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 70. Not bad. In fact, I was impressed. But I pushed through to 150. 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 2 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.
I cleaned up and went to the shop, because I did have actual work lined up. One of the warehouses needed new bearing rollers for their loadout system. Silver went to her “job.” I actually don’t know where she disappeared two divs a day. I should probably learn that, though I assumed it involved talking to Naumann about me, though hopefully through mail drops. I couldn’t imagine he’d risk another face-to-face, but I should find out.
I worked until lunch, and was able to stop thinking. The rollers were straight tube, with pressed in bearing surfaces on each end. I did that part by hand, once I had them cut, because there were only fifty of them and it was easier to hold the piece and crank the press than to set up the Brett Loader to do it. I hate having the mechanical monstrosity walk around the shop anyway. It feels too
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 70. Not bad. In fact, I was impressed. But I pushed through to 150. 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 2 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.
I cleaned up and went to the shop, because I did have actual work lined up. One of the warehouses needed new bearing rollers for their loadout system. Silver went to her “job.” I actually don’t know where she disappeared two divs a day. I should probably learn that, though I assumed it involved talking to Naumann about me, though hopefully through mail drops. I couldn’t imagine he’d risk another face-to-face, but I should find out.
I worked until lunch, and was able to stop thinking. The rollers were straight tube, with pressed in bearing surfaces on each end. I did that part by hand, once I had them cut, because there were only fifty of them and it was easier to hold the piece and crank the press than to set up the Brett Loader to do it. I hate having the mechanical monstrosity walk around the shop anyway. It feels too
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