands of orange and black. "An old Earth breed; a dwarf mimic."

"An octopus!"

"My father's brother raised them. I always wanted one of my own."

A little gift of information. Dylan slid his thumb along the tank face where the sand humped over the soft body. Some part of it writhed and pressed out and a vision flashed of himself laid back, pleasure thresholds flat, drinking down sensation in boneless surrender. Color flushed the velvet bulb of the creature's head. It sucked water through flaring valves and rippled an arm in his direction.

"What does it mimic?"

"Snakes; anemones; lion fish." Tyr put a hand on Dylan's hip. "Beautiful things; deadly things."

Dylan bucked. "Back." He pushed away the arm and turned, but Tyr blocked him in the corner where the tank met the wall. "Not what I was after, Tyr."

"Then maybe you should call for help." Tyr shoved him against the wall, wrapped a hand behind his neck, and pressed his open mouth over the subvocal implant. Dylan felt Rommie's voice buzz against Tyr's tongue. Ignoring it, Tyr sucked hard and closed his teeth on tender skin. Dylan's head cracked against the wall. He worked his hands into Tyr's locks until his nails grazed scalp, then pried his head up: Rommie's holo blinked in and out, too fast for him to catch her expression. As Tyr took a breath Dylan pulled him into a bruising, hungry kiss.

Tyr brought a knee up between his legs and Dylan opened to it, shifting his hips, riding Tyr's thigh. Tyr hitched him higher up the wall; their pants creaked under Dylan's crotch and he had an urge to feel that leathered thigh against his flesh, pressing into his skin, up against his ass, his muscles fluttering open with every little shift and tug. Dylan dropped a hand to grope between them and Tyr flinched away. "You and those damned pants," Dylan growled.

Tyr laughed. "You like these pants. You can't keep your eyes off these pants." He flexed his hips, bumping Dylan back against the wall, and grasped the open flap of his jacket. "Take it off."

Dylan grabbed his wrist. "Bed."

Tyr flexed again. "Here and now. Take it off!" He unseated the jacket clasps, turned his arm to press the blades against Dylan's chest, and raked down, tearing the inner shirt.

"The hell!" Dylan started, and then Tyr was at his mouth, his throat again. Hard to get out of this position, some part of his brain observed, without doing either of them damage. The Nietzschean was rummaging under his shirt, unbuckling his belt.

"Not...." Tyr's hand snaked into his pants and wrapped around his cock and his breath caught. Hot, calloused fingers tightened and it took every shred of self-possession not to come at the touch.

He closed his eyes, centering himself on that blaze between his legs, Tyr's fingers stroking him, Tyr's thigh still hard up under his balls, his ass. The thigh dropped and he staggered. Tyr jerked his pants down to his knees and knelt in front of him. Holding Dylan's cock between his palms Tyr brushed its head across his beard and Dylan's knees buckled. He arched and threw his hand against the tank, turned his head away from the sight of that lush mouth against him. Tyr tongued the slit and Dylan's hand clenched; the octopus, curious, slapped suckered tentacles against the pane. Tyr parted his lips around the head of Dylan's cock, his hand curled around the shaft, and he drew it slowly into the hot, wet sheath of his mouth, as the octopus splayed wide under Dylan's palm, opening itself, pumping its body against the glass while Dylan shuddered and lost control, coming in long violent spasms against the back of Tyr's throat.

Tyr pulled off his shirt and spat into it, then wiped his mouth. Dylan hunched before him, elbows on his knees. He lifted Dylan's chin and shook it, watched sense drain into his eyes.

Dylan groaned. "Damn it, Tyr."

"Game over, Captain?" Tyr asked mildly. "You can pull up your pants and go home, now."

Dylan dropped his head, silent. Tyr frowned and crouched in front of him; after a minute, he leaned forward, cautiously, close enough for Dylan's joined fists to catch him in the throat and knock him sprawling. As Tyr rolled to his stomach, coughing, Dylan launched himself and managed to land across his back, slamming him face down on the rug. He got a hard knee between Tyr's legs and hooked one of his arms, jerking it back sharply. Tyr thrashed and Dylan hauled the captive arm higher, pressing bone blades against Tyr's ribs. "Huh!" He twitched the arm up a fraction. "Design flaw?" Untenable position once Tyr got some leverage against the deck; he ground his knee tighter between Tyr's legs and bent his full weight across his back. "Let's take a minute, shall we?"

