by Rick Partlow
McKay shrugged, seeming preternaturally calm. “As far as we know, there’re only two forces out there with access to star travel: the Republic and the Protectorate. Someone hijacked the Patton and whoever it was had access to star travel. If you’re right, and Antonov isn’t behind this, or at least isn’t the one planning it, who else does that leave?”
“Someone on Earth,” Podbyrin realized, half-moaning. “Bozhemoi.” He frowned, confused. “But it had to have been Protectorate forces that took the ship…your Admiral said he saw biomech troopers there.”
“It had to be the Protectorate,” McKay agreed with a nod. “But you’re telling me that it can’t have been Antonov and it can’t have been anyone else in his officer corps. And then there’s Mironov, who certainly thought he was Antonov’s duplicate and I can tell you he acted like he was Antonov.”
“So it was Antonov, and yet I do not see how it could be him,” Podbyrin mused, taking a moment to move a rook. “This…this is an interesting problem. Do you have any ideas?”
“D’mitry, all I have is ideas right now. I have facts that could fit together in a hundred different ways and all of them are pretty bad.” He moved one of his knights again, then sat back in his chair. “But the longer I think about it, the more sure I am that the timing of all this is no coincidence. Things are bad back home: a lot of people with a lot of money and power stand to lose everything, and I don’t think they’ll let that happen without a fight, even if it means dealing with the Devil.”
“What do you plan to do, McKay?” Podbyrin asked as he took a knight with his rook.
“I plan to trust Shannon,” he told the Russian, grinning ruefully. “She’s a much better chess player than I am.”
* * *
Charlie Klesko wiped sweat from his shaved head with the back of his hand, swearing softly under his breath at the Houston humidity and the way the late afternoon sun was reflecting off the marble tile floor in Commerce Square. His dark eyes flicked from side to side, from the other security agents arrayed at various key positions in the square to the crowds of tourists and gawkers wandering through, to the cluster of Republic HoloNet reporters and the various indie netrag dilettantes that rode their coattails.
He was uncomfortable and it wasn’t just the heat. He hadn’t worked Presidential Security since the Jameson administration and wouldn’t have ever considered working it again if President O’Keefe hadn’t personally requested him…and personally explained why. He’d spent the duration of the Protectorate invasion in a secret shelter with then-Senator O’Keefe along with his daughter and her fiance, as well as Shannon Stark. He’d been wounded in the attack when the Protectorate forces had seized President Jameson and slaughtered most of the sitting Senators, and Shannon Stark and the others had saved his life, so he had reluctantly said yes when Stark and the President had told him about the threat and asked him to take charge of security.
“The meeting is over,” Amelia Moriarty reported from inside the gleaming, white-faced corporate temple that was the Executive Council Headquarters, looming over the square like impending death. “They’re all coming out.”
“Got it,” Klesko responded into the microphone of his ‘link, then pulled his tablet out of his coat pocket and called up the visual feed from the interior security cameras. President O’Keefe and his financial advisors were leading a party of multicorps CEOs through the halls of the palatial building, heading for the front entrance and the spacious courtyard there. “Team Two,” Klesko transmitted softly, “prepare for handoff to exterior security.”
“Preparing for handoff,” came the reply from Brian Wing, the agent in charge of the exterior team. “All units in position. Air and ground surveillance reports clear.”
Klesko checked the time and the progress of the presidential party on his tablet, then tucked it into his pocket again. “This is One-Alpha, moving to secondary position. One-Bravo, you’re in command until I get back; I need to check something.”
“One-Bravo is in command,” Sandra Keiser confirmed from just outside the headquarters office.
Klesko moved quickly across the square, trying hard not to look as nervous as he felt.
Daniel O’Keefe watched the faces around him with concealed amusement as he strode casually through the well-appointed halls of the Council offices. Svetlana Zakharova was trying hard to keep up a neutral, professional demeanor and failing miserably: she was outraged by the thought of compromising on this issue and only iron self-control prevented her from saying so every time they were alone. Kevin Fourcade was just as frustrated, though for different reasons, and also doing a poor job of hiding it: he looked like a man who’d been slathered with honey and tied down next to an ant hill, and now was just waiting to feel the first bite.
