In His Command (11 page)

My sightseeing trip was cut short the farther we went because, of course, this was where the populace liked to hang. And the populace wasn’t really looking to chum up to a pair of Territorians like us. The looks I intercepted came from positions to the left, right, front, and back of us and were less
welcome home
and way more
wait till we get our hands on you…again.

Weapons were raised, their motley crew of agricultural implements rounded out with a hatchet or two, and so were my hackles. Ugly glares drilled holes all over my body, integrating with not-so whispers along the lines of hissed, “Traitor. Corps whore. Sewer rat.”

Pushing past the insult to my Corps calling, I concentrated on the fascinating instead of the really fucking irritating. Passels of kids dawdled and giggled, immune to the growing animosity in the way only children could be. They came in all ages, colors, and sizes.
No problem with regeneration here
. Milling animals trotted, pecked, and ran right alongside them, free to range.

When a dog approached me minus the growls of the mob that reverbed all around, I forgot protect-yourself protocol and went down to its level. Scratching behind its ear, I leaned in to the soft fur. Its wet muzzle tunneled in to my palm.

A pair of muddy boots toed up with the polished blacks of mine. The voice that went with them was gritty. “Git yer hands of mah dog, filthy flattop.”

That comment could’ve easily bought doggie’s daddy the farm. I did another round of play nice with the natives and backed away as I rose, keeping my hands at my sides, as unthreatening as a hulking, solid mass of one-hundred-plus kilograms of muscle could be. “No harm intended.”

“Haven’t heard that from your kind before.” Decorated with sparse gray whiskers, his face was grizzlier than his mutt’s.

As he stomped away to join his compatriots, I told Blondie, “You can stop watching me like you expect me to start gutting these fuckers at any given moment. I’m a professional soldier, not a mercenary.”

He didn’t comment, just started walking again, head held high, broad shoulders at ease. The perfect image of CO indifference.

In the mess hall, the sun’s hazy beams sifted between loose vertical boards. Flags fluttered down from the high, boned rooftop: red, purple, and golden cloths absent of the
Regeneration, Veneration, Salvation
slogo and Territory symbolism. They had their own motto, stitched in glinting threads:
Live in Freedom, Love at Will.

Their coined phrase was a hell of a lot more welcoming than the CO hardline, but it didn’t mesh with the gory stories I’d been told.

The air smelled clean and a little damp. Barrels of hay made round towers in the corners, where groups of kids hunkered over chalk-drawn lines, rolling colored orbs into one another. Tables in the schoolhouse style were decked by benches occupied by Nomads getting their fill of breakfast.

The silence at our arrival lasted ten long-ass seconds before folding back into the din of eating, talking, and a little bit of gawking at us, this time minus the murderous regard.
Fucking weird.

Since I seemed to be off the chopping block, at least in here, I gathered some intel on them while they sucked back their soup. Their individual coloring told of the introduction of multicultural stock and, since the seething rage outside was missing from this morning meal, some sort of civilization must be at work here.

Blondie asked, “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Yeah, where are the rest of the pitchforks? And how did they repopulate like this?”

“Like what, now?” He squatted down and waved at the kids playing games in the corner opposite us. A dark-haired girl and her redhead friend giggled back, a blush rising in her cheeks.

I blushed too, watching him. “Thought they’d be more—”

“Untamed,” he said, gaining his feet.

“Was gonna say matchy-matchy.” My hands went to my hips, looking to finger my missing pair of Glocks.

He brushed a sweep of hair off his forehead, and my fingers twitched to push it behind his ear so I could get a glimpse of his double-helix piercing. “Well, there’s newcomers all the time. Their genetics are pretty diverse.”

“So those two girls aren’t anomalies, like us?”

“You aren’t an anomaly, Caspar.”

“No, I’m just gay.”

His rich, low laugh tumbled out, hitting me hard, landing with prickling heat in my groin.

Gathering bowls of stew from giant steaming vats, we found a place to park our butts and tucked in. Well, Blondie did. I made like my bowl of meat and veg and stewed. “You sure I don’t need a taste tester for this?”

“Not at all, but I’ll let you know if you start seizin’ and foamin’ at the mouth.” He winked.

