Axton strode down the stark hallway, the sound of his boots echoing the sudden, hard shell of detachment he had pulled around himself. The moment Tide mentioned the General, Conan, the intimate warmth of the infirmary—the sheer, liberating shock of his spontaneous attack of affection—had to be buried.
He entered the secured vehicle bay, where a single monitor had been lowered from the ceiling. The screen flickered, resolving into the stern, silver-haired image of his father.
"Captain," General Conan's voice was sharp, a drill sergeant's bark even through the comms.
"General," Axton replied, standing rigidly at attention, his face an impenetrable mask of stoicism.
"I got a little report. You were... distracted. Loose," Conan observed, his silver eyes cold and penetrating. "That soldier, Renault. I told you to leave him here to go through proper discipline, not drag him back to your quarters like a pampered pet. Is this how you handle your rule?"
