Authors: Danika Stone
She giggles, and Spartan shakes his head. Malloy is far better at playing this game than he’ll ever give himself credit for. Malloy’s dark good looks are a perfect foil for Spartan’s blond brightness, and women like one as much as the other. The waitress goes to leave, but Spartan reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own crumpled bill—the last cash he has. (The rest of the night will go on an ever-increasing tab.)
“Let’s make that
two
for the lady,” Spartan says, then winks. “Finest, of course.”
“Oh, but you don’t have to.” Selena laughs. “One is plenty. Really. I hardly ever drink.”
Spartan winks at Malloy over her shoulder, then turns his attention back to her. “Don’t have to, but I want to.”
Malloy grins. He’s on his game, too.
The drinks arrive, and the three make a toast. Selena coughs when she takes a sip, the fumes hitting Spartan’s nose seconds later. Ten minutes after that, she has an arm over each of the men’s shoulders. (The best whiskey in the bar is a heady concoction.) And when her friends belatedly arrive, they join the trio, though none of them break Spartan’s concentration. When he competes, he competes to win.
Trouble is, Malloy does, too.
The next few hours pass in a haze. The gold-label drinks are replaced by increasingly rot-gut whiskey, and by the time they stumble out onto the street and into the darkness of the alley, Spartan knows he’ll be getting lucky. Selena’s hands are moving over all the places Spartan has imagined tonight. The only problem is, she’s sharing those affections with Malloy, too, and Spartan still hasn’t figured out how to tell his friend to piss off.
She kisses Spartan—tasting of whiskey—but the second his hands move to her breasts, she turns to embrace Malloy. Before he knows what is happening, Selena’s undoing Malloy’s belt, sliding it down his narrow hips. Malloy groans as Selena’s mouth moves down his muscled body—from Malloy’s lips to his neck, chest, stomach, lower.… Her red hair darkens to auburn in the shadows of the alley while she crouches before him.
Malloy gasps and drops his head against the brick wall of the alley, a near-pained look of ecstasy on his face. “Oh god. Don’t stop.”
Spartan scowls. He’s lost this game as well as his petty cash; the thought is a bitter pill to swallow.
“Later then, you two,” he says, turning away. Spartan hunches his shoulders in annoyance. He has to walk home. There’s no fare in his pocket. It irks him. “Gimme a shout tomorrow, Malloy.”
He’s almost to the end of the alley when Selena’s voice stops him.
“Leaving so soon, Spartan?” she purrs. “I thought the three of us could go back to my place. You know … and play.”
Spartan doesn’t turn back at once. Everything has changed in the last seconds. He can hear Malloy panting, can see the oily reflection of streetlights in the alley’s puddles, can smell the faint musk of Selena’s perfume clinging to his clothes.
But he’s my best friend
, a voice inside him argues.
Your only friend
, another voice adds.
Spartan slowly turns. Malloy is looking at him with something like pain. He’s breathing like he’s been running. Selena’s hands are around his neck, and her eyes seem far less innocent than they did in the bar. She bites her lower lip as he stands, undecided.
“What do you say, Spartan?” Malloy asks in a shaky voice. “You up for something new?”
“I don’t know if…” Spartan’s heart tightens, all his arguments disappearing. “Do you, Malloy?”
Malloy slides his arm around Selena’s waist, walking forward. His jacket is askew, buttons open, pants slung low on his hips. There’s an expression on his friend’s face that Spartan doesn’t quite understand.
“I’m willing if you are.”
And when they reach Spartan’s side,
Malloy’s
the one who leans in and kisses him.
* * *
Tekla’s waiting for Spartan when he emerges from the showers. She’s draped in a towel, her body teasing him with hints of curves and hollows and promises of damp flesh. (She’s chosen her weapons of war well.)
“Hello, darlin’.” He chuckles, walking nearer, letting her see the effect she has on him. “You’re lookin’ mighty fine.”
She doesn’t smile.
Instead, she slides her hands up his arms, staring at him with that pained concern that makes him want to scream.
“You had the dream again last night, Spartan,” she says quietly. “It’s getting worse, not better.”
The blood drains from his face. “I did?” Suddenly the shower room is too muggy. He can’t breathe for all the steam.
“You did,” she says. “And I couldn’t wake you up this time.”