The body beneath him gathered itself and paused.

"Good; we need to talk." He sat up, straddling Tyr's thigh, his knee still in place. This was playground scuffling. Neither of them were using full force. But while he was on top...he grabbed a painful twist of hair and pulled.

Tyr moved his head to the side. "Make it fast." He spat out a shred of carpet fringe. "But that seems to be a failing of yours."

Dylan tugged. "Manners, Tyr. That's the topic for the day." Jumping a superior officer. His ass was getting cold; he felt foolish and jerked his hips angrily, grinding Tyr into the floor. "We can discuss your sorry technique later."

No reply. Tyr spread his legs a little and Dylan tensed. He had the contact he'd wanted earlier; he was pressed long and naked into a leather seam and he resisted the urge to squirm. "Don't make me use my force lance."

"You flatter yourself. Get off before I have to hurt you."

"Comfortable where I am." He nudged his knee once more and Tyr exploded upward. A short struggle and Dylan was on his back, fist still clutching hair, with Tyr's bladed arm across his throat.

"You gotta ask yourself now, Tyr," he wheezed--"Where's my other hand?"

He tightened his grip and Tyr snarled. "That's not exactly in your best interest."

"We'll see about that." He squeezed again and rubbed. Interest enough. Brown eyes lost focus briefly; then, with a growl, Tyr lifted his arm and rolled off.

I could have you shot, if it didn't feel so damned good, he thought dizzily. The carpets were as soft as they looked. Tyr, hitched up on an elbow, lay against his side now, warm and solid, an illusion of safety. This is not a lover. This is not a friend. He closed his eyes, defying himself.

"Still playing, then?" Tyr sounded amused.

"A little civil give and take. Trust." He felt a touch on his stomach and flinched, but it was a caress. Tyr laid a hand on his stomach and began a slow circling stroke with his thumb below the navel.

"So if I'm in your bed the crew will trust me?" Tyr's voice was deeper flavored now, and Dylan could feel an answering vibration in himself.

Heat, just from the sound of him. "I wouldn't bet your life on it. It's your bed anyway, and we're not in it." Tempting thought. He could do a backstroke across the silky carpets to that sanctuary. The petting was hypnotic, soothing. Trusting Tyr. To be Tyr.

"Your Gaheris kept a journal."

His heart stuttered. He kept his eyes closed, his answer steady. "Sure it's not a decoy?"

"It's handwritten; a note to his children, in case it was found." The thumb kept circling. "Do you want to read it?"

No. God no. But-- "Since you've read it, I have to." He opened his eyes, directly into the sun of Tyr's gaze. Mustered a smile. "One way of checking a fake."

Tyr's pupils widened. "Decide for yourself. You're in it. He wrote that he hurt you once and you forgave him. For the good of the service, or that's what he thought."

The stroking became chillingly familiar. "Stop it." Dylan shoved Tyr's hand aside and curled up. He hauled his pants into place, covering himself.

Tyr sat up too, keeping close. "It puts Nietzschean children--boys--to sleep. It's a comfort and a lesson. A warning not to let an enemy put a hand there." He leaned forward, hands clasped around his knees. "Is that what you did?"

Is that what I'm doing? He tried to make sense of it one more time. To a Nietzschean. "We weren't enemies then. Your people were colleagues in the Commonwealth; we served together." A flicker of memory, of their last go game. "It wasn't in his best interest, you know. He was a good officer. One more year, and the command was his and I was out of here. Bad timing for his revolution. There were damned few Nietzscheans commanding starships: I never took him for a man of causes over advancement." It sounded inadequate, lost.

"It may have been bad timing, but he chose his side. He said he could take you and your ship--he thought you were duped, by him and your precious High Guard. That your ideals made you vulnerable and dangerous. That you weren't prepared for treachery from a lover."

"We weren't lovers!" He pushed off the floor, got his feet under him and braced for a fight.

"He said..."

"It's a damned lie, Tyr; you lose." He took a breath. Walked over to a remembered cabinet and yanked it open. Empty. "Where's the fucking Scotch? I know he had it."

