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It was quiet in the skimmer, the medic (Bollinger?) had done what he could for Matt, and left him to James to go look over the other guy, Van. Van and the medic talked quietly, but the troops covering the bay doors and the one checking out her gear were silent and vigilant. James couldn’t see the pilot or junior from where he was. He had his butt on the floor, leaning against the rear equipment storage, Matt’s head in his lap. Not a lot of comforts in a skimmer, just utilitarian space. Matt at least had a stretcher to lie on.

Once again, Matt was on a drug cocktail that would likely leave him loopy as hell when he came to. This time, someone managed to tell the medic how sensitive Matt was before the guy drugged him up. James watched Matt’s face, running his fingers through his pale bangs.

Ah, shit. They were going to have to talk about this. James couldn’t go around feeling like he was a danger and a burden on Matt without being sure Matt wanted him. He was barely sure he could do it if Matt did want him. But he was sure he couldn’t do much of anything without Matt.

He just needed Matt to be conscious, and alive, and talking. That was all he needed in the world.

T
HE
big, goofy militia guy was beginning to regain his grasp on reality. Maybe. What was his name again? Logan.

“Logan?”

“Sir?”

Laslo rolled his eyes.
Hello. Enemy, here
. Well, technically an enemy, but he guessed not in reality. “You feeling any clearer?”

“Uhhhh. Yeah?”

Not quite reassuring. Laslo’s neck was getting itchier by the second. “How you feel about moving to Oregon?”

“Bring’er on.” That sounded just a bit too glib, but he wasn’t willing to quibble when they were in hostile territory, violating the no-fly truce, and they were going to get visitors wearing the Red Idaho Authority arm badge any minute.

And fuck the Conservation of Medical Resources Directive. He was treating an enemy soldier because he’d been a friendly under fire. And because Laslo liked saying fuck the rules sometimes. It tended to get him promoted.

Wait, that last promotion had sucked. He’d been bound to a desk ever since. Laslo readjusted his personal goal to demotion.

Logan was big and rangy, with freckles everywhere, at least on his face, arms, and chest, since Laslo hadn’t found a reason to cut his pants off him, yet. He’d had to hook him up to the field automated external defibrillator according to procedure, so that had taken care of his shirt. Or what was left of it after Laslo had immobilized Logan’s neck with the cervical-field that held his head still.

Logan had sort of soft, brown-red hair, cropped tight, but not a jarhead cut. It almost matched the freckles. And his eyes were this strange dark hazel that Laslo didn’t think he’d ever seen. At least it looked that way in the wand light with his NV lenses on.

Not the kind of guy Laslo was usually interested in. But Laslo wanted to see the guy move all those military-honed muscles, wanted to see how much Logan loomed over him when he stood up, and how hot he looked lying under him, giving it up for him.

Ah, the smell of lust on the battlefield. Warmed the cockles of a gay trooper’s heart, didn’t it? What was hotter than finding a big, sexy enemy combatant and taking him home to play with?

Maybe grinding your ass into the enemy’s hard cock while he writhed on the dance floor behind you, plastered to you from head to toe? That could be hotter.

Mostly Laslo was thinking these things as a distraction, because he knew the shit was about to hit the fan. Recon from the drone-bot kept telling him there was a team on the way from Brownlee Station. On foot, of course. He bet that just bunched their panties.

“Lance Corporal,” Laslo commed Jude on the Brain-link. “I’m shutting down my drone feed. Keep me updated.” It would just annoy and distract him, and half the skimmer was getting the same info. Jude could relay. He already had to relay to the half of the team that didn’t have Brain-links. You had to be at least an NCO to get one. And QESA didn’t have the resources to put them in their agents.

Laslo looked up from administering a stim-narco cocktail and saw Logan’s eyes clearing a little more, then latching on to Dyson with interest. He tried to push aside the stab of annoyance that caused.

“Weren’t you here before? Like when I, uh….” He seemed to get lost.