Brendan Riordan…now he was a different story. Riordan was a fireplug of a man, barely a meter-seven and broad across the shoulders and chest, with a mane of red hair that gave the impression of being a wild mass but was actually carefully styled. Every detail of the man was carefully controlled and always had been. O’Keefe had known him for years, which was the only reason he could tell that the Director’s perfect Buddha calm was underlain by a rage so fierce he could almost feel it radiating off of him. He knew he was being used and it infuriated him, even though he didn’t know the why of it.
You think you’re mad now, Brendan, O’Keefe thought with a suppressed smile, you just wait.
The President followed his Media Advisor out the front entrance of the offices, thinking not for the first time that the Council headquarters was decorated as lavishly as some of the ancient palaces of Europe that he’d toured. That had been Riordan’s doing, he knew. The Director had the manner and style of royalty and O’Keefe still wasn’t quite sure if it was an affectation or just the way the man was. Of course, if you pretended to be something long enough…
Passing through the exit and out of the climate conditioning, O’Keefe felt as if he’d stepped into a broiler; he began sweating almost immediately and had to restrain an impulse to wipe his forehead. You couldn’t look nervous in front of the cameras. The press was out in force for the announcement, and he’d known they would be: he’d had the news of his support for the biomech bill leaked to assure it. Republic HoloNet was there, of course, but he’d also made sure the independents were present for this as well: the more sources that reported on this, the less likely it would be swept under the rug.
The party ascended the marble platform at the edge of Commerce Square, looking down on the assembled reporters in every sense of the phrase. Leslie Arbocus, his Media Advisor, stepped to the front, affixing his most sincere smile to his plastic face.
“Thank you all for coming this afternoon,” he said in his perfectly modulated voice, seemingly genetically engineered for public speaking. “Before the President speaks, I’d like to allow Brendan Riordan, the Director of the Executive Council of the Multilateral Corporate Interests, to say a few words.”
“Thank you, Mr. Arbocus,” Riordan rumbled. The networks would have to re-modulate his voice before they broadcasted it or it would sound almost unintelligible. “This is an historic occasion for the Republic. We are on the verge of taking what was a nightmare for us, a weapon used against us in horrific fashion only a few short years ago, and turning it into one of the greatest technological boons in the history of humanity. This technology will not only be an aid to the agricultural and mining concerns, but will also create significant economic benefits for transportation and energy. Jobs that used to require risk to the life and limb of untrained human labor at low pay will now be filled by biomechs. Tasks that are now performed by robotic machinery that is expensive to produce, transport and maintain will instead be done by biomechs, which are fairly cheap to make and are easily replaceable.”
He turned to smile ingratiatingly at O’Keefe. “I know that President O’Keefe had some personal reservations about utilizing this technology, that he feared it would be abused, but I feel that in partnership
with the Republic government, we can create safeguards that will prevent such abuses. I would like to thank my good friend, President Daniel O’Keefe, on putting the needs of the Republic above his own personal feelings and agreeing to support this bill.”
He turned and offered his hand to O’Keefe, who smiled and shook it with all the fake sincerity he could muster.
“Thanks very much, Brendan,” O’Keefe said, taking center stage from the executive. “This is indeed a momentous day for the Republic…and not to hijack this ceremony, but also for me personally. I’m sure there isn’t anyone watching today who doesn’t know about the disappearance of my daughter Valerie, and how much it has weighed on my mind lately. Well, I am happy to announce that my own personal nightmare has ended. My daughter, your Senator, Valerie O’Keefe-Mulrooney, has returned to me.”
There was a shocked murmur among the gathered press, corporate executives and even his own staff as Agent Klesko walked Valerie up the platform. She was dressed in a casual blouse and skirt, as if she had just returned from a day trip to the museum, with her hair tied into a conservative bun. She smiled beatifically as she hugged her father, then turned to the press.
