Deirdre O'Dare Fire On Ice

IRE

…Beneath the smooth, cool skin, Gordon could feel the

slow stir of blood and life. Even here in the frozen hell of
Gelada, Bard smelled clean, no lurking musty odor like
unwashed bodies and old sweat. There was a scent almost
sweet, pure and fresh, like a pine forest or a mountain meadow
on Bard’s skin and in his close-cropped hair.

Gordon’s lips explored farther, testing and tasting the

texture of Bard’s neck, the shape of his ear, the stubble along
the side of his jaw. Gordon’s hand splayed across the other
man’s flat abdomen. He felt the solid muscle, then traced the
line of hair that marched down Bard’s chest, past his belly
button and on to his groin. Its texture was crisp but not wiry,
and although he couldn’t see, Gordon knew the color would be
brown lit with glimmers of copper and gold like the rest of
Bard’s hair. Ever so slowly his hand quested lower. He found
the thatch of thicker hair and then the warm shaft that came
alive at once to his hesitant touch.

Suddenly he knew Bard was not asleep, not even playing

possum anymore. At that moment, Bard’s hand also shifted.
He found Gordon’s cock, pressed his palm against it through
the soft fabric, rubbed its length. Gordon gulped back a groan
as that caress reverberated through his whole body. Every cell,
from his toes to the top of his scalp, came to tingling life in an
instant.

They couldn’t do this. Someone could come to check on

them any moment or the wasps could attack or…but there was
no way in deep freeze hell that he could deny himself this
time. It might only be once—it could only be once—but he
would have it to remember for the rest of his life. Yes, oh,
God, yes…

LSO

EIRDRE

O’D

ARE

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Pickup Man

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Saved By Sam

The Taming of Jaelle’n

To Protect and…Seduce?

Treading Dangerous Ground

FIRE ON ICE

DEIRDRE O’DARE

MBER

UILL

RESS

, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

IRE

MBER

UILL

RESS

OOK

This book is a work of fiction.

All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of

the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,

or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

No portion of this book may be transmitted or

reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission

in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief

excerpts used for the purposes of review.

ISBN 978-1-60272-232-3

Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To the recollection of my first glimpse of

“Sputnik” and “TeleStar” long years ago, and to the cast,

writers and crew of the original Star Trek series.

Mr. Spock is still one of my heroes! These impressions awoke

in me a fascination with the idea of exploring the

universe and an endless curiosity as to what might be found

“out there.” My Uni-Fleet stories are my imagined

efforts at space exploration.

FIRE ON ICE

CHAPTER 1

Gelada,
2285

They had it all wrong. Hell was cold, and Bard was there.

Someone had said it was minus fifty-five Fahrenheit this
morning, at least before the thermometer froze, the red liquid
inside congealing like clotting blood in the bulb.

On Gelada, the Uni-Fleet Troops fought two enemies—the

illusive, barely-visible armies that harried them with continual
swift-stabbing attacks and the weather. So far the weather had
inflicted the most casualties. The natives were small, almost
bug-like in appearance, and attacked in insectoid swarms,

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using cruel but tiny spears and arrows, glass-bladed war axes,
weapons primitive almost beyond belief. Only the fact they
could move lightning fast, in spite of the snow and ice, and
were all but invisible until they fell upon you made them even
marginally effective. Silence and surprise were their stock in
trade. Woe betide the straggler who fell a few steps behind the
unit. He was marked for death at once and taken down with
merciless efficiency. Three of their number had been lost that
way before word spread and everyone stayed closely bunched.

Bard found a certain irony in the fact that, for all the

technology at the Universal Council’s disposal, troops on the
ground, armed with old-fashioned projectile firearms were still
often needed to take and hold territory. On many of the worlds
the council sought to conquer and add to their galaxy-spanning
empire, much of the technology simply did not work. Gelada
was one of those worlds. What value they perceived in this
misbegotten ball of ice on the outer fringes of explored space,
he had no idea.

He only knew no electro-magnetic-based devices were

reliable here. The experts had some lengthy explanation about
magnetic fields and energy bands that he didn’t fully
understand. Because of this, he knew his force was operating
at least five hundred years into the past. They carried EM-25
rifles that used gunpowder and archaic metallic projectiles.
They communicated with battery powered wire-linked
“phones,” or tried to when the batteries didn’t freeze. At close
range, some radios worked some of the time.

The rest of the time it was shouts and hand signals, neither

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too effective with the constant howling winds and blizzard
conditions that cut visibility to a hundred yards or less. His
only reliable contact with the upper command structure, secure
and comfortable in a large ship orbiting high above, was the
telepathic link through an implant in the bone behind his ear.
He could receive orders through it and send an occasional
urgent message back in an emergency—provided a tele-tech
was on duty at that particular console on the ship.

“Ours is not to wonder why,” he muttered to himself.

Captain Bardon Welstaad has no need to know the big plan.
He has only to lead his unit of mixed army and marine troops
and take control of a section of this icebound wasteland. If he
doesn’t freeze to death first or fall victim to the snow wasps’
diminutive blades, that is. Right now Bard doubted he would
ever be warm or see sunlight again.

Sensing motion at his left, Bard turned his head. Easily

recognizable in his bulky cold weather gear, Gordon Farrell
marched beside him. The senior enlisted man in Bard’s
command, Gordon was a veteran of numerous campaigns on
worlds hot, cold, dry, wet, and filled with every horror one
could imagine. The big man’s unfailing calm and almost
uncanny ability to say and do what was needed had made him
Bard’s de facto second-in-command. Without Gordon, he
wasn’t sure he could even keep the unit together, much less
maintain the discipline needed to press on and pretend to take
control of this long rocky peninsula of arctic terrain.

To the right lay the sea, black water that somehow did not

freeze, perhaps due to the concentration of mineral salts it

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carried. The wind blowing off that body of water cut like razor
blades. Down the other side was a river. They’d glimpsed it a
few times, roiling water plunging down cataracts and racing
through rapids in a mad dash to join the ocean. Neither offered
hope of hospitable safety zone in an emergency. Supposedly
other units moved up similar long fingers of land and they’d
all meet somewhere ahead where the ragged arms joined a
mainland. That was really all he knew.

Lost in thoughts that had wandered too far from the

moment, Bard stumbled at a sudden impact. When had his
pack suddenly trebled in weight? The next thing he registered
was hundreds of darts of pain as the cold flowed into his
insulated body gear through gashes made by the sharp blades
of a hoard of snow wasps. He’d read once of an ancient torture
called Death of a Thousand Cuts. He’d never expected to
experience it, even in this strange variation. Thought faded as
first pain overwhelmed him and then hypothermia shut down
his conscious mind.

* * *

It was an instant before Gordon registered the attack on his

commander. Just an instant, but almost too long. He gave
throat to a howl of rage and pain, less coherent than the
thoughts racing through his mind. No, nothing can happen to
the captain. I can’t stand it. I won’t let it.

There was no room to aim, little use in firing, lest he hit

Bard by mistake. He swung his rifle in frantic arcs, using it
like a bat. He felt impacts jolt up his arms as he knocked snow

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wasps every which way. Someone just ahead heard him yell,
passed the word and the whole unit came rushing back, primed
to fight. As they usually did, the natives called off their attack
and scuttled away, vanishing as quickly as they had come.

“We’ve got minutes to save the captain, maybe less. He’s

losing heat way too fast. Somebody pitch a tent, two together
if you can.”

Every man carried a small shelter, pup-tent size, in his

gear. Made of windproof nyla-max fabric, they where very
insulating and durable but light. Two together with a small air
space between the layers provided good protection from the
cold and could be warmed with a compact catalytic heater or
two, another part of each man’s gear. Within seconds, a tent
was up, two heaters were going and they’d dragged Bard
inside.

Now he could be stripped of the damaged suit without

instantly freezing. Gordon tore off his own gloves and opened
the front of his suit, then went to work on Bard’s. He ripped
away at the layered fastenings and peeled off the shredded
fabric. It was in tatters, cut so many times that nothing could
be salvaged. While he was busy with this, two other sergeants
rolled out a sleeping bag. As soon as they had Bard out of his
“Eskimo suit,” they maneuvered him into the sleeping bag.

