“So how are you feeling today, Mr. Kelley?” Dr. Gordon asks me, like he does every time that I come into his office. I swear the man is a hypochondriac in some way or another. I know I have my condition, but that doesn’t mean every sniff and sniffle I get is a sign of my impending doom.

“Just fine, doc,” I answer him, shrugging off my shirt. I know he’s going to want to give me a full check-up, and considering how much I pay the man, I guess I can tolerate the extra stethoscope touches freezing my nipples into icy little points. “You would have enjoyed my workout Monday afternoon, did double salmon ladders.”

“Impressive,” Doc says, looking distracted. “You know, most men in your position don’t spend as much time as you do on your body.”

“Do you mean being a billionaire or being on some weird sort of terminal timeline?” I ask. “It’s been five years since I had a flare-up.”

“That ‘flare-up,’ as you call it, was your disease moving from stage one to stage two, as you well know,” Doc says. “You’ve actually lasted a long time with the disease. Trikala Syndrome normally has a timeline of five years or less.”

“Which is why I semi-retired and take good care of myself,” I counter, hopping up on the bed. “Come on Doc, other than Trikala, you gotta admit, I’m in good shape.”

Dr. Gordon laughs, but still seems distracted. “Rick, you know that I don’t normally do regular patient care, but as one of my nurses who shall remain nameless says, you’re well put together.”

“Then why are you looking at me like I’m a foot and a half in the grave?” I ask him, and Dr. Gordon sighs. “Shit.”

Gordon nods. “You haven’t felt anything, probably a sign of your diet and fitness regimen, but the markers in your most recent bloodwork are undeniable. You’ve moved into stage three. From here, the disease is very easily chartable.”

I sigh, rubbing at my face. “How much time do I have?”

Dr. Gordon consults his readings before looking at his calendar. “I’d say a year. You’ll have a good six to ten months before the symptoms start seriously affecting you, then from there….”

“No more Richard Kelley,” I finish for him. “Doc, I’ve had thirty years of life so far. And for the past twelve of them, since I contracted Trikala Syndrome, I’ve lived more than some men do in two lifetimes. So if that’s the way it’s gotta be, that I have to check out just shy of thirty one… well, so be it.”

“Rick, I’ll keep trying to find treatment,” Dr. Gordon says. “You’ve invested millions of dollars, it hasn’t all been wasted. There’s a few ideas out there, I’ll see what I can do.”

I nod, shrugging my shirt back on. “Well Doc, stay in touch. If you don’t mind though, I think I’ll pass on the normal checkup rigmarole.”

I leave the doctor’s office, taking the elevator down to the ground floor of the hospital. The hospital with its attached university are just one of the reasons that I built my estate where I did. Besides, Minnesota’s nice, and I don’t have a problem with cold winters.

My assistant, Freida Worth, is waiting for me in the limo when I climb in, dressed as she always does in a very sexy Donna Karan suit that highlights the figure that turned heads when she was in college, and still does in the boardroom. To say that I’ve used her physical charms to off balance some of my business enemies from time to time… I’m not ashamed one damn bit.

“I can tell it’s not good news,” Freida says, adjusting her glasses and setting down her tablet. “I’ll wait until I hear the news before I add the cherry on top then.”

Freida’s worked for me for the past decade, she’s a little older than me, but I’ve never had an interest in her beyond professionally. Still, she cares about me in a sisterly sort of way. “Seems you might be out of a job come next Labor Day,” I tell her before filling her in on the short meeting with Doc Gordon. It doesn’t take long, and Freida listens silently as I reach the finale. “So… figure I’m going to have to get as much living as I can in before stage four.”

Freida takes a moment to collect her thoughts before replying, it’s one of the ways that I know she actually does care for me. “I’m sorry, Rick. Really, I am.”

“And I guess you don’t have good news for me either,” I say, cracking open a mineral water and taking my afternoon vitamins. “Hit me with it, Freida. I’m dying, but I’m not dead yet.”

“Harvey is calling a board meeting,” Freida says after I swallow my water. “Says he wants to bring the Panther contract to a vote of the board.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “How many times is he going to try and get me to cave on the goddamn Panther project?”