“Good afternoon. I don’t mean to minimize the announcement of the President’s support for the Biomech Bill, but we both felt that it was important that the news that I was safe and had returned be broadcast as soon as possible, to put my constituents at ease.”
“Where were you?” The question came from the RHN reporter, a major departure from protocol for this type of event; but then, so was Valerie’s sudden appearance.
“I was forced to go into hiding because the same people who assassinated my husband, Glen Mulrooney, tried to kill me as well.”
That statement caused a storm of questions from all the assembled press and a buzz of disbelieving noise from the various onlookers as well as the President’s staff and some of the corporate executives gathered on the platform. Not from Fourcade or Riordan though, O’Keefe noted.
“Please, if you all would just settle down a moment,” O’Keefe said with a raised voice, waving his hands in a calming fashion, “I will explain what has been happening. I’ve had a special investigation running of the murder of my son-in-law, Glen Mulrooney, and that investigation led to the story that Mr. Oscar Fuentes was working on at the time, for which Glen was a source. Mr. Fuentes, in conjunction with Glen, had discovered that there were subversive elements at work among certain elements of the governments of many states in the Southbloc that was attempting to foment a mutiny among the Colonial Guard forces both here and in the colonies as a protest of the emigration reforms that my administration has instituted.
“Valerie was meeting with a journalist colleague of the late Mr. Fuentes, trying to find out how high this plot went, when the same assassin tried to kill them both. Fortunately, she was being watched over by Colonel Shannon Stark and a team of military bodyguards and they managed to kill the man, a mercenary who had been discharged from the Marines for behavioral problems. He was being paid from blind accounts and contacted via anonymous ‘links, so it has proved difficult to trace who hired him, but investigations are ongoing.”
“I didn’t want to take the chance that a further attempt on my life might harm my daughter,” Valerie took over from her father, “so I went into hiding for a while to make sure there were no other would-be assassins who had possibly been working with the dead man. As our investigations have shown no indication that he had a partner, we decided that it was safe for me to come out of hiding.”
“The attempt to foment a mutiny has been squashed,” O’Keefe cut in, “but the investigation is ongoing, so we can’t reveal any more details at this time. I will be making further announcements as we uncover more of the facts in this matter. Right now, I am just very happy that my daughter is safe.”
There was a hailstorm of questions from the press, but O’Keefe waved them off, signaling to his Media Advisor to intercede as he and Valerie made their way off the platform, surrounded by Klesko’s protection team. O’Keefe didn’t look back, but he could feel Riordan’s eyes boring into his back as he left. It wasn’t so much the upstaging of the announcement, although that had been a sweet side-benefit, and it wasn’t even that he’d revealed that he already knew about the Colonial Guard mutiny. No, what was spiking the pressure in the miniature volcano he knew as Brendan Riordan was the knowledge that, if O’Keefe was revealing to the press that he knew about the Colonial Guard, then it was pretty damn certain that he knew far more that he wasn’t revealing.
“That went well,” Ari commented as he watched the Newsnets start to flash one update after another on his tablet’s display.
He, Roza and Shannon were huddled in the Houston safe house, watching the President’s announcement on the tiny entertainment center in a corner of the living room. Roza was curled next to him on the couch, frowning. “Perhaps,” she said doubtfully. “Although now the Colonial Guard has a black eye in all this, something General Kage and I were trying to avoid.”
“Not the black eye they would have had if Colonel Lee had succeeded,” Shannon reminded her from where she paced across the room, restless as a caged tiger. “There will be plenty of black eyes to go around for all of us once the story of the Patton comes out.” She paused in her motion and speared Roza with a look. “By the way, Roza, have you been in contact with him since we found out about the Patton?”
The GIS agent looked uncomfortable with the question, but she nodded. “I report to him every few days via a secure connection, per his orders.”
“How…complete are your reports?” Ari asked her, a bit of alarm entering his expression.
“He is my commanding officer,” she told him, shaking her head. “And without him, you would know of none of this.”