“When you set off the disruptor-frag?” Dyson asked, smiling down at him. That little fucker was always smiling. With those fucking cute dimples he inherited from his dad. Slutty little flirt. They were on a battlefield, here!

“Yeah. That.”

“Yeah. What happened to you?”

“Don’ know. Big ball of light, flew through the air, hit my back on something. Seems okay, though. Can’t feel it, anyway.”

Laslo froze. Shit. Fucking shit. He flicked a look up to Dyson. The kid hadn’t caught that. He looked down at Logan’s restless arms and still legs. Then up at the boulder he was lying in front of.
Fuck
.

Nine hundred meters, Major. You have less than ten
. Jude’s “voice” floated in his aural net.

“How fast can Bollinger get back here?” He got the long-click back. Standby.

Three minutes, sir.

“Okay, need him with a package.” Laslo turned to Dyson. “Go back and take the remote up when Bollinger comes down. Move, Dyson,” he said when he knew the kid was going to argue. He used his older-brother voice, which had more effect on Dy than his command voice. Mom would fucking kill him if something happened to her baby. Or worse, she’d turn him over to Gramma Anais. Laslo shuddered.

“’S’wrong?” Logan asked blearily.

“Some of your friends are moving in, bud.”

Logan’s momentary confusion cleared up while Laslo moved down to his feet. “Not my friends,” he said, sounding like a stubborn eight-year-old.

“Logan, can you move your feet for me?”

“Yeah.” Long pause. “Can you help me find ’em?”

“Right here, bud.” Laslo tapped on Logan’s boot with his hand.

“Huh? Where?” Logan was trying to lift his head off the ground, straining his neck to see Laslo, but the c-field held him in place.

Laslo used the butt of his rifle and tapped harder. “Here.”

“Can see you, but….” He looked confused as hell.

“Not a problem. We’ll get it worked out, buddy.” If Logan knew him at all he’d realize how bad things must be for Laslo to call him “buddy.”

Slowly, Laslo moved up Logan’s legs, tapping. He found a sharp object in his u-vest and started poking through Logan’s armor-camos with it. Nothing. Shit.

Bollinger came up with the extendable board. The lift must be back at the skimmer. “Bad?”

Bollinger was a man of few words. With few syllables.

“Yeah. Spine, I think.”

Bollinger nodded distractedly, and started poking at Logan all over again. Laslo barely refrained from pointing out he’d already done that. Bollinger was faster at it, anyway.

“Yeah, nothin’.” Bollinger looked at him, waiting for orders.

“Package him.”

Bollinger hesitated. “’S gonna take ten minutes, Major. Can’t do it wrong, or they might never get him hooked up again.”

He might never have a working spinal column again, in other words. Shit.

“’S goin’ on?” Logan was starting to look alarmed. It was sinking in.

“You have a damaged spinal column, looks like,” Bollinger answered before Laslo could take control of the situation.

Logan’s face paled and his mouth opened, just a little, in shock. His head thudded to the ground. Laslo shot Bollinger a dirty look. It bounced off him.

Three minutes
,
Major
, came Jude’s voice in his net. “Moving to click only.” He double clicked. Laslo automatically double clicked back.

“They can do this in Boise, Major,” Bollinger said, looking at him levelly.

Laslo looked at him a few seconds. They needed to get the hell out of here.

Fuck!

“Clean up and cover us.” Bollinger sprang into action, taking off the field AED while Laslo moved to Logan’s head. Then Bollinger was up, covering their position from the south. The rest of the stuff wasn’t critical to recover, but field AEDs were expensive little fuckers, and someone in SpecOps Accounting would have their ass if they left it. Not to mention he didn’t know if it was standard equipment for RIA militiamen, and they might notice it sitting there when they came marching up.

“Logan, gonna have to leave you, buddy.” Inexplicably, Laslo felt like throwing up.

“You said I was going to Oregon.” Logan looked like he was about to cry. Not mad or betrayed, just crushed. Something twisted in Laslo’s chest.