“As many times as it takes until he can get it in front of the Pentagon,” Freida says. “I’ve got a few contacts within the Department of Defense-”

“You mean broken hearts,” I wryly comment, and Freida chuckles. “Go on.”

“They say that the Air Force is looking for something to replace the B-52 finally. And after the clusterfuck that the F-35 program was….”

“They want something that’s got good PR and more behind it,” I finish. I sigh, leaning back as the limo speeds towards my estate. “Freida, I designed the Panther to be a revolution in ecological aircraft.”

Freida, who holds a degrees in business as well as mechanical engineering, nods. “I know. Unfortunately, the same technology that makes the Panther able to supercruise from LA to New York on half the fuel of a Dreamliner also means the plane’s nearly radar invisible. You know that’s half the reason the FAA is shitting their pants about approving it for commercial use.”

“And why we changed the design to incorporate more aluminum dope in the paint job,” I say. I hated that change, it cut fuel efficiency by ten percent. “What does Harvey want to do with it?”

“He says that with the current design, the seats can be yanked, a bomb bay put in, and it’d carry more than a B-2,” Freida says. “Honestly, the engineer in me says it can be tweaked to carry more.”

“And the B-21 program?” I ask. “Wasn’t the Air Force all hard up on that one?”

“Apparently the price tag’s a bit too much for them,” Freida says. “Half a billion, when a Panther would be roughly half that, plus savings in fuel costs and commonality?”

“Commonality?” I ask. “What the hell else does Harvey want to do with those things?”

“Replace the KC-135’s and KC-10’s with Panthers,” Freida says. “I took a minute to look over all the details, since you were too busy swimming to read it all. He thinks that with Panther technology and airframes, he can pitch the Pentagon on replacing all their old airframes with K-S systems.”

I curse, hating the name. “You know, making that decision to join forces with Harvey Stone when I was nineteen was probably the dumbest decision I’ve ever made.”

“Even more than bicycle touring through Greece at eighteen?” Freida asks, and I smirk.

“Nah… too many good memories of that trip,” I concede. “We have to stop him, Freida.”

“Of course, Rick. How would you like to go?” she asks, before rolling her eyes. “Of course. I’ll have the helicopter fueled and ready to go. When would you like to depart?”

“This evening. And book a reservation for dinner tomorrow in New York, I’ll let you choose where. If I have to go to New York City to deal with Harvey, the least I can do is get some decent food out of it.”

“Any favorites in mind?” Freida asks, and I shake my head. “Well then, we’ll see. I’m feeling Thai, so I think Uncle Boons would be nice.”

“What would I do without you?” I ask as the limo pulls up in front of the estate. Freida chuckles, and gets out, holding the door for me. “Well?”

“Probably have to pay twice as much to three different people, none of whom would give half the damn I do about you,” she admits. “Come on, I’ll fill you in on Harvey’s plan while you get changed for your workout.”

* * *

The board room at Kelley-Stone Consolidated is modern, lots of steel and glass and all sorts of touches that reminds me that I let Harvey Stone run far too much of the day to day business of ‘our’ company. Then again, when you’ve got the time limit on your life that I do, there are some things you just learn to let go of.

“Richard, a surprise to see you,” Harvey says as I come in. Fifty three, with powerful shoulders and still a hint of build to his now spreading frame, Harvey Stone’s been a mover and shaker in New York for going on twenty five years, ever since taking over the family business from his father. He had the money and connections, I had the ideas and the reputation, and at nineteen, I needed a more mature face to open doors for me.

I should have picked better. “I’m interested to hear about this idea on our Panther technology being sold to the Pentagon,” I reply, taking a seat at the head of the table. Harvey bristles, but the fact is I have a higher position within the corporate hierarchy than he does. I just rarely attend. “Why are you trying to push this again? Isn’t getting British Airways and United on board enough for you?”

“Richard, that’s chump change compared to what the Pentagon can do for us!” Harvey rumbles. “There’s potential for over a thousand Panthers to be built, and we can do it without a huge amount of refitting! We do that, and we have the airliner version? The airlines will be creaming their jeans to get Panthers for their pilots, since they won’t have to waste a shitload of time retraining their flight crews!”

I stare at him, not believing what I’m hearing. “Harvey, you know as well as I do the Pentagon isn’t going to put all their bombers and cargo aircraft in our hands. There’s a reason they shop things around the aerospace industry.”