“That’s true,” Shannon admitted. “However, given that he has undeniably been exposed to hypnoconditioning during the hijacking of the Patton, it could be risky to trust him. He may not be totally in control of his actions.”
“It’s possible,” Roza said, “but his response to the news of the hijacking was, and I quote, ‘I see. Well, I will have to get that taken care of.’”
Shannon snorted a laugh. “All right, that ship has sailed, for good or ill. If General Kage wants to betray us, there’s little we can do about it at this point, so we may as well trust him.” She paced back in front of the entertainment center’s holotank, staring for a moment at a frozen image of Brendan Riordan’s face. “Now comes the part that makes me nervous.” She nodded to Ari. “Send the message to President Jameson. It’s time.”
* * *
Gregory Jameson sometimes felt like a spoiled scion of the privileged class when he thought about his ranch in Oklahoma and the apartments he and his wife kept in Capital City and San Francisco. Sitting on the porch of Brendan Riordan’s summer mansion in Jackson Hole, watching the sun set over the Grand Tetons, he no longer felt like that. In fact, he felt very much like a poor cousin come calling with hat in hand.
He took a sip of the exquisitely-aged Scotch the actual human butler had brought to him and smiled to himself, realizing that the feeling was exactly what Riordan had intended when he’d selected this place for the meeting.
“Greg!” He heard the man before he saw him: Brendan Riordan was the only man he’d ever met whose voice made his own sound girlish by comparison. He rose to meet the Director, towering over him by a good twenty centimeters, though they were about equal in breadth and width. “Thanks so much for coming all the way out here!”
“I called you, Brendan,” Jameson said with a shrug as he shook the other man’s hand, trying to look him in the eye without looking down on him. Riordan was dressed casually, as was he, yet anyone looking on would have been able to guess that both men were more at home in a business suit than blue jeans.
“That you did,” Riordan acknowledged, waving him back into his chair and taking the seat across from him. “Dammit, Greg, it’s been too long. I don’t think I ev
er got the chance to tell you back then, but it was a travesty that you lost that election. That bastard O’Keefe really knifed you in the back, after prattling on about cooperation and rebuilding after the war.”
“Thanks, Brendan, I appreciate the thought.” He paused and took another drink as the butler silently served Riordan a cocktail of his own then moved swiftly and smoothly back into the house. “That’s kind of why I called you, to be honest.”
“How so?” Riordan asked casually, watching Jameson over the rim of the glass as he took a drink of single-malt Scotch.
“Things are going south pretty quick, Brendan. It’s partly the aftermath of the war, partly just the way things happened, but some of it is O’Keefe’s fault and he’s getting the blame for all of it either way.” He nodded outward away from the house. “You were there in Houston…I saw it. We’re looking at a civil war.”
“It won’t come to that,” Brendan said with a dismissive snort. “O’Keefe is just fear-mongering, trying to get public sympathy on his side.”
“Brendan, we’ve known each other since we were in college,” Jameson reminded him. “Don’t bullshit me. I didn’t come here to check out O’Keefe’s story, I came here because I already have checked it out and I know it’s true. And he wasn’t telling the best parts of it.”
Riordan set his glass on the table between them and regarded Jameson coldly. “Greg, you should be very cautious on how you proceed here. This is not a place to tread lightly.”
“Do you think I’m telling you things that aren’t known by other people, Brendan?” Jameson replied with calm confidence. “Do you think that threatening me is going to make them disappear? That didn’t work when you had Glen Mulrooney murdered, and it sure as hell won’t work now.”
“Goddammit, I did not have Mulrooney killed!” Riordan exploded, slamming his palm down on the table, knocking his drink to the ground. “That fucking moron Fourcade…” He bit back the rest of what he’d intended to say, hands clenching to fists in his lap as he tried to control himself. “All I told Kevin was to find out what Mulrooney knew and try to seal the leaks. I meant to erase any damaging information, but the fucking stupid son of a bitch went and hired that mercenary…”