Gordon looked at the death-still form of his leader, his

beloved leader. “That’s not going to be enough. He’s lost too
much natural body heat already. We’ve got to help replace it.”
He shrugged out of his own suit to squat briefly, nude, before
he slid into the bag on one side of the captain. A junior

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sergeant did the same on the other side. They had to zip two
bags together to accommodate the three bodies, but that only
took a moment.

Sparing a glance for the men hunched in the opening,

crowding close around the tent, Gordon knew they were
scared and miserable. They looked to him for leadership. “Get
camp set up here. We can’t go on until we either bring the
captain around or—lose him. Keep the circle close with all the
entrances facing in. The spider’s blades can’t cut the tents as
easily as the suits. Stay alert; one man of each pair has to be
awake at all times. Hunker down, eat and rest. That’s all we
can do right now.”

He knew the men would obey. They were all near the end

of their endurance, but their training kicked in and took over
in times like this. When a senior man gave orders, they all
obeyed. That was the only way they could hope to survive. In
moments, the men had left, closing the tent’s flap against the
cold. The immediate care of the unit seen to, he turned his
whole attention to the icy body against which he lay.

::Damn it, Bard, you can’t die. I won’t let you. I love you,

man, and I’ve never had a chance to tell you. You’re the best,
the finest person I’ve ever known. You’ve gotta make it.::

He didn’t speak the words aloud. John Fordham, the junior

sergeant, would be shocked to the marrow of his bones to hear
such a thing. Soldiers did not love each other. They might be
friends and buds, they might be partners and teammates and
admit to esprit de corps, to a bond within their unit, but never
to an individual fixation on one person.

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It was such a shocking notion the rules didn’t even address

it, at least not in so many words. But now and then one man or
two would suddenly disappear, and sometimes rumor had it
they’d been caught in a compromising situation or turned in
for behavior deemed unacceptable between two soldiers. To
the unit they left, they ceased to exist.

Gordon swore to himself. Hell, a circle jerk or a group

grope could go unpunished, but let one man even hint at a
personal interest in another and his career was over. He’d
held his feelings in check and bitten his tongue on the words
he often wanted to say out of regard for Bard and for his own
career. Even if Bard had done nothing to incite Gordon’s
regard, the knowledge he’d been the subject of another
soldier’s lust would make him suspect as well. Gordon knew
Bard came from a long family tradition of military service. He
would not shadow the other man’s name, even if it broke his
heart.

This once he had a reason although not one he would ever

have chosen to share a rare interlude of closeness. This
situation provided a unique opportunity. John was not
comfortable with the task and had his eyes screwed tightly
shut. Gordon saw the younger man had kept on his inner layer,
the thin suit liner they all wore. That might diminish the
warming effect slightly, but not enough to jeopardize Bard’s
chances.

He turned to face Bard, wrapped both arms around him

and turned him to lay spoon fashion as closely melded as they
could. Bard’s skin felt like ice, but silken, polished ice.

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Gordon ran his hands up and down Bard’s torso, from
shoulders to low on his belly, trying to stir some circulation
and bring warming blood closer to the surface. His cock
nestled between Bard’s frosty buttocks. ::I’d plug in the
heater if I could, if it would help. I’d slit my wrists and pour
my blood into you. Come on, man, you’ve got to pull through::

If Gordon could have opened his body and taken Bard

inside of him, he would not have hesitated to do it, even if it
meant his own death. That he could not do, but he could
gather the slimmer, shorter man into a close embrace and keep
him there, willing the heat of his own body to flow through
their close-pressed skins. John rolled over, turning his back to
Bard to lie stiff, touching, but as detached from the intimacy
as he could be. Still the contribution of his natural heat was
critical and Gordon was thankful to have it. He recognized that
desire alone was not enough to save the other man’s life, but
right now nothing mattered more.

The seeping of blood from some of the myriad small

wounds on Bard’s body was Gordon’s first clue that heat was
gradually returning. Then he realized the total chill had begun
to ease. He held a living body again, not an ice statue. And
that made it even harder to maintain the iron control he must.
His cock twitched, stiffening and pushing farther in between
Bard’s cheeks. He knew the other man was still unconscious,
but he could come awake any time. How would he react to
Gordon’s obvious arousal? Somehow he had to calm himself
before Bard came to—and before John Fordham realized
anything unusual was happening.

FIRE ON ICE

“I think you can get out, John. He’s starting to come

around. I need to check and see if he has any wounds bad
enough to need first aid. I can feel some blood seeping from a
place or two.”

Fordham was only too glad to scoot out of the sleeping

bags and struggle back into his suit. “I’ll be in the closest tent
I can fit into if you need help, Sarge. Just holler. Want me to
send the medic over?”

Gordon hesitated. As much as he wanted Bard to himself

right now to savor the fact he had not lost his beloved leader,
at least not yet, it would be wiser to have someone else
around. “Yeah, send Dick on over if you can. Have him bring
his kit in case some of these cuts are deeper than normal in a
wasp attack. So far no one’s gotten infections and they don’t
seem to use any poison on their weapons, but our luck could
run out any time there. Pays to be cautious.”

John scooted out through the overlapping layers of the

closed entrances. For the moment, Gordon was alone with
Bard. His hands shook as he pushed the sleeping bag back so
he could squirm out. He donned the inner layer of his suit as
fast as he could drag it on and jammed his stubborn cock
down to fasten the suit from crotch to neck. Only then did he
start to examine Bard for wounds. Before he had finished the
first check, Dick Morris, the medic, wiggled into the shelter.

“How’s the cap’n doing, Sarge?”
“He still hasn’t quite come around, but he feels almost

back to normal temperature. Some of his wounds were
seeping, and I figured I’d better see if any of them were

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serious. Seems like that whole mob of wasps homed in on
him. How did they know he’s the officer? We all dress just
alike and carry the same gear.”

Dick shrugged. “Damned if I know. They do tend to pick

on one man at a time—they’ve learned they can’t go one on
one with us. No telling what they think or understand or
anything, though. Those squeaks and clicks seem to be how
they talk, almost beyond the range we can hear. Damned
stinging wasps. They’re nasty, like spiders and roaches. They
make me sick.”

The medic knelt beside the improvised bed and started his

own examination of Bard. Gordon sat back on his heels and
observed, trying to hold onto some detachment. This is just
another man in the unit, one who happens to be in charge, but
that’s all. Yeah right, and all that white shit out there is
vanilla ice cream.

Dick found half a dozen wounds that were deep enough to

be salved and stapled. He worked quickly and soon had them
taken care of. “That should do it,” he said. “Soon as he comes
to you need to get some hot food into him if you can. Got any
soup?”

“I can fix some,” Gordon replied. “And I’ll add some of

the high-energy powder if he can keep it down.”

“Yeah, that’d be good. Holler if you have any problems or

he shows any bad signs. I don’t know what else we can do
right now. He ought to be coming around pretty soon. I
checked his temp. It’s up to ninety-six or so now. Seems to be
rising. Better wrap him up again, though, just to be safe.”

FIRE ON ICE

CHAPTER 2

Bard came awake by degrees. His whole body felt sore,

abraded and raw. He was bundled in what he finally identified
as a sleeping bag, or perhaps two, and they seemed to weigh
him down. He wanted to shove them back, but he didn’t have
that much strength. An even greater weight bore against him
on one side. After a minute he realized it was another body,
one that pressed against him from neck to ankles, closer than
he had been to another human being since his last liberty on
Quaydeshaar. That desert world was well-known for its
talented prostitutes and dizzying drinks. He could only
remember bits and pieces of his time there.

By slow degrees, the attack came back to his recollection.

FIRE ON ICE

Of course, his suit had been shredded by the wasps’ obsidian
blades. Though small, they were all sharp beyond any metallic
blade technology could devise. Volcanic glass seemed never
to go dull. He was damned lucky to be alive. Once his suit was
breached, cold must have replaced heat in seconds and he’d
gone into hypothermia. They must’ve acted fast to save him.