"More ghosts?" Tyr was standing close behind him. No noise on those soft carpets. "Calm yourself and come to bed. We can talk about your Rhade later."

Dylan slapped his jacket together over the ruined shirt. "From the top, Mr. Anasazi: you're hiding in your cabin, you're growling at the crew, you're going for a personal best in surliness on the bridge: knock it off and start acting more like a human being. Like a 'superior' human being with some social training." He pushed Tyr out of his way. "I suggest you start with Trance; for some reason, she seems to like you."

"So, what do you suppose really went on down there?" Beka folded her hand and leaned both elbows on the bar. "Think old big 'n' bitter got lucky?"

Trance riffled her cards. "Didn't have much time." She scooted her stool closer to the bar and wrapped her tail around her shoulder--a defensive move Beka recognized. All they could see of Harper were his legs; he was lying under the bar autochef, working on the protocols for beer dispersal. Again. It was getting to be a game with Rommie, who reset the codes and valve sequences every time he cracked them.

"You know," Beka said, "you could ask Dylan for clearance. Didn't military crew get a drink ration in the old days?"

"Ask Dad?" A boot waggled. "Ask about rank and salary, while I'm at it." There was a fizzy whoosh and a small whoop of triumph from under the counter. "I am a genius!" A moment later, a foamy engineer eeled backward into open space, cradling a full pitcher on his stomach. "Tricky little sucker this time."

"Harper, you're hopeless." Trance took the offered pitcher and set it on the counter top. "We're all supposed to be working together."

"Well, we are. Except our weapons man tried to hand over the ship to a bunch of pirates he just met. Maybe. And Dylan's been in a mood from Hell ever since." He pulled a mug from the icer and tilted it into the pitcher's stream. "Just manners not to bother the Captain with petty shit."

"Define petty shit."

Harper slopped beer on his hand. "Tyr. Speak of the devil."

Sneaky devil. Beka looked at Tyr's bare feet, then up. Realized she'd never seen him out of his chain mail and leather before. "Headed for the gym?"

"No." Tyr frowned at her. And set down a bottle, a nice, old, expensive looking bottle, on the bar. "What are we protecting our moody Captain from?"

"Just beer." Trance flicked her tail and smiled at the big man. "Is that for us?"

"No." Then, slowly, "Would you like a taste?"

"I don't drink." Beka reached across for the bottle, anyway. She rolled it and read the label. "New Farclas 800. What is it?"

"Three hundred and forty year old Scotch. A very good one, if the records don't lie."

"Geezer booze." Harper hoisted his mug. "Tempting, but I worked too hard for this."

"Is it poisoned?" Beka handed the bottle back.

"There's a thought," said Tyr. He peeled off the seal and eased out the stopper with his thumbs then poured a finger of amber liquid into a wide bar glass. He held it up. "Anyone?"

Trance nosed the air and her skin flushed. "Yes, please." She pressed against Tyr's side. "It smells lovely." Her tail uncoiled and slowly rose erect across her back as she stretched after the glass. Raising it out of her reach, Tyr swirled the glass and then sipped, rolling the dose on his tongue. Under Beka's wary gaze, his eyes half closed and his throat worked. "I want some," pleaded Trance, with a hand on his arm.

He poured out another glass and handed it over. Trance took it eagerly, but left her hand in place as she sipped. Her tongue flicked out; she lowered the glass, licked her lips, and breathed. He looked down at her soft color against his hard curves, where the contrast brought violet tones out in his skin. His blades twitched.

"Well, now we know what works with the Purple One," said Harper.

Beka swept the abandoned cards together and shuffled. "What are you doing here, Tyr? What do you want?"

Tyr raised his arm, dislodging Trance, and swallowed the rest of his drink. "Where's Dylan? Ship said he was on his way here." A guess; the hologram had snapped off in his face when he asked.

"Hasn't shown up," said Trance.

"You haven't talked to anyone for days and now you're looking for Dylan in your bare feet, with a hot bottle of Scotch. Lose a bet? Win one?"

He stoppered the bottle. "Manners, Captain Valentine. Just socializing with my fellow...man."

Harper watched Tyr leave and hummed. "So, what was that all about? Froggy gone a-courtin'?"

"Don't be an ass," Beka snapped. She rubbed her foot against her ankle and looked at Trance trying to lick the last taste from the glass.