Even though I had a feeling the safe-haven-so-comfy feeling inside the mess was gonna be replaced by suck-the-business-end-of-my-ax soon as we got outside, I chuckled. “Again with the reassurance?”

Quickly hemmed in on all sides, I tensed. What the hell was with this kibbutz shit? I was all for mealtime with my troops, but not a crowd of anti-Territorians. A man needed his space, damn it. When a leg jostled mine, I readied to use my dull spoon as a flesh scooper until I realized it was Blondie, and he was laughing at my unease.
Cunt.

Seeing he hadn’t flopped belly-up yet, I set spoon to stew and kept my head up, my eyes assessing. Talk went on around us, that ménage of chatter that had no words I could decipher. A few even engaged with Blondie when he asked about their harvesting schedule, tapping into his knowledge of the land that always astounded me. Like he was anything but a Company schlep.

My damn spoon clanged against the bowl when out of nowhere his thigh press turned into a thigh squeeze.
Ahhh, shit.
I bit my tongue to keep the groan swallowed down my throat. Amazing, he could make bullshit conversation with anyone and put me at ease with his hand on my leg. I shook my head down at the bowl, then lifted my eyes and very, very slowly slid them away from Blondie to the left, toward a blatant threat.

This dude was taller, broader, and had badass emblazoned on the wide shelf of his brow. Under it, his eyes burned into Blondie’s back. Apparently, I didn’t like that one bit because the fuck-you-too I’d done so well suppressing surged to the surface with one target.

“Why the fuck’s he staring at you like that? He got a deep need to find out how well a pine box will fit him?”

Blondie spared a glance behind him. “Oh, him? He’s the one who had me sharpenin’ my knittin’ needles on your shoulder.” The hardened planes of Blondie’s face, the instant coil of his body, gave clarification to his next statement. “Had to have an extra chat with him.”

I touched the fresh scabs on his knuckles. “An extra chat with your fists on his face?”

“That mighta been what happened.”

With that he went back to eating. I went back to scowling. Blondie had bare-knuckled the man until his hands bled and dickhead’s face had ink-blotted in blacks and blues. An old quote came back to me, working me so perfectly in that moment of protective possession.
Turnabout, fair play, all that.
“Yeah, well, if he doesn’t stow those eyeballs in his back pocket right now, I got new plans for this spoon.”

Big Bad took his glare to the next level, and that was all the dare-ya I needed.

“Do you, now?”

“Yeah. Don’t like the way he’s looking at you,” I said.

“This one of your understatements?” Blondie asked.

“Something like that.” When the bruised bastard ducked outside, I got to my feet, announcing, “Breakfast’s over.”

“So it is.” Beside me, Blondie excused us with perfect manners. “Ladies, gents, squirts”—he ruffled the little head that barely reached his knee—“if y’all will pardon us.”

Before we went outside for a little roughing up, he called to the woman directing the food-filling station, “Might wanna keep the littl’uns inside, ma’am.”

Her blue eyes tightened on us before drifting away. “’Course, son.”

Outside I found the ugly sonuvabitch waiting for me with a bone to pick. “If you’re done takin’ advantage of our hospitality”—he jerked his head toward the dining hall, indicated the few scoops of breakfast I’d eaten—“you can pack up and ship out.”

I had a bone to pick with him too, seeing as he’d shoved an ax blade in my shoulder. “I really need to brush up on my social skills if I wore out my welcome already.”

“Your kind ain’t welcome here at all. In fact, I oughta cut out your tongue before I send you back to the Territories, save you squealing on our location, you Corps pig.”

Sensing a tussle in the near future, the roaming Nomads in the village square regrouped, forming a ring around us.

My gait loose, my expression damn near amiable, I was ready to get down to some light stress relief. Not quite as casual, the skulking male drew up his fists. He obviously hated me hard-core.
Feeling’s mutual, motherfucker.

I clapped him on the shoulder and toyed with him. “Aw, now, I thought we were just gonna talk it out, man.”

He shook off my hand and got in my face, a bad place to be if he wanted his fat nose to stay in the middle instead of shoved past his eye sockets. “We don’t like Breeders, whoreson.”

“Really? Seems you don’t have a problem with that, what with all the kids running around.”

When he gave a nasty grin, I got a close-up of his recently chipped tooth.
Way to go, Blondie
. “Out here we do it on our own terms.”