* * *
Malloy catches Spartan in the hangar minutes before he escapes. The Imperial shuttle stands open, packed with stolen supplies and ammunition, the start of a new life. The cubby in the bunk room the two friends share is now empty except for Spartan’s Imperial uniform, one he’ll never wear again.
“So this is it?” Malloy sneers. “You’ve turned coat, leaving me behind?”
Spartan tenses, but doesn’t stop packing. “Walk away,” he growls. “Pretend you didn’t see me.”
Malloy crosses the floor. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Then turn me in.” Spartan throws his blaster onto the empty copilot seat. “Go ahead. I don’t care.” His lips twist angrily. “It’s what a good little soldier would do.”
Malloy grabs his shoulder, spinning him around. “Stop it!” he hisses. “You know what they do to suspected rebels.”
Spartan holds his eyes. “Yes, I do.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
Spartan shrugs off Malloy’s hand. “I’m doing the right thing. The honest thing.” His eyes narrow. “You should, too.”
“It’s not that easy, and you know it.”
“It never is.”
Distant footsteps echo from the open door of the empty hangar, and both men fall silent. The skeleton crew of the Imperial ship has given Spartan the chance to escape, but if he’s caught, he’ll be dead before the shift changes. (Or worse.)
“Come back to the bunk room. Let’s figure this out. I’ll pull some strings so you can get a paid leave—a transfer even. You could go back to Terra. Maybe find Tekla, talk to her.”
Spartan doesn’t even answer. He climbs into the shuttle, begins programming in his coordinates, blocking Darthku’s tracking devices one by one. He already knows the code for the hangar door. (That cost him a month’s wages, the jump coordinates twice that.) But Malloy needs to be off the flight deck before he goes, or they’ll suspect him of assisting. The truth doesn’t matter to the Imperial Fleet, just the semblance of justice.
“You need to leave,” Spartan says, reaching for the hatch.
Malloy grabs the door before it closes. “You’re going to die out there!” he shouts. “You’ll never be able to stop running!”
Their eyes meet. There are too many things to say. Too little time. They catch on Spartan’s tongue, choking him. Malloy is more than his best friend. He’s his brother, competitor, fiercest ally, and sometimes lover. If there’s ever been a shadow side to Spartan’s soul, it’s Major R. C. Malloy, and it feels like he’s tearing himself in half as he leaves his best friend behind.
Malloy lets go, and the door begins to close.
“You could always come with me,” Spartan offers, last second.
Malloy turns on his heels and walks away.
* * *
Spartan wanders the corridors of the Hyperion, lost and untethered. He knows it’s only a matter of time before the fighting starts again—Tekla will find the Imperial Fleet eventually—but the delay feels like a lifetime. It was so easy before. He knew why he fought. He knew who.
But since Io …
Spartan shoves the thought away and heads to the star freighter’s gymnasium. Here he wraps his fists and attacks the punching bag, pummeling the canvas until his hands throb and the voices in his mind go silent. If he can’t forget through sex, pain will be his anesthesia.
He’s sweat-slicked and shaking when the horn echoes through the ship. An announcement follows seconds later:
“Captain Matt Spartan, report to the central command center,”
a robotic voice intones.
“Captain Matt Spartan, report to command immediately.”
Spartan keeps punching.
* * *
They’re under attack and fighting for their lives when Spartan sees Malloy again. It’s the first time since the long-ago night he left, turning coat and joining the Rebellion. The shock of it—seeing his oldest friend among the ranks of nameless Imperial soldiers—slows him. He turns, pausing, as his eyes catch Malloy’s.
“No, you … not now,” Spartan whispers.
That’s all the opening the nearby soldier needs.
Spartan wakes, face pressed against the cold concrete of a cell, a man’s hand on his arm. He’s been tortured before, and it’s not an experience he wants to enjoy again. His hands come up in fists before he even realizes who it is.
Malloy puts a hand to Spartan’s lips. His friend’s fingers are warm and gentle. And so much like the times before when Spartan has reacted before he’s realized what he’s done, he turns his head and bites the heel of the hand across his lips. Malloy hisses and leans down, replacing his hand with his mouth.
For ten long seconds, the kiss drags on—desperate with need—and then Malloy lets go of him and stands. It’s over before it’s begun. Spartan wonders if his memory has betrayed him. They shared everything, once. Clothes, friends, lovers. Now all he has is Malloy’s back as he stares the other way.
“Get up,” he whispers. “It’s time to go.”
