Rick Partlow - Honor Bound

“No, President Jameson was lenient with him because he cooperated with us. He was under supervised house arrest for a year for evaluation, then he was given some land and a start-up grant on Loki. He has a cattle ranch there, selling beef to the multicorps’ cafeterias and company markets.” McKay shrugged. “From reports, he’s pretty content there.”

“You’re going to be burning a lot of antimatter on that trip,” the President mused. “But I don’t think anyone will praise my frugality if we wind up being invaded by Antonov’s things again. Our economy barely recovered from the first time and it wound up costing Greg Jameson his job.” He glanced up at McKay. “I know it’s not your area of expertise, but I’m not sure our economy has actually recovered… or that it will. It was the right thing to do to end the forced exiles, but combined with the war, it’s left us with inflation that might prove to be runaway unless we do something about it.”

“Do something like what, sir?” McKay asked cautiously.

“Have you heard of a bill in the Republic Senate to allow the use of biomech technology in private industry?”

“Christ no!” McKay blurted. “Are they serious? Sir.”

“That was my reaction as well, though as a politician, I had to be a bit more diplomatic about it,” O’Keefe said, chuckling softly. “The thing is, though… I may not have a choice in this. If things get much worse, it will get passed and if I veto it, it will be overridden. There are things I can do to try to derail it… but if I fail, I will have used up one hell of a lot of political capital for nothing and possibly made myself the first Republic president to be a lame duck for over half of his term.”

“So, what can you do, sir?”

“To stop the bill? Perhaps appeal to the people. There’s enough residual fear from the invasion that they might pressure the Senate to vote it down. About the economy?” He shook his head. “I wish I knew. But that’s my problem. Yours is Antonov. You solve yours and I’ll try to solve mine while you’re gone.”

“Maybe you should talk to Valerie and Glen sir,” McKay suggested.

“That’s not a bad idea at all,” O’Keefe admitted. “Have a safe voyage, Colonel,” the President offered his hand and McKay shook it… but O’Keefe held onto the hand for a moment, looking him in the eye. “Find Antonov, Jason… find him and kill that son of a bitch.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” McKay nodded, then he left the office.

Was it his imagination, McKay wondered, or did O’Keefe look older?

McKay stared at the empty duffle bag sitting on the bedroom chair and wondered what he was going to pack. It had been five years since he’d left on an interstellar voyage and the last time had been as a Captain in charge of a grand total of five people, including himself. Now he was a Colonel, probably due to be promoted to General soon, the head of the whole damned Intelligence Service, and he was about to go gallivanting off to the edge of explored space.

“What the hell are you thinking, McKay?” He muttered to himself.

“You’re thinking, ‘I hate being behind a desk and thank God for this excuse to get out in the field again,’ that’s what you’re thinking,” Shannon’s voice whispered in his ear as her arms slipped around his waist. He could feel the tickle of her fire-colored hair against his face, the warmth of her bare skin against his back and he smiled with satisfaction.

He turned, putting his arms around her and pulling her into a kiss.

“We start doing this again and you’ll never get packed,” she teased him.

“Well, I am going to be gone for several months,” he raised an eyebrow. “Gotta leave you something to remember me by…”

“How did I get stuck manning your desk while you have all the fun?” She beat a fist against his chest playfully. “You’re supposed to delegate this sort of thing to me .”

“I wanted to take you along,” he confessed. “But with Kage stirring up so much trouble, I thought I should leave someone with some sense of diplomacy here to deal with him.”

“Ha!” Shannon barked. “Me? Diplomatic? I’ve always thought of knocking people’s heads together as the best sort of diplomacy.”

“Hey,” McKay protested, “back during the war, you had to deal with a colonial governor, a senator and a president! And that turned out okay.” He sighed as he let her slip out of his arms. “You’re right though, I have to pack. The shuttle for the Decatur leaves in two hours.”

“The Decatur ? Isn’t that Captain Minishimi’s new cruiser?” Joyce Minishimi had been one of the Fleet captains who had launched the final attack on the Russian Protectorate ships during the war, and with Arvid Patel, one of the two Captains to promote McKay to the overall commander of the assault, despite his then-inferior rank.

“Yeah, it was in port and between patrols, so I requested her. Haven’t seen much of her since the war.”

“Come on,” Shannon said, grabbing a robe from the bed and slipping it on. “Let me help you pack.’

Joyce Minishimi’s breath chuffed with effort as she kicked into a sprint, legs pumping, each stride landing perfectly as she came down the last quarter mile of the course. The beautiful Japanese red spruce, yew, gingko, and Yezo wild cherry trees passed by her faster and faster as she raced through Nakajima Park. She vaguely registered the other runners but didn’t bring them into focus; her focus was on the finish line. She felt as if she didn’t have even a hint of energy left, her legs felt as if they were on fire and she was fairly certain she’d developed a blister on her left big toe, but she gritted her teeth and kept her legs moving via force of will.

Then it was there, the finish line… with just one other female in front of her, only twenty yards ahead. Screaming hoarsely, Joyce threw herself forward, pushing past the other woman and crossing the finish line, then stumbling and nearly collapsing, limping painfully towards a table with water bottles, trying to catch her breath. She opened one and downed it in one gulp, then threw it down and snagged another before sinking to the grass.

“Did you really,” a voice asked from behind her, “run the whole Hokkaido marathon?”

She turned and saw a man in a black uniform walking towards her, seemingly out of nowhere. He was a young man, but with the look of experience, his brown hair cut short, grey eyes framed by a lean, strong-jawed face.

“I run it before every long patrol, McKay,” she nodded. “Hard to find time for this when we’re under way.” She looked up and spoke loudly and clearly. “Authorization Minishimi, simulator off.”

The image of the Hokkaido morning vanished, replaced by the bare walls of the RFS Decatur ‘s simulator bay and the shifting treadmill that made up its floor. The only adornment in the room was the small plastic tray with water bottles and a few towels.

“You know,” she said, wiping the sweat from her neck and toweling down her short, dark hair, “when they started building this ship three years ago, I thought it was ridiculous to install a rotational drum just for recreational and medical use. After all, we spend most of the trip in the g-tanks anyway. But I have to admit, it’s handy having someplace to get a good workout at one gravity when we’re not using the drive.”

“You’re looking good, Joyce,” he told her, squatting down on the floor beside her. He smiled as she started. She hadn’t seen him in years and it took her a moment to remember that they were of equal rank: a Fleet Captain was equivalent to an Intelligence Service or Marine Colonel. “I thought I’d call you that while I still could,” he explained with a chuckle. “You’ll be an Admiral soon enough.”