Dylan paced the length of the cabin, circling around the table, the chairs, the antique telescope--Too much furniture in here; I could seat the whole crew, if we used the bunk. He stopped in front of the alcove that held his narrow bed. Too early for sleep. He moved back to the table, stood over his favorite chair, black padded leather that felt like skin over muscle...he shook his head. There was work. Rommie had queued up records on the dominant Nietzschean prides for his review. Also food and drink inventories. Maybe I need something to eat. Maybe a brandy from the lounge. He squeezed the back of the chair. Maybe I need to beat Rhade's book out of that son of a bitch. He paced back across the cabin to the door and opened it on Tyr.

Surprise jacked through him, and something suspiciously like relief.

Tyr pushed past him into the cabin, knocking his shoulder slightly. The door slid shut. "You forgot your drink." Tyr thunked a bottle on the table. "You forgot your journal." He tossed a small, soft-bound book at Dylan, who caught it reflexively against his chest. "You forgot why you came to see me." He stretched out on Dylan's bedspread, legs crossed, arms behind his head. He filled the bed, a brown landscape of plains and valleys and long, rolling slopes under a net shirt and loose pants. His feet were bare, his arm blades exposed. Dylan's mouth went dry.

"Ship should build you a bigger bed. Or does Rommie have other ideas?"

"What are you talking about?" Throw the bastard out. Dylan turned the journal in his hands. The leather binding wrapped around and tied: one of the staples from the ship's stores. He turned his back on Tyr and locked it in a drawer. Then he lifted the bar caddy from the sideboard and carried it to the table. Poured himself a dose of Rhade's favorite Scotch. Out. Now. Tyr was looking up at the painting hanging over the bed--an abstract in rose and pink. "Like it?"

Tyr considered the painting a moment longer. "No."

"My mother made it." Loss stabbed him and he drained his glass.

"Then yes." Tyr stretched out an arm, hand open. "Come here."

"Get out." Dylan poured himself another drink.

"Changed your mind?"

"Game's over. Get out."

"Why? You want me--I can smell it, I can hear it, I can feel it vibrating in you from here. I'm agreeable to the idea; I'm even willing to navigate this penitential rack of yours. What's the problem?" He lifted an eyebrow. "How did these arrangements work in your glorious, dead service?"

"They didn't work. You'd be up on charges for suggesting it, let alone invading my bunk." He settled into black leather, swiveled the chair to face the bed. "You've made this arrangement before?"

"Never for a fool." Tyr sighed and got up, walked over to the table. Served himself a golden inch and stood over Dylan. "It's common enough; Weapons and Captain make a powerful leading team."

Dylan's stomach tightened at the thought. Is that what they were playing for? A shared command? Out of the question. But the implied permission to take what he desired licked at his crotch. "Not an option. Beka's second in command."

"And you haven't looked at her twice." Tyr sipped and shrugged. "I can respect that. Women are--complicated. Even for sapiens sapiens." He put the glass down and leant an arm on the table, bending close to Dylan's ear. "You've said no. Tell your prying Ship to close her ears." He brushed his beard against Dylan's jaw and dropped a hand to rest on Dylan's inner thigh.

"You damage me and Rommie kills you." Have to remember to tell her that. He could smell Tyr again, that same mysterious blend of smoke and--resin--Gor flowers? Hashish? Tyr's breath was sweet and whisky scented. Dylan's thigh shivered with heat from the hand caressing it.

Tyr ghosted a laugh that stirred Dylan's hair. "You're learning." He slid his hand up the thin rec pants and stopped, nudging the hardening bulge between Dylan's legs. "Not for stakes, then. Just to amuse ourselves." He slipped a finger beneath, gliding between the testes, pressing up through the fabric and sliding skin to touch the base behind them.

Dylan's hands tightened on the chair arms, his knuckles turning white.

"Andromeda, privacy mode."

Two men joking with each other, walking through the corridor leading to the bridge. A hair too close for public contact and some genuine warmth there. Around them other uniformed figures, keeping their distance. Forward an hour. Chaos. The Nietzschean striding with a leveled force lance into Command, firing into the thorax of the Than pilot. A fight; two men crashing around the space, shooting, falling, until the dark man rolled in fire and blood.