“That was before the Pentagon had to learn to do more with less!” Harvey fumes. “My God Rick, three quarters of the Air Force pilots are flying planes older than they are! Most of the bomber crews are flying shit that is old enough for Social Security! How long do you think the Air Force is going to be able to keep putting out those B-52s and B-1Bs before there’s major holes in our defense-”

“It doesn’t matter,” I reply, cutting him off. “Harvey, when we joined up, I told you in no uncertain terms that I was not going to let my inventions be used for making war. It’s bad enough that GE uses that first one for their damn fighter engines.”

“So instead you let profit slide through your fingers on a regular basis,” Harvey fumes. He looks around the board room, but the other officers know they can’t get involved. This involves the two head honchos of Kelley-Stone, and there isn’t much they can do about it. “Is there anything-”

“No,” I cut him off with finality. “K-S will not be pursuing any Pentagon contracts. The Panther technology is not available for military usage. Any military usage.”

The rest of the board meeting is boring, and I tune most of it out as I get struck by an idea I’ve been tinkering with, an idea in solar tech that, if I can get the damn thing to work, might just revolutionize the market. As the meeting breaks up, Harvey stays behind, until it’s just him, me, and in the corner Freida waiting in a chair. “Something you want to say, Harvey?”

“You can’t keep blocking me forever, Dick,” Harvey growls, using the version of my name that he knows I hate. “I will eventually get control of the company and be able to sell all the goddamn planes I want to the Pentagon and more.”

“Not as long as I own the majority of the firm,” I retort. “Harvey, don’t you think I realized soon after we partnered that you were a bloodthirsty weapons merchant with delusions of grandeur and power? Hell, I knew that as soon as I went into your new office and saw your collection of toy tanks and boats on the display case. So I took all my profits and instead of spending more money than I needed, I bought shares of K-S. And now I own over fifty percent.”

“Those are handmade scale models!” Harvey growls again. If he’s going to call me Dick, I’m going to hit back just as nasty. “But it doesn’t really matter. You can’t be in charge of the firm forever. Not with Trikala Syndrome.”

“How do you know about that?” I hiss, pissed off. “That’s confidential medical information!”

“And who owns your insurance company?” Harvey asks, gloating. “It didn’t take Sherlock fucking Holmes to put it all together once your charitable donations were put together with the charges on your insurance. Such a shame, that mandatory insurance. Guess you could say thanks, Obama.”

“You son of a bitch,” I growl back at him, holding off from punching him in the face by sheer force of will. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll stop you either way.”

“Go ahead… for the few years you’ve got left. You had that flare up five years ago, so you can’t have much time left. I can ride it out, give a few donations to the right members of the Senate Armed Services Committee, delay the programs a few years, and then when you’re gone and your shares liquidated… I’ll control K-S. Of course, I’ll start with a name change. Stone Consolidated sounds much better.”

Harvey leaves, and I wait until he’s gone before slamming my hand down on the table, glad it’s shatterproof and an inch thick or else I’d be paying for a new board room table. “Get the chopper ready,” I tell Freida, who’s already got her bag packed. “I want to be airborne in the next twenty minutes.”

“Already on it,” Freida replies. “What do you want to do?”

“I want you in the co-pilot’s seat on the flight back,” I tell her. It’s the reason I made sure Freida got her helicopter pilot’s license, to back me up. “I want to talk.”

I go to my ‘office’ in the K-S building to change out of my suit, leaving it with the executive assistant I keep here (easiest seventy five thousand a dollar a year job in the world, sit around and forward e-mails to Freida and scan documents). The instructions are simple, get the suit dry cleaned and hang it up for when I come back. That done, I change into my flight suit. I never fly in a suit, I’m not James Bond.

Up on the roof, I see that Freida’s also changed, her purple and pink personalized helmet under her arm. Across the forehead area in bold gold script are the letters HGF, standing for ‘His Girl Freida’ or ‘His Girl Friday,’ take your pick. “Ready, Rick?”

“Yeah,” I reply, getting into the pilot’s seat and running preflights from memory. Five minutes later we’re airborne and I turn west, staying low enough that I don’t have to worry about air traffic control out of Kennedy or La Guardia.

