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“But they didn’t?” Fal’ran’s voice was raw and hopeful.
“No, they didn’t.” Patrick looked at Bar’in instead. The klah’eel’s narrow shoulders had eased. “Honestly, I think we’ve slipped through the cracks. The brass have bigger concerns and so do we.”
“The Insects attacked Qesha.” Sazahk’s eyes lit up with too much excitement, and Tar and Bar’in shot him uncomfortable looks. “It’s terrible, of course, assuming they’ve done in any damage, but I hear it was unprovoked and that means this is the first time they’ve taken any truly aggressive action, assuming again that they’ve actually done any damage or hurt anyone.”
Fal’ran snorted and Patrick saw him gather his things out of the corner of his eye. “I think it’s safe to assume they’ve done some damage, Sazahk.”
Sazahk sucked his teeth. “It’s never safe to assume.”
“We’ll all find out soon enough.” Patrick swept his eyes over them and was proud to see they’d already packed their bags like a proper tactical team. “Let’s move.”
They jogged out in formation, leaving behind the pull-up bar Fal’ran had used every morning, the weight bench where they’d spotted each other, the desk Sazahk had covered with flowers and leaves, and the dirty blanket Bar’in had serviced his guns on. The four of them had gone into that tent with nothing but a vague, then intense, dislike of each other. Now, they left it united in their conviction to stage a coup if Patrick was relieved of his duty.
The coup part put a pit in Patrick’s stomach, but the united part made him lift his chin as he led them toward the sky port.
“Holy shit,” Fal’ran breathed as they merged with the river of soldiers flowing down the main road.
“Stay close.” Patrick glanced over his shoulder to check his team was tight on his heels.
A whole camp mobilization was a sight to see and even Patrick had never seen it at this scale. Bodies pressed in from every side. Heat, dust, and the scents of sweat and gun oil clogged the air. Gatlungs and rifles gleamed in the sunlight.
Despite the overwhelming sights, sounds, and smells, the scene was one of order, not chaos. Pure, simple, brutal order as only the Klah’Eel could do it. No traffic jams, no confusion, only movement to the airfield and a clean split into two columns. Each column lined up at a transport bay, where ships zipped back and forth from the surface to orbit, ferrying soldiers up to Base Ship Givast.
Each member of Squad M was vibrating by the time they halted on the tarmac to await their transport.
“I’ve never seen a Klah’Eel base ship.” Sazahk vibrated with excitement, his skin swirling with green.
“Well, you’re about to.” Bar’in with nerves.
Patrick glanced over his shoulder, but only made it to the sturdy set of Fal’ran’s jaw before snapping his face forward again. He flexed his hands and wished the damn transport would hurry so he could stop feeling Fal’ran behind him.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he was feeling, and he didn’t want to analyze it, but with nothing to do but watch the tiny speck in the sky that was the transport grow with agonizing slowness, he couldn’t stop himself.
Mostly, he was embarrassed. He didn’t know where he’d found the bold words he’d snarled as he’d made Fal’ran come—oh god, he’d made Fal’ran come—but now he remembered them and cringed. Had he really said that? Had he really done that?
And would he get to do it again? A giddy, excited desire dueled his mortification. He wanted to do it all again and again and again and he wanted to do other things, too. After decades of celibacy and his own hand, his body burned with the knowledge of what it felt like to be intimate with another man.
And not just any man. With a young, brilliant, aggressive, gorgeous man that encapsulated everything Patrick had ever wanted and wanted to be. The last feeling he contemplated as he watched their transport inch across the sky was a blended mess of fear, shame, and a vulnerable longing that made him feel so fucking small.
He liked Fal’ran.
He wanted him in ways far beyond the physical because, of course, he did. Patrick couldn’t untangle sexual and emotional desire. And now the sting of rejection burned behind his eyes. Fal’ran wouldn’t want anything beyond a little fun. For good reasons: Patrick’s age, his inexperience, his fall from grace. He wouldn’t want it, so Patrick wouldn’t ask him.
And it hurt.
“Patrick.” Fal’ran’s voice was quiet enough to be only for his ears. “Can we talk?”
Blessedly, the transport roared overhead at that moment, so Patrick didn’t have to wrestle with the guilt as he shook his head. “Not now.”
Fal’ran fell into formation, and the guilt reared its head, anyway. They’d talk later, Patrick told himself. The last thing he wanted was Fal’ran thinking Patrick had rejected him. He’d clear that up. Later.
As soon as the transport hit the tarmac, the gangway hissed open, and the ramp fell to the ground with a thud.
“Strap in!” Patrick led his squad up the gangway toward the rows of sling seats. The seats hung so close together, the broad shoulders of the klah’eel would press against each other and hold them in better than the flimsy seat belts.
As Patrick marched, the rhythmic stomp of boots behind him stuttered. A split second later, Bar’in’s voice snapped out hard and vicious. “Hey! Watch your fucking foot before it gets blown off, too.”
Patrick whirled around to see Tar holding Fal’ran’s collar, keeping him from tipping over the edge of the gangway. Bar’in squared off with another soldier, his teeth barred. Fuck. A soldier from Squad L. They’d lined up next to Squad L and Patrick had been too caught up in his own head to realize.