Beka backed up the scene and played it again. She winced at the look on Dylan's face.

"Find what you were looking for?" Rommie asked. The android's voice was metallic.

Beka shook her head slowly, staring at the screen. "Rev said that was his best friend. We saw his body." Dylan had ordered a military funeral for the dead, that first day. Their blood was still wet when she'd boarded. "I didn't know that was how it happened. He never told the rest of us."

"Commander Gaheris Rhade, first officer. He came on with Dylan from Special Ops. They were assigned to me together."

"He doesn't mind us seeing the records?"

"You're cleared for public surveillance. He told you he wanted you to see how the crew functioned."

"A crew functioned--a real, military crew, I believe, was the point of that little chat." And here they were. She wondered what Dylan saw when he reviewed the records, if he ever did. Did he see the way people looked at him? Did he look at himself when he wasn't in ops? Military crew or not, Beka knew people, could read them with and without sound. Friend wasn't a feeling she was picking up here when Dylan was in the room. Good looking man, though, from any angle. And tight with that Niet. Wonder.... Beka looked at Rommie, leaning against a console in the Maru's small communal space. She hadn't wanted to review the records in ops. Poring over them in her cabin seemed worse; the Maru was still where she felt most at ease. She'd asked the ship AI to drop in after Rev had left. "Andromeda--Rommie--can I talk to you in confidence?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean can I talk to you--consult you--without every word being reported back to Dylan?" She was in dark space here. She'd been assured that AI's at this level had personalities; this one was clearly attached to Hunt.

Rommie crossed her arms. "You're acting first officer. I can call up your security clearances for you if you wish."

"No, I don't think...." Beka started again. "I just want to know a little more about him. Ah--girl talk; you know?"

"I'm familiar with the term," Rommie said drily. She flicked a nano-second smile at Beka. "What do you want to know?"

"Did Dylan have a lot of friends on board? Aside from Rhade?"

Rommie frowned. "He socialized."

"Who did he spend time with?"

"He played basketball. Captain's dinners; holidays, parties."

Situations, not people. "Was Dylan popular with the crew?"

"I would have to say yes." Snippy, definitely. Ass coming up off that console. "Don't you like him?"

"Sure. Captain Personality. Our Hero. Was he screwing his first officer, by any chance?"

"No, he was not. Is this still girl talk, Captain Valentine?"

"Beka, Rommie. Still us girls, still just Beka." Nose to nose with an animated warship, she reminded herself. And one she had begun to like. "Different times, different mores, no offense. It's just they look awfully damned hands-on to me. And nobody else lights up when he walks into the room." Except you.

"Dylan Hunt is a fine commander. He was an excellent leader and nothing meant more to him than his ship and his crew." It rattled out like she'd been saying that a lot lately. Beka stumbled mentally on what "lately" might embrace--anything more than a month and they were talking ancient history. But Rommie was going on, less mechanically. "...survived, if it wasn't for Rhade. They were close. He relied on him."

"So he was screwed, after all." Different tack: "Was this fine commander so reckless with his other crew? Or is it just us he doesn't care about frying or blowing up--without a close buddy to rely on?"

"You mean without trained officers and disciplined personnel?"

Beka shook her head. They were drifting off target. "I mean his isolation might be harder for him to deal with than he admits."

"Is this your way of asking me about your chances in Dylan's bed?"

Way off target. "I mean I think he's fucking Tyr."

Reset: Rommie backed off and scowled.

Beka smiled wryly at her face. "Very likely, as we speak."

The captain's pants lay pooled on the rug, forgotten under Tyr's feet. Dylan arched against the chair back, braced high above the seat, his bare thighs spread wide across its leather arms, shiny with sweat. For the moment, endless, burning moment, he was centered, impaled on Tyr's left hand, two thick fingers deep inside him thrusting and twisting in short rhythmic jabs that made his cock bounce wetly against his stomach and Tyr's bladed arm. His body jolted with each graze of his prostate, his head was thrown back, his eyes were glazed, he panted in time with the steady finger-fuck. "Now," Dylan gasped. "Do it now."

