by Rick Partlow
“That makes it even more crucial that we get rid of the threat of Antonov now,” Shannon declared. “Otherwise, he’ll be able to prey on the colonies and we won’t be able to stop him.”
“Actually, Antonov could be the key to saving the colonies,” Jameson said, a bit of excitement creeping into his voice. “Think about it: if we could gain access to the wormhole matrix that Antonov controls, we could reach the colonies without using expensive Eysselink drive starships. Anyone who could afford an in-system transport could travel to the stars. Mining in the star colonies would be practical and affordable. But only if we get rid of the threat of Antonov…otherwise, he could ambush ships coming through the gates and make things too dangerous for trade.”
“That might explain why the Council is desperate enough to bargain with him,” Shannon guessed. “They think they can make a deal with him and save their corporations. But why do they think he would cooperate?”
“I’ve known Brendan Riordan for over twenty years,” Jameson told her. “The man is many things, but he’s nobody’s fool. If he is involved in this, he must think he has some hole card that will keep Antonov in line.”
“This is where we need your help, sir,” Shannon told him. “We had some idea of when, where and how the people involved with this were going to make the attempt on President O’Keefe’s life, but things have changed. We’re pretty sure they won’t make an attempt while he’s in Houston addressing the Council, but that means we don’t know when they will decide to try it. We need you to try to get a read on who is involved in this beyond Fourcade and Riordan and what their next move might be.”
“I’ll do my best to find out what I can,” Jameson promised. He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand thoughtfully. “If they’re confused and their plans are in flux, it could be a good time for me to approach them. After all,” he grinned, “I am an old friend."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You are going to lose,” Podbyrin declared flatly.
McKay started, looking up at the man suddenly as if he were just realizing he was there in the cabin with him.
“What?”
“This game,” Podbyrin expanded, nodding at the chess board between them. “Mate in three moves. You are distracted today.”
“Well Gosh, D’mitry,” McKay grinned crookedly, “what could I possibly have to be distracted by?”
“You are supposed to be resting,” the Russian reminded him. “That is why we are stopped here, no?”
“I slept for ten hours,” McKay muttered, looking at the chessboard sourly and seeing that Podbyrin hadn’t been exaggerating. He tipped over his king and they began to reset the pieces.
“Knowing you, McKay, you probably worried in your damned dreams,” Podbyrin said with a snort. Then he shrugged. “I do admit, sitting here orbiting this rock makes me nervous too. The gate is not that far away…if they come through, they will see us here.”
“We didn’t have much choice. We had to repair a dozen damaged relays and get the antimatter storage canisters we retrieved at Novoye Rodina hooked back into the drive system. And we’d been on alert for three straight days---the crew needed the downtime.” McKay shrugged. “Besides, we already had two Protectorate ships come through the gate and they just passed right on through without seeing us.”
“Der’mo!” Podbyrin spat. “And no one bothered to mention it?”
“The duty crews were on alert. Commander Nunez didn’t want to wake the others needlessly.” He frowned. “Plus, if there are any other Protectorate sleeper agents on board, we didn’t want to give them any ideas.”
“I have been thinking about this,” the Russian said, drumming his fingers on the chessboard as pondered his first move. “It does not seem like something General Antonov would do.”
“Huh?” McKay peered at him curiously. “I met the man and I would say there’s not too much beneath him.”
“No, my friend,” Podbyrin said, chuckling, as he advanced a pawn cautiously. “I didn’t mean that it was too evil for him, I meant that it was too subtle.” He waved a hand demonstratively. “The General can be brilliant and bold, but at heart he is a direct man, not possessed of such subtlety. If he were, we…the Protectorate, that is…would have won the war, won both wars: the first one with the Chinese and the second against your Republic. I was working on that bioweapon, remember, when the invasion was occurring. If he had been patient, if he had waited even a few months we might have had it ready. Then he could have controlled the only treatment for it and held all of Earth hostage to it.”
McKay felt a prickling on his neck listening to this man speak so calmly about potentially killing millions of people and he remembered again that just because Podbyrin was his ally didn’t change the fact that he had been a dangerous fanatic at one time.
“But he had his plan and it was the one that could be implemented the soonest and the simplest. And he had little patience for anyone who told him he was wrong…it was to the point where no one wanted to be the one to tell him bad news. If General Antonov had hijacked the Patton, one of your star cruisers, he would never have given it back. He lacks the patience to give up the immediate reward for something more long term.”
McKay’s eyes stared through the chessboard as he considered what Podbyrin had said. “You know, D’mitry, you’re right, this is a bit of a complicated and risky plan for him. Why wouldn’t he have kept the Patton when he had her?” He glanced up at the Russian. “Is there an advisor he might have listened to more after being defeated in the invasion of Earth?”
“Hell no!” Podbyrin’s answer was a scornful laugh. “After we lost the war with China, he blamed everyone but himself! He blamed you Americans most of all, even though you didn’t fire a shot in the war. No, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he blamed the failure of the invasion on me…and, to be fair, it was my fault for being captured rather than killing myself.”
“What if he didn’t make it back from Earth?” McKay suggested almost reluctantly. “Is there anyone else with more patience and foresight who would have taken over?”
Podbyrin thought about that for a moment before shaking his head. “No,” he finally answered. “The General did not encourage initiative among his officers. They had a plan and they would stick to it or die. If someone did take over, it would take them a long time before giving up on his return. Mere months after the war…no, none of them would have the initiative and intelligence to come up with this plan so quickly.”
“Well great,” McKay said morosely, pushing forward a pawn of his own. “As if I didn’t have enough to think about. I’m playing chess with someone and I can’t see their side of the board.” He snorted a laugh. “Half the time it feels like I can’t see my own side of the board.”
“General Antonov was never much of a chess player,” Podbyrin told him, making another move. “I used to beat him every time. It made him mad as hell, but he kept playing me, always confident he would get it right next time.” He looked up and caught McKay’s eye. “It comes to me that you are not playing chess with the General alone. There is another player here who thinks farther ahead.”
“If you’re right, then we aren’t sailing into safe harbor going home,” McKay said softly, advancing a knight.
“How do you know that?” Podbyrin asked, voice taking on a sharp, suddenly-worried tone.
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 fiancé, 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 blond 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 Valer
ie, 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.