“You will, I promise.” Laslo started pulling off the IV vial and picking up the little med kit detritus. Trying to make it look like Logan hadn’t received help. Like he’d doctored himself. It could happen. Even the c-field.  You know, if you were gullible. “Listen to me. You’re the only survivor. You used your own med kit.” Laslo searched Logan’s utility armor until he found it. “And administered your own drugs, okay?” Logan just looked at him while Laslo cleared the med kit of the appropriate supplies. He dumped the drugs out on the ground, leaving the packaging littered around. Logan wasn’t answering. “Okay?”

Finally, Logan nodded.

“They’ll grow you a new spine in the vet tech center in Boise, and when you can travel, I’ll come back for you.” Laslo looked him in the eye as he said it. Logan had to know he was sincere.

“You’re coming? You promise?” He looked so terrified and vulnerable and hopeful, Laslo couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and gave Logan a quick kiss.

“Promise,” Laslo whispered against his lips.

Logan’s face relaxed a little, and he shut his eyes. Laslo started to move back. Logan’s hand shot out and grabbed him. “Promise?”

“Yeah. I promise, Logan. I’m coming back to get you.” Even if he had to do it on his own time. “Then I’m dragging your hot ass out on some dance floor and grinding against you all night.”

Logan looked startled, but strangely reassured. Laslo pulled back, looking in his eyes. “Bollinger, fall back to the skimmer.” He clicked the fallback signal to the craft.

He started backing, but Logan’s voice stopped him. “You’ve never seen my ass.”

Laslo gave him a quick grin. “More to look forward to.”

Chapter 23

T
HEY
picked up an unfriendly going back over the Snake. Brownlee Station had gotten their shit together to send out a ground missile. But Holland was not only pilot extraordinaire; he could handle an antimissile laser at the same time. And chew gum. All without a junior pilot.

At least that’s what James picked up from the chatter around him, both the verbal and the mental. They’d given him a com, but not a weapon. Probably smart.

He could feel Matt stirring. “Coming to,” he said to the medic, who’d harnessed in nearby. The guy set his e-harness to mobile, coming over. He didn’t talk much, which was currently one of James’s favorite personality traits. Matt’s whole damn family seemed like a bunch of chatterboxes.

Just as Matt’s mind was hitting conscious levels, the tallish guy with the curly black hair by the door—Jude?—finally said something that caught James’s interest.

“Th’fuck? Is that a
horse
swimming the river?”

James head shot up. Shit. He’d forgotten Miz, and now she was alone. Not that they could have fit her on the skimmer, but maybe he could’ve… what? Given her his address? His head was too muddled to make contact, even though he tried.

“James.” Matt’s voice re-centered his attention.

“Matty?”

“That sounds like a girl’s name.”

James gave Matt a weak smile and leaned down, giving him a gentle kiss. “Miz is swimming the river.”

“Don’t worry, babe. She’ll find you.” Matt squeezed his hand and seemed to fade out again.

Babe
. James soaked it up. No one had ever used an endearment for him. Unless he counted “dude,” “asshole,” or “cocksucker.” “Dude” was generally used in the more tender moments. Like, “harder, dude, pound my ass!”

“Daddy” was not an endearment of any sort in his reckoning.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the storage wall, letting the medic check Matt over as well as he could with James pressed up tight against Matt’s head, stroking his hair. The medic never complained, and James didn’t offer to move.

They took the skimmer to Forward Operating Base Joseph, and then caught a Feng Niao to Weimer. Matt came to when they switched aircraft. Long enough to say goodbye to Beni, who was being sent to an NACC convent in the Willamette Valley. She was pissed about it too.

Until they loaded a still slightly woozy Van Vanos on the same craft with her, so he could head back to QESA HQ. Then she started cooing over him and forgot all about the convent. James wondered idly if Beni was going to join the mile-high club and lose her virginity at the same time. Van looked like easy pickin’s.

The medic had pumped Matt full of nano-menders for the burns, and James could already see improvement when they hit the brightly lit field at the Weimer Airbase. By morning he would have pink skin and some itching, the medic said. James was pretty sure that was the longest sentence he’d said all night.