Predator to prey, Tyr matched his heartbeat, inhaled his abandon, stroking himself through the soft rec pants. One-handed, he ripped the drawstring loose and let his pants fall free. He picked the tube of slick from the table and slapped it onto Dylan's chest, popping the top and spattering them both with gel. Superior coordination--Tyr kept up the jerking rhythm while he rubbed his free hand through the slippery pool on Dylan's stomach and breast, raking his nails through the dark drifts of hair, pinching the coated nipples. Finally he dropped his hand to spread the gel over himself, sliding the head of his cock between his fingers, greasing the shaft before curling around his tightening balls, biting off a groan at the icy sensation. Crooking his fingers inside Dylan, he gripped the hard inner gland one last time, spread his fingers as far as the spasming channel allowed, and shook them, before drawing out. Dylan writhed. "Now!"

Tyr grasped him by the hips and jerked him forward. The position was awkward, the need acute. Their cocks bobbed, touching, and Tyr growled. He cupped Dylan's ass, sinking his fingers into the cleft, and pulled them bodily together, hitching Dylan off the chair, jerking and grinding his cock into the hollow of Dylan's hip. Dylan threw an arm around his neck and stumbled, trying to find his feet. Their chests slid together; Tyr's mouth found the notch where collarbone met shoulder and he bit down.

"No, no...." Dylan twisted in Tyr's slick grip, trying for purchase on the hard slopes of muscle, pounding his back. "In me, fool, in, in, in...."

Tyr reared back, cursing, and shook him by the shoulders. "Then bend over and give me something to aim at, you idiot kludge!"

"Not an appealing picture," Rommie said.

"Ah; no." Beka had been trying to suppress images since the idea first hit her. From the lack of outright denial and the sour look on her face, Rommie'd had something of a preview herself.

"Do the others suspect this too?"

"Haven't talked about it. But they've got eyes and they're not stupid."

"You realize how much we need Dylan?"

"He's the man with the mission. But no matter how much I like Dylan or I'm worried about him, my crew comes first. Anything else you can give me?"

Rommie bit her lip. "How far back in the records did you go?"

"Year or so."

"Look for the Kalderesh mission. Girl talk over now?"

"Yes. Thanks, Rommie." Established a protocol here, she hoped.

"He'd rather die than lose his crew; keep that in mind. Good night, Beka."

"Night." Beka watched Rommie climb out of the Maru and rubbed her eyes. She could crawl right into her bunk here, at home, maybe call up a familiar vid to put her to sleep. And hope she didn't dream.

Dylan snorted a half laugh into the bolster, while Tyr rubbed his head and cursed. The alcove was a tight fit for two big men and such vigorous back-and-forth. He bore down, impatiently. Tyr was well seated in him, had been since he'd pushed Dylan face-down on the bunk and climbed aboard. There was one moment when Tyr had first breached him, then stopped to caution in his ear: "I want no misunderstandings here--this is not assault, this is not an accident. You asked for, you wanted this."

"Just bring it," he'd answered, and jerked back, taking Tyr's cock to the root.

Tyr pulled the bolster from under his head. With some urging and groping that Dylan pressed into shamelessly it was stuffed underneath him, raising his hips. He felt Tyr's thighs slide across the back of his at a different angle, then a hand was planted hard next to his head and Tyr thrust down, straight down--two slow, gauging strokes, then he picked up the pace. He pounded into Dylan hard, straight, deep, punishing the bed, burning away the lube; he swiveled his hips and hit the hot spot and Dylan yelled out, ignored, as Tyr sent jolt after jolt through him, juddering Dylan's sex against the bolster and shivering the mattress on its supports. Dylan lost control of his breath under the hammering storm, huffing as he was spitted, stretched, churned, again and again, his muscles clinging to the plunging cock, reluctant to let it go, dragging in and out with each stroke until Tyr moved in him through a ring of fire. The bed gave a final groan as Tyr drove into Dylan and stuck, bucking and shuddering and roaring his release, his convulsions triggering Dylan who ripped the coverlet between his fists and fired long, aching pulses into the rumpled sheets.

In the blissful, heavy night, Dylan heard the angels swear.

"I've slept in a grave with a tombstone for my pillow and been better bedded than this."

He sighed. Breathing deeper pressed his back into Tyr's warm, damp bulk. There was a huge arm over his ear, a rain of hair around his head, and his thigh nestled between two long legs, sliding off the sagging side of the bunk. He was smeary and weighted down and hopelessly compromised. He fell asleep.