We’re about a half hour into the flight, most of the way to Scranton, when Freida speaks up. “You want to talk about it?”

“I need an heir,” I reply, flipping the switches on the autopilot. I bought the customized Augusta Westland 139 helicopter for two reasons. First, it’s got a hell of a long range for a helicopter, which makes flying from Minnesota to New York possible with the extra fuel tanks I had installed. Secondly, on the times I don’t want to fly, the passenger cabin still seats four people very comfortably. And if I need to go further, I’ve got the jet. “I have to keep K-S out of Harvey’s hands.”

“What about your will?” Freida asks. “Deeding control to someone?”

I shake my head, checking the heads up display as I monitor fuel consumption. Just to be sure, I decide to do a refueling stop in Michigan, it looks like I’m fighting a headwind. “The incorporation documents for K-S don’t allow it. My shares can only be fully passed down to a blood heir. Which creates a problem.”

“You need a child,” Freida says, a touch of pain in her voice. “You know if I could….”

I look over at Freida, nodding. “I know.” It’s a painful subject for her, and I understand why. For all of her physical and mental perfection, and Freida’s a woman who can hold herself up there with any in the world, she’s infertile. “And if you could Freida, I’d say you’d be at the top of the list of women I’d want to bear my child.”

“Thank you,” she says, her voice thick before she clears her throat. “So what do you want to do? Surrogate?”

“Can’t trust them,” I reply immediately. “They figure out who I am, and they’d hold the baby hostage for more money, and I can’t deal with a long, drawn out custody fight.”

“So get married,” Freida says, like it’s as simple as getting a driver’s license. “I’m sure the list of women who’d say yes is probably as thick as the Mankato phone book.”

I think about it again, then shake my head. “No… I can’t trust them either. Freida, have you ever wondered why I’ve never let any of those women into my life yet I trust you totally?”

“The thought has crossed my mind occasionally,” Freida admits, and I can hear the chuckle in her voice. “Let me guess, I’m the mature influence you’ve lacked since you were a child?”

I laugh, leaning back in my pilot’s seat. “Something like that. No Freida, the reason’s simple: your motives are clear. You work for me, and yes, you’re friendly with me, but you don’t have ulterior motives for it. All those other women, they want something else. Fame, fortune, influence, a move up the society ladder, whatever. They all want something besides me. I give one of those gold diggers a baby, and my child’s going to end up either sold out or more fucked up than the Kardashians.”

“Rob is pretty fucked up,” Freida admits. “So what’s kicking around in that super genius brain of yours?”

“A mail order bride,” I reply, making Freida do a double take. “No, I’m serious. If I have to deal with a gold digger, then at least I want one who I know is up front about it.”

“An interesting point of view,” Freida says. “What’s going to stop her from ditching the money and taking your child as soon as you’re…”

“Dead?” I ask, making Freida shudder. “Two things. First, you. I’m going to change my will to give you some… broad powers over my estate. Not total, but broad. Second, and more importantly, I’ll get a bride from overseas. The marriage will get her the beginnings of a green card, while my child will ensure that sticks, as she’ll be the mother of an American citizen.”

Freida stays silent for a long time, and we’re nearly to Kalamazoo, where I plan to refuel, before she speaks up again. “Rick, I know you trust me with a lot, but your entire family future? How am I supposed to control a mail order bride?”

“We’ll set up the contracts, get a prenup,” I reply. “And Freida, you’re just as capable as any person that was in the board room today. More than some, in fact.”

Freida nods, saying nothing until we land. The ground crew hooks up the fuel lines while Freida and I go inside to use the facilities and stretch some. When she comes out, looking like she’s washed her face and maybe had a little time to collect herself, she finds me doing jumping jacks on the grass next to the helipad. “So… you want me to be your Alfred Pennyworth?”

“Miss Moneypennyworth,” I joke, making her shake her head in exasperation. “I know it won’t be easy, Freida. We’ll have to make the prenup very precise. But when we get back, I want you to reach out to some of the matchmaker services overseas. No Russians though, can’t trust their government. They find out one of their citizens has access to my technology, and they’d steal it.”

“What about China?” Freida asks. “Won’t they steal it too?”

“They’re stealing half of it already,” I joke. “Come on, let’s find me some options.”