Gordon. It had to be Gordon’s doing. Now he owed the

big, somber man even more. His breath leaked out in a long
sigh. He could never speak of it, much less act on the horribly
incorrect things he felt. To do so would be a piss poor way to
repay the older man’s steadfast loyalty and support. Chances
were he didn’t feel the same way at all and would be horrified
if he knew.

About that moment, Bard registered several things in a

rush. The strong arms that held him close were those of his
hero, his… He had no word to give to what he felt. But
undeniably it was Gordon’s solid body pressing close behind
him—and Gordon’s stiff prick between his buttocks!

Oh. My. God. It was and the other man was hard as a pole

of the Gelada ice, but a whole lot hotter. And it felt so damn
good. It took all Bard’s will not to wiggle his butt back as
close as he could get or reach back to grasp that big, solid
cock and guide it into him.

Instead, he pretended to be still unaware, lying stiff and

unresponsive while first someone on his left and then Gordon
slithered out the bag. Gordon started checking his wounds, and
then Dick Morris came in and dressed those that were
apparently the worst. After he heard Dick leave and the small

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sounds Gordon made as he pulled a canteen out of his suit, he
began to stir and then groan a little. He didn’t have to fake the
pain—he hurt all over.

They all carried canteens in inner pockets of their suits, the

only place water did not freeze solid. He heard the splash as
Gordon poured some into a plasteel cup and set it atop one of
the heaters. When it boiled he’d add the dehydrated mix to
make soup. After that, Bard opened his eyes and rolled to face
the other man.

“Thanks, bud. I know you had to take charge. Nobody else

could have done so much so fast. And if you hadn’t, I’d be
dead.” His voice came out in a ragged croak.

The big man jumped at the sound.
“Ba..er…cap’n. You’re gonna make it. Hell, man, you

scared us all shitless out there. Fucking wasps came outta
nowhere and they all jumped on you. Sliced your suit to rags
in about ten seconds. You were cut some, but Dick said none
of them look dangerous. It was the cold that almost got you.”

“I know. Sharing heat is about the only way to pull a

person out of that kind of hypothermia. I owe you my life.” A
tumble of other words wanted to burst free, too, but he held
them back.

Gordon glanced at him just once, anguish keen in his

expressive gaze. “Did what needed done,” he muttered. “Can
you eat a little?”

“I think so.” Shifting, Bard tried to lever himself up with

one arm. He couldn’t do it. He was as weak as a newborn.

“Lay still,” Gordon ordered, speaking with a growl in his

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tone. “I’ll help ya in a minute.” He mixed the soup, stirred it a
few times and turned to Bard. With one arm, he raised Bard’s
shoulders from the pallet and held him, while bringing the cup
to his mouth with the other. “Just sip until we make sure you
can keep it down.”

Bard nodded his acquiescence before he took one cautious

sip and then another. The warm broth felt good, soothing and
heating as it slid down his throat. He felt the warmth spread as
he took more, as it began to puddle in his stomach and warm
him from the inside out. Another warmth spread from the solid
support of Gordon’s arm behind his back. Too soon the cup
was empty and both comforts were withdrawn at the same
time. He felt abandoned and bereft, as if the cold were
overtaking him again. “Don’t go…”

Gordon flashed him a look, half exasperation and half

something else, something Bard didn’t dare try to decipher.

“I’m not going anywhere—we put your tent and mine

together here. Where would I go? I’m going to make you
some more soup. Dick said you needed to get some food and
heat inside you. You’re still fighting to keep your body
temperature up.”

Two more cups of soup later, Bard began to feel drowsy,

but it was a natural weariness, not the sudden blacking out the
cold brought on. “Still not warm,” he muttered, “but better.
Just don’t have any strength.”

“It’ll take a few hours,” Gordon said. “Think of it as

coming back from the doorstep of death. That’s a long, cold
march.”

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Bard nodded as he slipped into a hazy, dozing state. He

knew when Gordon crawled back into the joined sleeping bags
a little later, but it was more a deep inner knowledge than an
actual mental awareness.

* * *

Gordon had waited, watched Bard drift back into slumber,

but this time it was a healthy sleep and not the frightful mock
death of hypothermia. He hesitated, knowing Brad needed
both the sleeping bags to protect him in his current fragile
state, knowing that even more warmth would help…and yet
not trusting himself. Being so close yet keeping his hunger in
check would be the hardest battle he’d ever fought. Could he
do it?

With a slow, exhaled breath, he peeled off his outer suit,

but kept the liner on when he turned the heaters down a couple
of notches and slid back into the combined bags. Bard made a
slight sound and turned onto his side, edging closer to Gordon
once he settled into place.

::Gawd, Bard. You’re killing me. Do you have any idea

what a struggle I’m going through here? I never thought we’d
be this close, not ever. Likely we may never be again, but I’d
be taking unfair advantage, wouldn’t I?::

He didn’t speak the tormented words aloud, but he had a

distinct feeling that somehow, in some inner part of himself,
Bard heard him. The captain shifted, one arm sliding back
toward Gordon. Then his hand settled on Gordon’s thigh. It
was too much. Gordon wrapped his right arm around Bard’s

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body and gathered the other man snugly against him. There
was just one thin layer of fine silk-like fabric between their
skins, between Gordon’s throbbing cock and its goal. Bard
moved slightly, mumbled something. Gordon froze.

“It’s all right, bud. I don’t mind.”
Had he heard right? He didn’t dare ask. The slurred words

might have been spoken in a dream, might not have been
meant for him at all, much less the things he was thinking of
doing… The smooth skin of Bard’s shoulder and neck, inches
from Gordon’s face, drew him like a magnet. Before he could
stop to think, he moved enough to press his lips against the
closest spot—the curve where shoulder arched into neck, a
somehow vulnerable spot, a tender yet sexy spot.

Beneath the smooth, cool skin, he could feel the slow stir

of blood and life. Even here in the frozen hell of Gelada, Bard
smelled clean, no lurking musty odor like unwashed bodies
and old sweat. There was a scent almost sweet, pure and fresh,
like a pine forest or a mountain meadow on Bard’s skin and in
his close-cropped hair. Gordon inhaled it, for a moment letting
himself drift away to long-ago memories, a time before
soldiering and a harsh life had taken his innocence and joy.

Somehow Bard seemed to have kept his goodness,

managed not to be sullied and warped by the politics, the
violence and the stark, ugly realities of a fighting man’s
existence. Maybe that was the measure of true
aristocracy…the ability to hold on to something finer when
your whole world fell to pieces around you. At any rate, those
were the qualities that had drawn Gordon from the day

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Captain Welstaad had assumed command of the unit, now
almost two standard years ago.

Gordon’s lips explored farther, testing and tasting the

Suddenly he knew Bard was not asleep, not even playing

They couldn’t do this. Someone could come to check on

“I haven’t been so damned scared in ten years,” Gordon

admitted in a whisper against Bard’s shoulder. “We—I came

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so close to losing you before I had the chance to tell you how
much I love you. Yeah, I know I have no right, no reason
even, but I do.”

“I can’t believe it, not yet, that you’d feel that way. You’ve

been my rock, my support, the one thing I could count on ever
since I took over this outfit. It took a while for me to see just
how things were, but I realized soon enough. I broke the
cardinal rule of the Uni-Fleet—a commander never singles out
one subordinate. But it happened and there’s no way I could
undo it.” Bard exhaled a deep near-sigh.

“Not that I wanted to, deep down. I’ve needed you, needed

the anchor my feelings for you provided. We may not have
another chance, and we may live to regret taking this one, but
it’s ours. I’m asking you not to waste it.”

The catalytic heaters gave off a little light, but other than

that, the tent was dark, an island of safety and comfort in the
midst of the frozen horror. Bard pulled half-free of Gordon’s
embrace and rolled to face him. They lay face to face, arms
and legs tangling and their breath mingling as their faces came
within a whisper of a touch.

“Gord, my God, I’ve dreamed of this a hundred…no, a

thousand times. I never thought I’d live to see it become real.”

“You never let on, didn’t give me even one hint. If I’d

guessed…”

“We’d both be out in disgrace because only by trying to

hide it from each other did we maintain control and the proper
degree of separation.”