Down. Falling down. He was slipping off the edge of the mattress, landing in a heap of sheets on the rug. Dylan opened his eyes warily, to a darkened room and a large body moving near him: Tyr, silently untangling covers from the bunk. He lay down next to Dylan and with a last twitch and heave floated the coverlet across them both. Not going anywhere, it seemed. Dylan stretched out on his side and closed his eyes. He could feel Tyr without touching him. The smell of someone other lying there, so close, was dangerous. Arousing. Letting him stay meant more sex; it was a possibility he wouldn't relinquish yet.

"You're awake."

"Not permanently." Dylan yawned. "Something on your mind, Anasazi?" He looked over at the profile next to him, barely visible in the light from the bedside chron display. From this angle, the face looked younger, rounder.

"Kalderesh."

Fuck. Dylan rolled onto his back and crooked his elbow behind his head. "Me, I was thinking about basketball." Tyr snorted. "And sex," he allowed.

"Already?" Tyr reached out an assessing hand and Dylan laughed. "Whoa, no." But he curved into Tyr's broad palm sliding across his stomach, like an animal being petted. He covered Tyr's hand with his own, stopping its downward glide. "Not now."

"Sore?"

Hell, yes. "Tired. Not used to this heavy a workout."

Tyr moved his head. Dylan couldn't make out his expression, but he caught the reflection of his eyes. "You didn't have a companion on board?"

None of your business. But it was an allowable question from a bedmate. "No. I was going to be married." He wondered how morals had changed over the lost centuries--or what passed for morals among Nietzscheans. He certainly wouldn't have indulged himself like this before, with a near-stranger on his own ship; Weapons man, no less. Sara'd have his head. The queasy tide of loss lapped at him in the dark and he pushed the memories away. "What about you? You're, ah, good at this."

"No. Not for a while." Tyr rubbed his thumb across Dylan's stomach. "I'm sorry you lost your mate. A man like you should marry, produce children." He settled his thumb in Dylan's navel and squeezed the sliding flesh beneath his hand. "If you don't get us all killed, you'll have that chance. It's something to live for."

Rhade's sentiments, exactly. He tried to clear his mind, keep in the present. "I've got the new Commonwealth to live for. So do you."

"I have more to live for than that. I have no intention of serving under a commander with a death wish." Tyr twisted the thumb in Dylan's navel, stretching it a little, pinching the rim against his hand. Dylan had to resist the urge to push up, to take the thick member deeper inside...he pressed down on Tyr's hand, instead. "What happened at Kalderesh?" Tyr asked again.

It was a matter of record. He could send Tyr to the files. Files written by his officers. "It was our first mission: to keep a Magog fleet from invading the Kalderesh system. We crossed the quarantine sector and hit a swarm of ships head on. They scattered; we followed. And sent a dozen strike fighters to our rear to arm the frontier drifts.

"Pushing them back, hunting them down--we never boarded their ships, never let them near us, just blew them out of space. Hundreds of ships, clean kills. And then we came back to the drifts.

"Ever fought the Magog up close? It's daunting. Hell, it's fucking terrifying. The crew had experience, but not in hand-to-hand with an enemy that could cut through walls and armor with their claws, that would eat them alive or breed in their bodies. They were brave. They'd seen the records, they'd lost relatives in the massacres. They'd seen the nightmare and now they were living it. When we came out of slipstream, the drifts had been occupied by Magog for weeks. Might have cut around us; might have been an advance cadre before we even arrived. When our troops breached the environment, our best people were taken down by swarms. We lost a whole platoon on the first landing."

Dylan took his hand off Tyr's. He brushed the hair away from his face, then rubbed his chest, seeking some relief in the touch. It was a horror of a memory, still fresh after years. "We were fighting on a dozen fronts; couldn't blow them out of the places they'd occupied without killing the inhabitants. We couldn't tell how many natives were untouched and how many were infected; the living and dead were packed in the halls as buffers. There were infected survivors who exploded with Magog young in the rescue ships; they were leaving the ripe ones with the wounded in our path like mines.

"I led the last foray myself. The scans were showing dead and Magog for most of the drift. Fourteen Magog ships at dock. Three hundred life signs packed in a closed-off arc of the drift ring. Andromeda crew among them." He looked into the dark. "Rhade among them."

