Rogue(11)

We slipped out quietly. Chel was still asleep and wouldn’t be up until 2.5 for school. No need to wake her. Then we were down the stairs and into the shop, quickly through the machines and out the back personnel door. Silver apparently thought it was fun. It wasn’t likely she’d done anything like this. Heck, she was only six years—less than nine Earth years—older than my daughter. That was almost scary.

We walked the first couple of hundred meters, stretching out our pace to let muscles warm up. Then we moved into a loping jog.

I wanted to start easily. As I’d told her, the purpose was to get used to gear. We were both in good shape.

I was still in decent shape.

I wasn’t in bad shape.

I’d thought I was in shape.

Yes, I practice military hand-to-hand regularly. Yes, I have a fairly active lifestyle, walk regularly and carry large loads around the shop. I found out then there’s a huge difference between an active lifestyle for a civilian and a top-trained soldier.

The pack fit okay, pulling at my shoulders only a little. My holster wasn’t bad, though it bounced a bit against my hip. The weather was a nice twenty-three with a slight breeze coming from the northeast—sea breeze; we were about twenty-five kilometers inland. It was still dark. I headed straight for Perimeter Road so we could parallel the fence around the starport for a bit.

I was sweating and ragged by the time we got there. I got worse as we ran along it, heading west toward the mountains. Breath was burning my throat, my guts were hard and lumpy in pain, and I was bulling my way through from sheer bloody-minded determination. At least I still had that. I didn’t have my wind anymore.

I turned us around after three kilometers and headed back, against the sea breeze. It was past dawn now, Iota rising and the wind freshening against us. That was good because it was cool against the clammy sweatiness of my body, bad because it was more resistance.

I was only too glad to be back at the shop, my lungs screaming, muscles spasming and sweat pouring out of me. She was still fresh. Obnoxious little bitch. Then I saw her indulgent smile. She was trying to politely mask it, but not well enough.

Another lesson had to be delivered. “Pushups,” I said, and dropped, still wearing the pack.

She actually tried to keep pace with me.

First of all, men have far more upper-body muscle than women. This is why women carry their rucks on their hips, men on their shoulders. Second, I might not be fifteen anymore, but I still carried heavy loads often, and Special Warfare Candidate School had taught me about pushups. You get very good at them when they’re handed out like candy. I recalled several days when I’d had to deliver 1500 or more for some minor infraction.

She stayed with me up to seventy. Not bad. In fact, I was impressed. But I pushed through to one hundred fifty. She was impressed. I counted them as I went, nose down to the cast floor of the shop, inhaling the tang of metals, plastics, ceramics, solvents and oils, then up. I focused on a tiny chip in front of me, barely deep enough for a fingernail, and pumped up and down.

Then I sat back against the Number two mill.

“Well, I’ve got to work on my running,” I admitted. There was no point in pretending.

“You’ll be fine in no time,” she replied. She had that hint of bother that said she was afraid of saying more lest she annoy me or embarrass herself. She zipped her top open, the stretchy fabric bouncing free from her chest. “Damn, that feels better,” she said with a smile. She was admitting she wasn’t as tough as she’d made herself out to be. So, she’d been pushing, too. That was a good sign. I respect determination.

Oh, damn me, that was a perfect pair of breasts. If I’d walked by in the park and seen them, I’d have stared discreetly and politely. Now I had them intimately close and off limits.

They say Lawrence of Arabia was a masochist who only got off on pain and suffering. Was I that way, too?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to learn all these things about myself. I just wanted to raise my daughter in peace. After that . . .

Yes, I had seriously considered checking out after she reached adulthood. I could arrange an honorable accident, leave no note as to my past, and no one would ever know.

Except, of course, Naumann knew now, Silver did, Chelsea did, Andre could guess . . . if I killed myself now, no one would believe an accident, and if I didn’t leave a note, they’d suspect foul play.

I couldn’t even die in peace.

I don’t know if a god, the god, some god and goddess or some committee exists. If they do, though, when I get to the afterlife, someone is getting an ass kicking, and if they think their being omnipotent will stop me, they’ve never met a pissed off Operative.