“But that way we wouldn’t be here, struggling through this

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damned, ice-bound Hades. There’s no way to know if we’ll
both get out of here alive, Cap’n—er, Bard. If I have to go on
without you…” His voice broke, the thought too painful to
contemplate.

“But we have tonight.”
Gordon felt Bard shift the infinite bit closer until his mouth

came against Gordon’s. Bard’s lips still felt cool, but tasted of
the salty broth he’d consumed. Gordon traced across them
with the tip of his tongue, tested the seam and slipped inside
when Bard opened to him. A dizzying spiral of heat flashed
from his tongue to his cock. The suit liner he wore seemed
unbearably confining. He could feel the moist warmth of
Bard’s cock, pressing against his belly, searching for haven
and comfort.

Then Bard’s hands got busy with the hook and loop

fasteners, ripping them apart, the sound shockingly loud in the
silence. The crotch panel came open and Gordon’s cock
sprang free, surging into the clasp of Bard’s waiting hand.
Bard muffled Gordon’s groan with his mouth, swallowing the
soul-deep sound. He stroked a time or two before slipping his
hand down to fondle Gordon’s balls, hefting and rolling them
with the most gentle yet stimulating caress. Gordon almost
stopped breathing, the sensation was so intense, so
compelling.

For some time they lay without speaking, exploring each

other’s bodies with hands hesitant yet eager, testing for the
most sensitive places, the differences between their two very
masculine yet dissimilar forms. They might almost have been

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of different species, yet a common sensitivity of spirit made
them kin.

Gordon descended from Highland Scots and a few rebel

Irish. He was big and raw-boned, with a hard, angular face
that looked graven from granite in a crude yet not unpleasant
way. Heavy, near-black hair grew thick on his body, almost a
pelt, an inherited protection against the damp chill of a far
away homeland. He had fled the poverty-stricken world on
which his people had been settled and found a home of sorts in
the Uni-Fleet. Fifteen years now, shuttling from one remote
planet to another as the Uni-Council solidified their empire
and their hold on the known universe. He had all but lost
contact with the remnants of family that still lived. The fleet
was his family. It was enough—until the new captain took
over his unit.

Bard came from a Germanic race of old Terra, aristocrats

when Gordon’s people had lived little better than animals in
the harsh remote regions left to the Celts in that long-ago place
and time. Military traditions were bred in his bones, fine and
strong bones that they were. His face was fine as well, ice blue
eyes set deep on either side of a keen blade of a nose, with the
face of an artist or an aesthete, not a soldier, yet a fine soldier
he was in spite of that.

Gordon lacked the schooling to understand some of Bard’s

obscure literary allusions, but he was an avid reader when time
allowed and his level of knowledge had grown much during
the time he had served. Once Bard caught Gordon reading, the
officer began to slip him digitized books when he could,

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encoded chips that would play in the devices they all wore that
served as comm links, rule books and much more. Only here
on Gelada they didn’t work well. But there was no time to
read anyway.

All of Bard’s small kindnesses ran through Gordon’s mind

now. They lay together, touching each other reverently and
with love, letting out the long-banked tender feelings for
which soldiering had no time or place. Their pricks dueled
briefly and then found shelter between each other’s thighs,
slipping back and forth in a slow dance of arousing friction.

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CHAPTER 3

In spite of knowing they could be interrupted at any

moment, in spite of fearing that this would be the only time
they’d ever have, they didn’t rush. This shared interlude out of
time was too precious to meet with haste. They had to savor
every second of it, and they did.

Bard ran his hands slowly over as much of Gordon’s body

as he could reach. He traced the scars of old wounds, mapped
the hard muscle and harder bone beneath that, felt the coarse
hair on Gordon’s chest against his questing palms. Beneath
hair and skin and bone, Gordon’s heart beat a strong, steady
rhythm that throbbed through Bard’s being, while his own
seemed to alter to match it. Somehow none of it seemed

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strange or even new. How many times in dreams had he done
just this? How had he known in those dreams exactly how it
would be? Only reality was better.

He dipped one hand lower again and found Gordon’s dick,

thick and hot to his touch. He drew it out of its shelter between
his own thighs and cradled it for a moment. The heartbeat felt
even stronger here, throbbing against his clasp.

“What do you want me to do?” His words emerged in a

hoarse whisper, taut and urgent.

“I was about to ask you that,” Gordon replied. “Anything

you want, I’ll try to do…anything. It’s been a long time—I
had a lover when I was young, back home. We were both just
kids, but we learned with each other. Since then, I never really
wanted anyone. Oh, yeah, I visited the whores sometimes on
liberty, but that wasn’t any better than jacking off by myself.
About as good as fucking a bucket of lard.”

Bard had to chuckle at that image, disgusting as it was.

“Oh, man, that desperate? Well, it’s been a while for me, too.
And I’d have to agree about the whores. Most of them, no
matter how skilled they are, are so cold, so—empty, I guess.
Like no one’s home in their heads, their hearts. Don’t get me
wrong…I like sex as well as the next guy, but if there’s some
feeling with it, it’s so much better.”

Gordon nodded, and when he spoke again, his tone was

somber. “You’ll get it with feeling from me, Bard. I couldn’t
hold that back even if I tried.” He reached down between them
and caught Bard’s cock in his big, hard hand. “I want to suck
this. Taste you and feel you come apart in my mouth.”

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The two sleeping bags were confining, but they both knew

it was too cold to crawl out of their shelter. Bard lowered one
of the zippers to give them a little more room. Then Gordon
crawled around to get his head level with Bard’s crotch, the
bag still draped over most of his body.

He clasped Bard’s dick near the base and held it steady

while he brushed first lips and then tongue across the tip,
already slick with pre-cum. An urgent shudder pulsed through
Bard’s body at that touch. “Yeah, oh, yeah. I’ll give you about
a week to quit that!”

A few more licks and Gordon took the head and then a

good half the shaft into his mouth. The heat, the slow friction
as he bobbed his head in a gentle rhythm, the connection of it.
Oh man, oh God, this is so good. At first Bard didn’t realize
the groan of delight came from his throat. Sound did not carry
too well in Gelada’s constant howling wind, but he couldn’t
risk it. He jammed his fist against his mouth to stifle any more
sounds.

Out of practice or not, Gordon knew how to give an

extraordinary blow job. He knew just when to pick up the
rhythm, when to pause and swirl his tongue around the groove
beneath the head to tickle every one of those nerve buds into
feverish excitement, when to relax his throat and take Bard as
deep as he could go. The pressure built in a tightening coil of
ecstasy so intense it almost hurt. Finally, he couldn’t stand it
any longer. He came in an explosive rush, spilling into
Gordon’s mouth. The other man didn’t withdraw, but stuck
with him until the last shuddering pulse ebbed away.

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Bard rested his hand for a moment on Gordon’s shoulder

and then pressed it against his stubbled cheek. “That was
amazing. Now I want you to fuck me.”

Gordon hesitated. “Are you sure? I’m big, and we don’t

have any lubrication.”

“Yeah, we do. Your mouth is still pretty juicy, isn’t it?

Rub some of that on your cock and it’ll be fine.” He rolled
over as he spoke, shifting to point his ass in Gordon’s
direction.

When Gordon grasped Bard’s hips, the clasp was not quite

steady, but his dick clearly knew where it wanted to go. Bard
relaxed, opening as much as he could to the blunt probing. He
knew Gordon had been stone-hard all night. The older man
could no more stop now than fly. Bard sensed the other man’s
urgency in the faint tremors he felt as Gordon wrapped Bard
close in his arms and slid in, a tight fit but not painful, not
painful at all.

In, almost out and in again, a slow slide that gave Bard

time to adjust to the pressure. He didn’t need much more of
that. “Come on, man,” he urged. “Let go. I can take it. I want
this. I asked for it. Fuck me, and do it right.”

That was all the inducement Gordon needed. He unleashed

his tightly held control and gave in to his need, driving hard
and fast into Brad’s ass until he came with an explosive burst.
He muffled his triumphant groan against Bard’s shoulder.