"What happened?"

"They all died. We lived."

"How?"

"What did he say?"

Tyr turned on his side and closed in, a wall against Dylan, his hand still warm and claiming on his stomach. "Tell me about it."

One person got out of that barricaded arc; one Special Ops trained person suited up, climbed a mile through an external service conduit, and dropped in behind the melee. "Rhade made it through to where we were fighting. Before an explosion blew the seals in the survivors' sector." Before three hundred people died and they lost their only reason for not retreating and bombing the drift from the ship. "We were the only ones who made it back to a fighter. Rhade gave the order to destroy the drift."

"Not you?"

"I was unconscious. He pulled me out." Shot at stun pulse from behind. Second time Rhade had saved his life against his inclinations, across enemy and innocent dead.

After that, as he'd read somewhere, sometime, his troubles began. "It was a rough tour, for everyone. I ended up with nightmares myself." A crew that drew away. A constant companion at his side, watching his back, keeping him sane, talking to him in the empty nights.

"You ended up in Rhade's bed. You left it and he betrayed you."

Back to that. "We weren't lovers."

Tyr slid his hand down between Dylan's legs and drew him close against his chest with his other arm. "Neither are we, Captain Hunt." He cupped Dylan's balls familiarly, rolling them in his hand, and angled his jaw to lick Dylan's lips, tasting him.

Dylan turned his head. He wanted to feel that mouth, that lush, sweet mouth, on his, on him again. There was something dangerously personal in kissing Tyr. "Setting me up, are you, Tyr? Think your dick will distract me until you can betray me too?"

"Betrayal?" The voice was velvet in his ear. "Talk to me about betrayal, Hunt. Talk to your crew about betrayal and loss. Talk to me when you've lived with it for decades, alone, powerless, without a family, without a name. You lost your world in a minute, in a single blow. You lost your world and kept your ship. Betray me and leave me with a weapon like that in my hands and I will rebuild the world around myself as well." He gripped Dylan's ass and shook it. "This is not a lover's promise: I will survive. I will ride this crusade of yours and I will keep you alive for my new world as much as yours."

He slapped Dylan's ass, then grabbed his face, moving into that kiss at last, strong, hot, full of promise. His cock, hard and insistent, pushed against Dylan's stomach. The blades on his arm, pressed between them, flexed open, the long contours of bone against Dylan's flesh chillingly arousing. Dylan was drowning in Tyr's mouth. His cock was filling, rising into Tyr's hand, and he was losing himself again in the surge of sensual pleasure and danger he'd missed for long, long, years.

They kept at it for a few more hours, dozing, fumbling, working each other's bodies into sweat and heat and release. In silence, or at least without words.

Tomorrow was going to be hell, thought Dylan. He'd find something quiet for the rest to do, maybe running system checks while he caught up on sleep in midwatch. And the whirlpool. And wet, naked Tyr....

He shook his head to clear it. Tyr was rousing himself, hunting for his clothes. He pulled on the wrinkled soft pants and tsked at the broken cord. "Think it would be less obvious if I walked back to my cabin without them?"

"You'd scare Harper to death." He stood up himself, wincing, and turned on a low-power lamp. Tyr turned to face him at the door. Something Dylan still wanted clear: "I'm not losing you. You, my ship, my crew: you're mine. I stake my life on that."

Tyr slung the shirt in his hand over his shoulder. "My bed, next time." He slapped the door controls and left.

Dylan stood on the rug, on a trailing corner of sheet. Being alone in the cabin felt strange. He walked over to the locked drawer and took out Rhade's journal, turned on another light.

"To my wives and children, should I fail…" A personal note he skipped over. Then writing on a single page.

"At Kalderesh I damaged him and he ignored it. I followed orders to exterminate the enemy at whatever cost and to bring him and myself home alive.

"That he could not see this was due to his delusional weakness, a wish not to disrupt the service he's devoted to, a service that is not what he believes it to be. He's not a man who expects treachery from a loved one.

"He's a strong opponent who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. I'll try my best to see he doesn't live."

"Son of a bitch," said Dylan. "Son of a bitch." He threw the journal down and headed to the bathroom and the shower.

-End-