Spartan sits up slowly, wincing as the muscles over his ribs shout in protest. His head throbs in time to his heart, and flashes of the final moments of hand-to-hand combat appear:
seeing Malloy in the crowd, pausing in shock, an attack from the side, darkness.
“Where to?” Spartan croaks, but Malloy silences him with an angry look. Malloy tiptoes to the door, peering out.
Spartan crawls to his feet and glances around the small rectangular space. No windows, no cot, just a door and a drain. He stumbles when he tries to walk, but Malloy catches him. For a second, it’s all too much. If Darthku’s troops are going to break his will, they’ve sent exactly the right man to destroy him. Malloy is Spartan’s Achilles’s heel, and he knows it. His wounds are nothing compared with the ache in his chest.
“No … I can’t,” Spartan gasps. “I can’t do this. Not with you.”
He wishes he’d died in the fight.
“Hold on,” Malloy whispers. “I’ve got you.” His arms, warm and strong, wrap Spartan’s chest. For a moment, it’s all Spartan can do to stay upright. Sobs hitch his breath, and he presses his face to Malloy’s neck, breathing in gasps. His friend’s cologne washes over him, drowning him in memories of the two of them as young men, sleeping, curled one behind the other, in a single bunk. Everything’s gone wrong in the time since then, the whole world gone to pieces. Spartan himself a broken man. The bugs destroying everything. The Rebellion hasn’t soothed his wounds, just made his well of pain deeper.
“I’m so sorry, Malloy,” he gasps. “I shouldn’t have gone. I—”
Malloy grabs Spartan’s shirt, dragging him so close their mouths are almost touching. “Stop it!” he hisses. “They’ll hear you and kill us both.”
The vehemence shocks Spartan into silence.
“Who?” he mouths.
Malloy’s face ripples with pain. “My men, of course. They’re coming to kill you.”
Twenty minutes later, Spartan’s off-world and flying toward the Rebel stronghold. Malloy, back in command, is planning the funerals for the three soldiers—his own men—who died as they tried to stop Captain Matt Spartan from escaping. No one knows it was Malloy himself who held the blaster that killed them.
No one, that is, except Spartan …
* * *
Tekla is standing outside Spartan’s quarters, looking angry and worried, when he comes back from the gym. She has a communicator in her hand and tucks it away as he appears. Spartan’s limbs are rubbery and loose, his body so tired each step takes conscious effort.
“You didn’t respond to my page,” she says grimly. “I was worried.”
“Didn’t hear.”
“Were you sleeping?” she asks in a quiet voice. She’s asking something
else
, too, but he won’t think about that.
“Nope. In the gym. Had the music up.”
Lies. All lies. Spartan doesn’t care. He tries to push past her. (There’s no point in punishing his body if she’s going to bring the pain all back again.) But today Tekla doesn’t move. She catches his wrist, holding tight. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, fighting the urge to shove her away.
“I’m tired,” he says in an icy voice. “Let me go.”
“I think we should talk.”
He looks up, catching the look of pity before she can properly hide it.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“There is. If you’ll just—”
He rips his wrist free, pushing through the door and slamming it behind him. He hears the handle turn, but he’s locked it.
“Spartan? Spartan, open the door. Let me in,” her voice echoes from the other side. “C’mon, Matt. Please, baby. Open up for me…”
He rests his head against the cold metal of the door. Malloy’s laughing face flickers in his mind and he winces.
Tekla means well, but he doesn’t want to be saved.
* * *
Major R. C. Malloy stands across from Tekla, his face anguished as she rages, Spartan watching in growing concern. Malloy is his longtime friend. His once confidant and blood brother. He may be a turncoat, but if Malloy is, then they are, too.
Tekla’s convinced he’s a spy. (And maybe, Spartan muses, he actually is.)
“Why’d you show up now?!” she shouts at him. “Why not six months ago when the Rebellion began? Why not sometime after that?”
“I had to wait until it was safe,” Malloy explains.
“Until it was convenient.” She sneers.
Malloy pins her down with his stare, contemptuously ignoring the shackles on his wrists and feet. “If I’d declared at once, I’ve no doubt Darthku would have killed me.”
Tekla smirks. “Might still happen.”
Malloy’s eyes narrow as he stares daggers at her. “Then you’ll never get the intel I brought. You want to know Darthku’s plan or not?”