After that, they lay spooned together for a while, both

relaxed and drifting on the afterglow. Gordon’s cock softened
and finally slid free, but he continued to hold Bard close. As

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much as he hated to, Bard knew they’d better separate soon,
take the two sleeping bags apart and give the appearance
they’d slept that way the night through. Someone was bound
to look in on them before long. Finally Bard broke the
comfortable silence before they both went to sleep.

“We’d better get these two bags apart and make things

look good. We don’t need to be picked up and sent back to
headquarters in disgrace.”

Gordon blew out a harsh breath. “Yeah, you’re right.

We’ve been lucky so far. Guess it isn’t smart to push that luck.
Thanks, man, for keeping your brain in gear through all this.”
He pressed his lips against Bard’s bare shoulder for a moment
and then let go of him. Bard felt cold at once, but he helped to
separate the sleeping bags, dug a suit liner out of his kit and
put it on, then zipped into his bag alone.

His lingering elation ebbed to leave a soul-deep sadness.

One shared night would never be enough, but it was probably
all they were going to have. As thankful as he was for that one
gift, the pain of impending loss cut him to the depths. For a
moment he almost hoped he would not make it to the
rendezvous point and have to go on from there. Pretending
none of this had ever happened was going to be the hardest
thing he’d ever done.

* * *

They’d separated and settled down just in time. The faint

brightening that heralded morning soon had the rest of the unit
stirring. First one and then another of the soldiers poked a

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head into the tent.

“What do we do now, Sarge? Is the cap’n going to be able

to move today?”

Bard answered for himself. “I’m a little shaky still, but we

need to move. I may need some help, one of you on either side
of me, but we’ll press on. Staying here much longer is risking
another attack, maybe worse this time. Everyone get some hot
food in you and then pack up. We’ll move out in half an
hour.”

Fortunately, he was one of the smaller men in the unit.

With his own spares and borrowed bits and pieces of uniform
from some of the others, he put together enough of an
insulated suit to provide the protection he needed. Some of the
parts hung on him, but that was all right. He could still move
and the extra air space just provided a bit more insulation.
With Gordon on his right and one of the corporals on his left,
they moved out. He tried not to lean on either man too much,
but the two steadying arms were very welcome. It took all he
could give to move one booted foot in front of the other and
press on into the angry teeth of the wind.

They forged on in that manner for three more days,

mercifully spared any more wasp attacks. The command ship,
claiming to have plotted their location, said they’d be at the
rendezvous point in two more days’ march. In their bivouacs,
they followed the old rule of different men bunking together
each night. Perhaps that long-term custom was intended to
discourage any untoward intimacy. Bard had no idea, but he
didn’t dare go against it, as badly as he longed to spend

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another night with Gordon.

By unspoken agreement, Bard and Gordon both worked

not to betray, by word or deed how their relationship had
changed. Whether they succeeded or not, he had no idea, but
he didn’t catch any sly sidelong looks or questioning glances
from the rest of the men. Still, what might happen when they
did reach the rendezvous haunted him.

In spite of his fears, he drove on, compelled by a sense of

urgency that grew stronger each day. Several of the men were
showing signs of frostbite and they were all beginning to lose
focus and edge as the brutal cold continued to erode their
energy and gnaw away at judgment and alertness. In the end,
the weather was still the worst enemy they faced. There were a
few more hit and run attacks by the wasps, but the unit stayed
close together and repelled them with little damage.

Tragedy struck on what should have been the final day.

One minute they were stumbling forward, almost blinded by
stinging, crystallized snow blowing in their faces, and the next
they were sliding and tumbling into a crevasse that opened
abruptly in front of them, unseen until it was too late. The last
few of the band managed to stop in time, the only hope the
unit had of possibly getting out of the icy death-trap with all
their members. Bard was in that trailing group of five men.
Gordon was not.

In the blizzard, there was no way to gauge how deep the

crevasse went. It appeared to be about two meters wide, which
would make getting across or around it a challenge, even if no
one had fallen in, but twenty of the remaining members of the

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unit had fallen. Looking down, Bard could see most of them,
clinging to protruding snags of ice, perhaps rocks with ice
over them. Visibility was too poor to identify which men were
where.

Bard set the four men still topside with him to work in

deliberate haste. They pounded pins into the ice, rigged ropes
and set up the best rappelling points they could. Each set of
pins would have to hold the weight of two men as one went
down and two came back, if those below had avoided injury
enough to help haul themselves up. One by one they retrieved
the fallen. Most were not badly injured, but there was a broken
arm, dislocated shoulder, sprained ankle and plenty of bruises.
Suits had sustained some damage as well, which was the
biggest concern since a compromised suit meant entry of the
deadly cold.

Within an hour they had fifteen of the fallen members back

up, most of them settled in double tents to warm up while
Dick Morris, who had been lucky enough not to fall, tended to
the injured.

Gordon was not one of the fifteen. Early darkness was

starting to fall, making the spotting of and descents to the last
five men more difficult. A chill of dread settled in Bard’s belly
and would not budge.

:: Hang on, man. I’ll get you back. Don’t let go, don’t give

up.:: He had no idea if the big sergeant heard his urgent plea,
but he had to hope. At least down in the gap, the wind was not
much of a problem. Their lanterns were not the best, but shone
a hundred feet or so once they were beneath the wind-driven,

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gritty snow. Bard strapped a light over his headgear and
snapped into a harness to go down. The other men were tiring,
and he hadn’t made the descent yet. It was his turn. He’d find
Gordon or die trying.

The first man he found was John Fordham. The junior

sergeant had grown weak with the cold, but was able to help
some to hoist himself to the rim. Using geared ascenders, they
edged slowly up the supporting ropes, harnessed together.
Once John was safe in the hands of the others, Bard went
down again, shining his light in slow arcs, searching.

Nothing. No one. Not a single betraying shadow of a body

draped over an icy spur or ledge. He’d been down almost the
agreed upon time. No one on the rescue effort was allowed to
be down for more than half an hour. Once that time elapsed,
those on top would begin to haul him back, assuming he might
have been hurt or run out of strength to continue to maneuver.
He had about five minutes left. Then his light penetrated a
hollow, a ledge beneath a beetling brow of ice. The white suit
barely contrasted with the faint blue cast of the ice, but the
shadow of a bulky shape looked enough out of place to catch
his eye.

Bard made his way along the face, swinging out and then

in again like a pendulum, edging closer to the fallen man. It
had to be Gordon. No one else had the same bulk. It seemed to
take forever to get there, but in reality only a couple of
minutes elapsed.

The bigger man was unconscious. Bard refused to consider

the possibility he might be dead or so far gone in hypothermia

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that he might as well be. Working in clumsy haste, he rigged a
harness around the other man’s inert shape. Once he had
Gordon linked to the ropes, he gave three sharp jerks on his
line and then simply held on, unable to make the ascender
work against their combined weight. Gordon was the heaviest
man in the unit.

The ascent seemed to take forever. All he could do was

hold on, try to steer Gordon’s body clear of major obstacles so
his suit would not be damaged any more and pray. He saw one
of the others going down again a few meters to his left, They
were still missing three, but hopes of finding them were fading
fast. The crevasse seemed bottomless. At least his light would
not penetrate to the depths of it. They’d come down about as
far as their ropes would allow, too.

He could not weep. His eyes would freeze shut in an

instant, but he wanted to. Instead, he cursed the power
structure that sent men on such insane missions, senseless
quests, used them like expendable equipment and discarded
those who fell without remorse or sympathy. In that dark
moment, he vowed to resign his commission if he made it out
alive. He’d had all he would endure of this. I’ll lead no more
men to their deaths. There’re already far too many ghosts on
my conscience. And that’s just the dead friends. Now there’ll
be more. If there is a God, Gordon will not join their ranks.

Weary and fearful as they all had to be, many willing

hands reached to take Gordon and help Bard when he got to
the brink. They’d joined forces to heave on the ropes and
bring comrades out of the bowels of this frozen Hades. Now

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they rushed Gordon into a waiting shelter, stripped off his
abraded suit and hovered close while Dick Morris examined
him for injuries. The big sergeant had a broken leg and maybe
some ribs as well. Dick didn’t have the instruments to see
beneath the skin and verify this, but he said several indications
pointed to it.