“No fault with that.” I kept it cool.

“And I got a problem with men who shovel the Company’s shit.”

Cue the not so cool anymore.
“Perfect. ’Cause I got a big problem with you, too.” I rolled my shoulders, including the one he’d carved up.

“That hurt?” He gloated.

“You have no idea”—his smile lifted until his mealy eyes disappeared—“how much I like the pain.” I pressed my fingertips into the stitches, winding myself into a tight knot of controlled energy.

He blinked once, twice.

Nice.

Tearing his shirt off his arms, he bragged, “Good, then you’re gonna love what’s comin’ next. No weapons, no time-outs. We are warriors. And since I took your man’s fists in my face a couple times already, I get some extra players this time.”

Blondie made some noise in the background. Filed, ignored, stored…
whatever.

Terms I could live with. “I always work better with a bigger playing field.”

Corps commander I might be, but given the opportunity to kick some ass in hand-to-hand combat, my cement shell of
I don’t give a fuck
rapidly disintegrated. I took my time removing my shirt, making sure I didn’t pop a wince when the reopening wound in my shoulder sent out a
you-gotta-be-shitting-me
twinge. Tossing the shirt to the ground, I backhanded my knife to Blondie. Clothing was expendable, but my KA-BAR, she was not hitting dirt.

I scanned the small group of fighters from beneath my brows. There were three of them to one of me, so I formulated a plan that included a lot of kicking, punching, headlocks, and all-out fistfighting, starting with the scrappy little shit jumping back and forth on the balls of his feet.

I rolled my neck, cracked my knuckles, took a real deep breath, and shot my fist out to nab a shirt collar, bringing Scrappy off his tiptoes and into my face, where I snarled, “Wanna kick some Corps ass,
Nomad
?”

Before he could answer, I reeled forward, my forehead slamming into his. The impact knocked him off those rocking feet and sent him sailing into the ring of bodies surrounding us.

I was about to spin around when my worst nightmare, aka the grinning village idiot with the chipped tooth, threw his boot tip into my kidney. A sunburst of pain clouded my vision. As I swayed with the blow, the spectators raised their fists in unison, yelling, “Kill, Kill, Kill!”

Hell no.
My ears cleared first, enough to figure out the shout was actually his name, “Kale, Kale, Kale!” Then my vision went the pure red of rage at being kicked in the back. Dropping my knees, I swung around on one leg, my other lifted to undercut Kale at his ankles, bringing him down on his back with a boom to rival the tree I’d chopped in half the other day.

TIMBER!

He was down but not for long, and lo and behold, the third of their trio of twats decided to have a go. His uppercut missed my jawbone, glancing off my temple, ringing a few bells that jangled with the same sound as the noisemakers outside the red caravan. This dude’s hair hung in clumps down his back. They weren’t braids, but knots upon knots in thick separated strands. When he whipped back from my advance, my hand connected with the tail end of his coarse locks. I pulled that shit hand over hand until his neck met the muscle of my ribs and was clenched under by my biceps. He gaped for air, his face turning purple with my crushing stranglehold against his airway.

Scrappy looked a little dizzy off to the left but managed to find balance on the balls of his feet again. He had some long arms tensile with muscle, ready to land a punch anywhere he could. There was no grace in his attack, only the sheer frenzy of
gonna mess you up, Corps whore.

Just when I thought the scruffy-haired headlocked dude was gonna go night-night, he twisted his face up and took a big bite of my arm. I shoved two free fingers up his nostrils and wrenched him loose, following with a drop kick to his lower stomach as he tried to army crawl away.

This was dirty fighting, and I really got into the bare-chested, bare-knuckled brawling with a side of cheers from the crowd, which had grown to encompass what looked like the whole damn village.

At that thought, the village idiot and Scrappy decided to two-time me.

Thanks, boys, but I already have a date, and I’m a one-man man.

Unloading some serious aggression, I advanced with my fists braced, my stance squat, guarding all the necessary organs by curling in on myself. When I took one on the chin—the metal toe cap of a boot, not the soft touch of knuckles—and only staggered a step, the cheering changed direction. It wasn’t “Kale, Kale, Kale,” they were calling. It was a mash-up of “Thatta boy. He deserves it! Don’t take no guff.”