Bard hovered, too, aching in every muscle, cold to the

bone, but he could not see to his own care until he knew how
Gordon was and then the others who had been injured. In a
decision that sealed the death warrants on the men they hadn’t
found, Bard told the rest not to go down again. They were too
near exhaustion and running short on food to help them build
back the energy they needed to march the rest of the way to
the rendezvous point and fight off the cold. They huddled in
for the night, three to a doubled shelter in most cases, drawn
close for comfort and warmth, and the feeble security they
might gather from one another.

After he had seen the unit bedded down, everyone having

consumed at least a cup or two of soup with the high energy
powder added, he finally ate, then shrugged off his
mismatched insulating suit and dragged his weary frame into a
sleeping bag, sharing a tent with Dick and Gordon. He thought
sleep would never come as he tried to come to terms with this
latest catastrophe. How would they get Gordon to safety?
Could they find a way around the crevasse or a spot where it
narrowed enough to be crossed? How, why, what… where…
when…

He lost the train of thought as sleep claimed him.

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CHAPTER 4

Gordon awoke to a sensation of motion. At first he had no

idea where he was. Every breath hurt as if the snow wasps’
blades were slicing into his chest. His right leg throbbed with
a dull, steady ache and the jolting motion added to his misery.
Where am I? What’s happening?

The cobwebs in his mind cleared by slow degrees, finally

returning enough clarity he could recognize he swung in some
kind of litter, apparently borne by four of the members of the
unit. They’d rigged something with sleeping bags and shelters
to protect him and carry him. Why was he not walking,
though?

Then he recalled the fall, the shocking jolt of pain when he

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landed on a jagged ledge that broke his fall, but also broke his
body. Somehow they had dragged him up and out of that
hellish hole. How many others had been similarly saved?

He’d been in the first rank, three moving abreast. Suddenly

the surface had vanished from beneath their feet, too abruptly
for them to react in time. They fell, and others coming behind
did, too. He recalled muffled yells, screams of pain when
some hit and of terror when others just kept falling. Shutting
his eyes and trying to shut his mind did not help. He’d
remember the horror of it until he died. He had to doubt all of
them had been saved, and the thought brought a sick pain,
even worse than that of his injuries.

Then another troubling question arose. Where’s Bard?

He’d thought the captain was near the rear, urging the men
along and making sure none fell behind, even as exhaustion
and the deadening cold dragged them down. Had he managed
not to fall? Gordon prayed to all the saints and martyrs and
ancestors that Bard had avoided the crevasse.

As far as he could tell, the unit was marching on in an

orderly way, indicating someone was in charge. If not Bard,
then who had the strength and courage to maintain the unit’s
order and discipline? He doubted John Fordham could do it,
but sometimes adversity drove a man beyond the limits he set
for himself or those others imposed on him. Gordon couldn’t
concentrate long enough to follow any of his questions to a
logical conclusion. Some inner sense told him Bard was with
them. Holding that comfort to him, he let himself drift off.

He fell into a fitful doze, a hazy grayness clouding his

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thoughts and dulling his pain. He wasn’t quite asleep, but
close enough everything seemed dim and distant. He could
almost sense his spirit hovering over his aching body, held to
it by the thinnest thread of connection. If he severed that
gossamer cord, he’d be free. No more pain or cold and no
more ache of a love he must deny and ignore. It would be so
easy… But he couldn’t quite do it.

* * *

Bard stumbled along, pacing beside Gordon’s litter,

moving in an automatic way, with barely a sense of where he
was. They’d found a spot where the crevasse narrowed to less
than a meter and managed to cross it. Then they forged on,
while he kept praying they’d come to the rendezvous point
before strength and courage utterly failed. They were all
running on empty. He wasn’t sure how he kept going, much
less the rest of the men. He drove himself to get Gordon to
safety. That was really the only purpose he could hold to now.

What mission had possibly been accomplished by the

unit’s trek up this icebound peninsula? He could not even
imagine. They’d killed some snow wasps, but there was really
no way to tell how many, and lost a total of eight men. They
hadn’t even been able to map the route because of the limited
visibility and lack of any clear landmarks. What’s the bloody
fucking sense of it?

Sometime in mid-afternoon, they stumbled into the large

base camp before they even realized it. Bard looked around as
the fact finally penetrated his fogged mind. The rendezvous.

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We made it. Too weary for exultation, the men staggered into
the nearest prefab shelter, which turned out to be the one
housing the base headquarters. Inside, they found warmth,
light and an absence of the incessant wind.

The litter bearers eased Gordon’s litter to the floor, along

with those of two others seriously injured who’d also been
carried. Then they collapsed, deflating like empty parachutes.
The crew at the base camp gathered quickly, bore the injured
off to the hospital hut and helped the rest to food, beds and
unexpected blessed comfort.

Bard forced himself to report to the commander of the

camp, a lieutenant-colonel of the Fleet Marines, who he’d
known slightly on another assignment. It took all he could
summon to relate an even half-coherent story, but he did his
best. As if the senior officer sensed the captain before him was
running on his last fragile fragments, operating on sheer will,
the colonel dismissed him.

“Go get some rest, Captain. Some of the other units should

be showing up soon. Yours is the second one in. Once they all
report, we can take stock of where we are and what we’ll do
next. You’re in sore need of some sleep and food. Get it.
That’s an order.”

An orderly led Bard off to a small mess hall, where he

managed to slurp up some hot soup and then on to the
officers’ barracks, along a tunnel-like passage. He wanted to
go check on Gordon, but that would not be wise. He didn’t
have the energy to follow up on all the men, he knew. To only
check on one, even if he was the most seriously injured, would

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be the wrong thing to do. Tomorrow…he’d do it tomorrow.
He was asleep almost before his head hit the bunk.

* * *

Upon waking and cleaning himself up enough to look half-

human, the first thing Bard did was seek directions to the
infirmary. Before he got there he was limping, suddenly aware
his feet felt like blocks of wood, numb and yet painful. He
ignored the distress, bent on finding out the status of all his
troops. He asked for Gordon first. After all the big man had
been his second-in-command and had suffered serious,
possibly even life-threatening injuries.

The corpsman at the main desk glanced down, slipped a

record chip into his ’puter brick and read off the screen.
“Sergeant Farrell’s been evac’ed, sir. The mother ship sent a
shuttle down earlier this morning and took Sergeant Farrell
and two others up top. They’ve got facilities to regenerate
frostbitten tissue and do a lot that we can’t here. If the three
men can be saved, it wouldn’t happen here. We can treat
minor things, but nothing like that—internal injuries
compounded by frostbite and exhaustion.”

Bard realized the two other gravely injured men they’d

carried in had also been evac’ed. At least they’d have a
chance. Once he learned none of the others were deemed in
imminent danger, he turned to go, stumbling on feet growing
steadily number.

The corpsman stepped around his makeshift desk and

grabbed Bard by the arm. “Wait a minute, sir. What’s wrong

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with you? You aren’t walking right.”

Bard didn’t resist when another man appeared and shoved

a chair up behind him. He sank onto the welcome support and
watched them as they unlaced his boots, peeled off the liners
and then his socks. Feeling like a detached spectator, he
looked down at his feet, red and oozing with some spots stark
white and some already turning black.

“You should’ve come in at once, sir. You got frostbite…

bad.”

One of the troopers scurried away and returned with a

doctor.

The medic took one look at Bard’s feet and shook his

head. “Captain, you should’ve been on that shuttle with the
others. Why didn’t you come in last night?”

Bard had no answer. He knew his feet hadn’t felt right, but

he’d been too close to brain dead to think about why. He
shrugged. “Didn’t realize how bad they were,” he mumbled.
Although he’d slept a good ten hours, he was still operating in
a fog. It got steadily more dense and impenetrable as he sat,
listening to the voices that seemed to come from a growing
distance, aware of pain and building nausea, yet somehow
apart from it all. A few more minutes and everything faded
into emptiness.

* * *

It was over a standard month later that the expedition ship

UFS Alan Shepherd settled into orbit over the Uni-Fleet main
base on Titan. A parade of shuttles took the crew down to the

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surface, bringing back the maintenance personnel who’d go
over the massive craft from stem to stern before it set off on a
new mission.

Two weeks in re-gen and a massive infusion of drugs had

done their job. Gordon Farrell was back on his feet, ribs and
leg healed and only a memory of frostbite, falling and frozen
Gelada. He still felt tired, dull and weary, but the medical staff
assured him a good R&R would take care of that. He just
needed to go on leave to a sunny, pleasant place for thirty days
and he’d be ready to go again. He didn’t agree. It was time to
leave the fleet. He had twenty-two years of service and there
was not one reason to re-enlist.

He’d made a few discreet inquiries, but no one knew

where Captain Welstaad was, or if they did, they weren’t
telling. That worry added to his malaise. Had the captain
made it off Gelada? Could he have been on the Shepherd all
this time? Might he even now be on one of the shuttles sinking
rapidly toward Titan’s blue surface?

I think somehow I’d know if he was dead, if he didn’t make

it. Gordon had to believe that or go stark mad for the want of
any factual information. It would be enough just to know the
other man had lived and was all right. I don’t have to see him,
much less speak to him, but I’ve gotta find out.

And then I’m gonna put in for my retirement.
The shuttle docked then, the hatch opened and the restless

men aboard began to jostle their way off, crowding down the
linkway to the main port. Gordon shuffled with them, trying to
mute his anxiety. He had to go through the required debriefing

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and processing before he could go on liberty or do any
personal business. He was in no hurry, was he? Not really, at
least not to leave the main base. From their talk, most of his
comrades could not wait to go enjoy the temptations of
Quaydeshaar or one of the other resort worlds.

None of the normal carousing, gambling and whoring held

any appeal for him. He’d never been all that impressed with
the things most of the fighting men called fun, but now they
seemed almost repulsive. Although in many ways it seemed
more like a dream than a real happening, the time he’d shared
with Bard lingered in his mind. That memory was too precious
to be tainted by newer and less heartfelt sex.

He was not quite sure where he’d go once he mustered out.

The fleet had been his home for all his adult life. His
childhood had been spent in savage, raw poverty on a ragtag
world where rebellious Celts had been shipped, a bit like the
penal Australia of long ago Terran infamy. There was nothing
for him there. He decided it didn’t matter. Any place he could
find an isolated corner to crawl into, a remote nook where he
could hang out and just exist for the rest of his allotted time
would be all right.

* * *

On two feet renewed by the re-gen treatment, Bard made

his way off the shuttle. Back on Titan again, where he’d begun
his career with the basic training all junior officers had to
complete almost ten years ago. He’d learned Gordon and
several of the other members of his unit had been aboard the

FIRE ON ICE

Shepherd on its trek home, but he hadn’t even tried to see
them. A lethargy gripped him, one he could not shake or
ignore. If he could just hang on long enough to put in his
papers to resign his commission. After that, he really didn’t
care. He could die or lose his mind or become a vegetable and
it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.

The old military tradition of hurry up and wait still

prevailed in the Uni-Fleet, more so at headquarters than off in
the remote outposts. How in the name of all holy can they still
require men to stand in line for hours only to put a thumbprint
on a touch screen to release their pay?

Why should it take hours to accomplish each of a dozen

other tasks readily handled electronically with data flowing
from each person’s ID chip and wrist unit direct to the
mainframes monitoring and managing everything that went
on? It must be a ploy to enforce discipline, Bard decided. He
found himself praying once he returned to civilian life, he’d be
free of all this. If I never stand in another line, it’ll suit me just
dandy.

The long periods of waiting sapped his strength still

further. Four days into the ordeal of processing out, he almost
gave it up as too damn much trouble. The only thing was, he
was now neither fish nor fowl, not in the service anymore, and
yet not out of it either. There was no going back. He had to
finish the job. Finally, it was all over. He was no longer
Captain Welstaad, but simply Mr. Bardon Welstaad, civilian,
standing in one final line to get aboard the transport Deliverer
which would, in time, deliver him back to his home world of

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Valhalla, one of the planets orbiting Aldebaran.

Two parallel lines inched along, as one after another the

passengers cleared security and moved aboard to their
assigned seats and compartments. Bard never knew what made
him glance across at the other line, hardly more than an arm’s
length away. But he did. He glanced and then looked back,
suddenly coming to total attention. The big man looked
different out of uniform, but Bard would know Gordon Farrell
anywhere from the gates of hell to paradise’s portal. It took a
moment to make his voice work. “G…g…gordon? That is
you, isn’t it?”

Gordon’s head whipped around so quickly Bard could

almost hear his neck pop. For an instant he stared, as if unable
to believe what his vision reported. “Bard. Oh, Lord, you’re
alive, and you must be out, too. Am I seeing things, or is it
really you?”

They each moved a half-step out of line, holding their

places while coming close enough to reach across and clasp
hands. An urgent jolt of pure energy leaped across between
them at the first touch. Bard’s right hand almost disappeared
in Gordon’s left, engulfed in the big man’s grasp.

“Where are you heading?” they both asked at the same

time, then stopped, grinning like a pair of fools.

“I’m supposed to go to Valhalla. That’s where my family

is, most of them. They aren’t going to be happy with me, not
staying until retirement, but right now I don’t give a damn
what they say. And you?”

“I’ve got passage to Trebeck. It’s a relatively new world to

FIRE ON ICE

council settlement, but sounded like a place I could live. I
grew up on Derry Down, and that’s sure no place to go back
to. I figure most of my kin is dead by now. The life
expectancy there was about forty years standard when I left at
seventeen. I’d be an old man by their measure.”

“I could change my destination,” Bard offered. “In fact, I

think I’d like to. Turn on your comm unit. I’m going to text
you the number of my compartment once I get everything
changed. As soon as we get the all-clear after lift off, come on
down. We can talk there in privacy. Unless you have one,
too.”

Gordon shook his head. “No. I saved my mustering out

pay to try and get a home when I land. I just have a bunk/seat
in economy class.”

“Okay, I’ll look for you this afternoon.” Bard’s line was

moving and he had to go with it or step aside and go back to
change his destination. Gordon squeezed and released his
hand.

Suddenly he wasn’t tired any more or lethargic. Life had

new meaning, hope and a destination for him.

FIRE ON ICE

CHAPTER 5

At first Gordon didn’t recognize the emotions surging

through him, All at once he felt light, a bit dizzy, something
wild, wanton and wonderful singing through his veins. Then
he found a name for it—happiness. The line, the wait no
longer chafed. The next few hours would pass too slowly no
matter what he did, but they would pass. And then… His
pounding heart would not let him follow the line of thought
much farther into a future rife with possibilities.

He found his seat, strapped in, and tried to relax while the

ship lifted off. Compared to troop transport, even economy
class was pure luxury. The seat shifted to mold to his body,
supporting him fully in the high-g force of lift off. The

FIRE ON ICE

protective helmet had headphones, which poured forth
soothing music with an option to turn on entertainment vids
inside the goggles. He didn’t bother with that.

Once the ship was clear of Titan’s gravity well, there was

no sense of motion at all. A bevy of attractive young men and
women moved among the passengers offering food and drink,
small game and reading consoles, almost anything a person
could possibly desire. Then the message came through that
passengers could get up and move around the decks as they
chose, except for a few areas that were off limits to all but the
crew. That was the signal he had waited for. He almost shot
from his seat.

Glancing at the screen of his wrist comm, he double

checked the number of Bard’s compartment. Seventeen B
forty-two. He had to ask one of the attendants for directions.
Moments later, he stepped off the elevator on the correct deck
level and hurried down the wide corridor, scanning portal
numbers as he went. Then one swung open as he approached.
Bard stuck his head out, his face breaking into a wide smile
when he saw Gordon.

“I figured it was about time you got here. The all-clear was

a good fifteen minutes ago!”

Gordon let himself be dragged into the small room and

waited until the door clicked shut behind him before he
reached out to pull Bard into a crushing embrace. For long
seconds they held onto each other, letting the wonder of it
seep through their bodies, into their minds.

“It’s okay,” Bard said. “It’s really okay. No more hiding,

FIRE ON ICE

no more dread and fear and worry. This is really the first day
of the rest of our lives, and I think we’re going to spend them
together, aren’t we?”

“Damn straight,” Gordon said, bringing his grin down to

meet and mesh with Bard’s. They kissed for almost as long as
they had embraced, taking time to savor the intimacy, the
assurance no one would break in on them or challenge their
right to be together. It felt so damn good. Almost too good to
be true, but in time he figured he’d grow accustomed to it.
Happiness—the feeling was so new and yet so incredibly
wonderful. It was a better buzz than the best malt whiskey, a
higher high than the finest hemp grown on Quaydeshaar. He’d
never enjoyed anything like it.

Still holding each other, they stumbled toward the inviting

bed commanding one side of the compartment, suddenly both
weak and dizzy with the intoxicating joy of being together.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” Bard said. “Back on

Gelada, I learned they’d taken you up to the command ship.
That told me what bad shape you were in. I know the re-gen
and other things the medics use can work wonders, but I was
still scared. I expected I’d never see you again. Then they
found out my feet were almost gone to frostbite. I’d torn my
boots going down that crevasse after you and never even
realized it. That meant I got sent up top, too.”

He took a deep breath. The intensity in his eyes was almost

more than Gordon could stand. There was so much care there,
so much remembered pain.

“I was able to find out you were alive, but that was about

FIRE ON ICE

all I could learn. By then we were heading back to
headquarters anyway. At that point, I gave up. I’d made up my
mind I was getting out, leaving the fleet, but I figured you’d
be off to a new assignment before I could process out. All I
could think of to want was just to crawl off and die quietly,
alone.”

Gordon felt himself nod, understanding on the deepest

level. “I know. I couldn’t quite let myself commit suicide, but
I sure wasn’t working very hard to stay alive. I picked a place
to go and that took all the ambition I could summon. But then
there you were this morning. I thought I was dreaming.”

They fell onto the bed together, lying side by side and face

to face. Their bodies pressed so close they seemed to share a
heartbeat, breathe the same air. A few minutes of that and they
began to find clothing an intolerable barrier. Four hands made
short work of unfastening the more casual apparel of their new
civilian lives. Shirts and trousers, shoes, socks and underwear
scattered around the compartment to fall haphazard as tossed
by impatient hands.

“It’s not cold. It’s not confined. We don’t have to worry

about anyone hearing or coming in unannounced. Is this
heaven or what?”

“Tir-nan-og,” Gordon agreed, naming the paradise of old

Celtic folklore.

Bard propped himself on one arm and looked at Gordon,

the heat of his gaze as tactile as a touch. Then he followed that
look with an actual touch, a slow slip of his palm from
shoulder to pecs to abs and lower, fingers wrapping around

FIRE ON ICE

Gordon’s dick, already rising in anticipation.

“I’m going to love you all over,” he said. “And then

probably go back and do it again.” Following words with
action, he took Gordon’s cock in one hand and, at the same
time, began to kiss and lick his way down Gordon’s torso
from shoulder to hip bone.

For a few moments Gordon lay still, passively absorbing

his lover’s ministrations. At last he could stand it no longer.
He had to take a more active role. When Bard reached his
groin and pressed warm lips against the head of Gordon’s
prick, he couldn’t remain unmoving.

“Turn around, man. Kneel over me so I can taste you while

you’re going down on me.”

Bard hesitated a long few seconds until Gordon began to

fear he’d refuse. The old habit of deferring to his commander
was still too deeply ingrained to make demands, however
badly he needed to give as well as take in this exchange.

But no demand was necessary. Hardly lifting his head,

Bard edged around until he straddled Gordon’s torso. That
placed his balls and cock within easy reach of Gordon’s hands
and made it a not-impossible reach for his mouth. He didn’t
intend to bring Bard to a climax, but if he could tease him to
the brink of it, that would be perfect.

He stroked the velvet sheathed steel of Bard’s cock,

feeling the powerful throb of blood pounding through its
length. He cupped Bard’s sac and rolled the testicles gently
between his fingers, and was rewarded with the other man’s
sharply indrawn breath and the tremors in his muscled legs,

FIRE ON ICE

pressed close to Gordon’s sides.

Still, Bard continued to suck him, taking more and more of

Gordon’s erection into his mouth, far more than he would
have expected to be possible. The moist, heated cavern of
Bard’s mouth cherished and tantalized him, Bard’s swirling
tongue dancing along his most sensitive areas to send swarms
of fireflies flashing through his veins. In another moment, he
was going to explode.

He paused in his caresses as the pressure built and

everything else faded from his awareness.

Then his climax burst forth, a hot gush of sticky cum

flooding out a shuddering series of jolts that left him limp and
trembling.

Bard released Gordon’s cock, which subsided to lie limp

between his thighs. He felt like he had been wrung out and
spread to dry. “Oh, man, where did you learn to give a BJ like
that?”

Sitting back on his heels on the bed at Gordon’s side, Bard

grinned like the proverbial Cheshire Cat. “Not too bad for an
amateur, eh? I think I was really inspired.”

Gordon wanted to sock him in the shoulder, grab him and

press that grin into his sated but still sensitive flesh. But he
was too trashed for the moment to do anything. “You wise-ass
bugger, you. I don’t know what to say. How about if, as soon
as I get my breath, I turn over so you can fuck me? You’ve
still got a woody there.”

Bard’s grin didn’t dim. “I could go for that. Any time

you’re ready.”

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As he rolled onto his stomach and then heaved himself up

onto his knees with his ass in the air, Gordon knew he was
grinning like an idiot himself. If this was a fair preview, their
new life on Trebeck was going to be hot enough to melt the
polar icecaps, and after Gelada, hot sounded like the best thing
since aged whiskey and freeze-dried hemp.

EIRDRE

O’D

ARE

Deirdre O’Dare, who also writes milder (roughly PG-13 rated)
romance as Gwynn Morgan, has loved reading and writing
since early childhood. Writing came naturally to
Deirdre/Gwynn, who scribed her first simple verse at age
eight. An avid reader, she devoured hundreds of books while
growing up and later as an adult. Somewhere along the way
she found romance and then romance with more explicit and
detailed love scenes. “Ah ha,” said she, “I think I have found
my niche!” In the last decade after leaving her “day job” as a
civilian employee of the U. S. Army, she finally settled into
romantic fiction writing as a second career. Deirdre has a
growing number of shorts and novellas, all published by
Amber Heat.

With Irish and Welsh ancestry on both sides of her family,
Deirdre has always been enthralled by the history and customs
of the Celtic peoples as they have come down to us. The
Mother Goddess idea particularly resonates with her as well as
the notion that physical expressions of love between
consenting couples are both a divine gift and a sacred duty to
honor the Mother. Deirdre admits her favorite heroes are cops,
cowboys and Celts.

* * *

Don’t miss Treading Dangerous Ground,

by Deirdre O’Dare,

available at Amber-Allure.com!

Seasoned Starfleet officer Jayce Hightower takes care of his
troops. That includes supporting green soldier Balt Donovan
through his first exposure to combat. What Jayce has not
expected, however, is that the striking young man will soon
come to dominate his dreams, stirring unfamiliar and
disturbing desires.

Once Jayce learns Balt is similarly attracted to him, the
situation starts to careen out of control, putting both of their
careers in jeopardy. Jayce almost welcomes the hazardous
assignment that sends him alone to a distant, dangerous
world.

But when Jayce’s mission is betrayed, Balt comes to his
rescue. Will Jayce finally be able to accept the unconditional
love Balt offers him?

MBER

UILL

RESS

, LLC

OME

MBER

LLURE

UALITY

GLBT F

ICTION

OTH

RINT AND

LECTRONIC

ORMATS

CTION

DVENTURE

USPENSE

HRILLER

CIENCE

ICTION

ARANORMAL

ROTICA

YSTERY

OMANCE

ORROR

ARK

ANTASY

ONTEMPORARY

ISTORICAL

ORE

…

IRECT

AVE

http://www.Amber-Allure.com

HERE

OVE

LIND

ENDER

…

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