Honor Bound dhp-2

by Rick Partlow

  Shannon had looked up sharply when he mentioned Patel’s death, then closed her eyes, mouth moving in a silent prayer, her hand grabbing his in a tight grip. McKay sighed. “It’s not quite over yet. There are some Protectorate ships still insystem, but our cislunar cutters and the Fleet Headquarters station should be able to stand them off until the rest of our cruisers arrive.”

  “There is one other matter that needs resolving as well, McKay,” Kage reminded him. McKay squinted curiously, but it was Shannon who answered the unspoken question.

  “Antonov,” she said. “I doubt he would put his ass on the line out here in the battlefield, especially not dragging around Fourcade and Riordan. So,” she shook her head, “where the hell is he?”

  * * *

  Brendan Riordan had been wondering for days now when Antonov and Fourcade were going to kill him, and now he thought he finally knew. He’d had his suspicions when they’d received the transmission from… well, from someone telling them that the Protectorate cruiser in orbit had been destroyed and that Dominguez was dead. They’d been hiding out in a safe house in the middle of nowhere outside Ottawa when they’d got the news and Antonov had flown into a rage, smashing everything in the place not bolted to the floor and smacking Riordan around a bit before Fourcade had managed to calm him down.

  That was when Fourcade had mentioned the shuttle, and Riordan had begun to suspect that he would shortly be a dead man.

  “We just need to get into cislunar space,” Fourcade had said, trying to mollify a seething Antonov. “Then we get in contact with one of the remaining ships and have it take us back to Novoye Rodina. They still can’t touch us there with the defenses we have in place… and we can add more before they’d be ready to make a run at us. Yes,” he’d admitted, spreading his hands to forestall the outburst he had known would be coming, “we’ve lost a lot of resources, but we have the ability to make more. General… I know you’re a patient man. You waited more than a century to attempt to exact your revenge because you wanted to be ready. We just have to be patient for a little longer.”

  Antonov had still been incensed, but he’d gone along and they’d taken Riordan’s private flyer, the one whose registration had been spoofed so that it would come up as a different vehicle every time it was used, and made a beeline for west Texas.

  Neither of them had spoken to him the entire way, but he’d known why he was being brought along. For years now, he’d kept a private shuttle in an unobtrusive little hangar on a shut-down storage facility just outside the boundaries of the Rio Grande Nature Preserve. It was a just-in-case emergency getaway vehicle; a bit of paranoia that he’d felt was justified by the various pots into which he’d stuck his political spoon. The hangar and the shuttle were only accessible to his DNA and biometric identification, so they would need him alive to access it… and then they wouldn’t have any need for him at all.

  Riordan understood full well by now that he had made several huge mistakes, the biggest of which had been the illusion that he’d ever been in control of this scheme. No, the one who had been in control was Kevin Fourcade. Oh, Antonov was giving the orders, but the one who’d arranged everything, the one who’d created an army of biomechs that Riordan had never known existed, the one who’d given the Protectorate forces a Goddamned star cruiser as well as many more warships than Riordan had ever agreed to and conveniently left off the fail-safe shut-offs he’d insisted on… that one was Fourcade.

  He’d known Kevin for over fifteen years. How had he gotten the man so wrong?

  He shrugged the thought away and blinked at the blinding morning sunlight reflecting off the sand as he led the other two across the landing pad from his flyer toward the old hangar. It was a simple, cheap buildfoam structure-from the outside, anyway-with a broad awning covering the office entrance just off to the side from the three-story tall metal doors that would allow the shuttle to roll out onto the tarmac. It was an inauspicious place to spend his last moments alive.

  He sighed with resignation and went to the office door, staring at it for a moment before casting one last look back at Fourcade and Antonov. Fourcade seemed impassive, as if all this were just run of the mill ordinary, another day at the office. Antonov, by contrast, was still livid, his pale skin ruddy and his breath ragged.

  “There’s no need to kill me,” Riordan insisted, deciding he had little to lose by begging. “Nothing I know can hurt you. If you lock me up in here, destroy the communications gear, I couldn’t stop you from getting away, even if I wanted to.”

  He tried to smile, but felt it come out on his face like a grimace.

  Antonov started to speak, from the shape of his mouth it would have been nothing pleasant, but Fourcade interrupted him, his voice smooth and soothing. “Of course there’s no need to kill you, Brendan,” he assured the man. “Now just open the door for us, let us in that shuttle and we can all get exactly what we want.”

  Riordan closed his eyes and felt hope fall away from him. He turned back to the door, wondering if he could try to make a break for it after he got inside…

  “I don’t know about getting what you want,” the deep, booming voice made him jump, “but I do know you’ll be getting what you deserve.”

  Riordan’s eyes went wide as Greg Jameson stepped around the corner from the side of the building closest to the office door. He could have been a workman, dressed in drab, dusty coveralls… except for the 10mm service pistol he held, pointed directly at Kevin Fourcade. Fourcade’s hand had been halfway toward drawing his own pistol from beneath his suit coat when he saw the gun in Jameson’s hand and froze.

  “Greg?” Riordan said inanely. “How… how did you know about this place?”

  “You may have forgotten,” Jameson said drily, not taking his eyes off Fourcade and Antonov, “but I used to be President of the Republic. I had complete files on quite a few important people. Nothing is as secret as you might think, Brendan.” A smile quirked on Jameson’s lips. “I figured that you fellas might wind up here… and since everyone else was way too busy with other things, I took it upon myself to arrange a greeting for you.”

  “President Jameson,” Fourcade said slowly, finally seeming nervous and unprepared, “perhaps we can work out some sort of arrangement…”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can,” Jameson said, his smile getting even broader. Then he shot Fourcade in the chest.

  “Jesus!” Riordan screamed, falling over his own feet as he tried to back away, winding up on his ass on the packed sand, watching Kevin Fourcade stumble backwards, hands pressing at the fist-size hole over his heart as blood spread a huge stain across his shirt and jacket and down the front of his pants. In what seemed to take hours but was only a few seconds, Fourcade fell to his knees, then slumped sideways, his mouth working but nothing coming out of it except a gush of blood.

  Riordan scrambled backwards, trying to stay out of the puddle of blood that spread across the ground beneath the man’s corpse, his eyes flickering back and forth in disbelief between the dead corporate lobbyist and the former President. Jameson’s aim had shifted to Antonov, whose response was much different than Fourcade’s.

  “So, the hostage has grown a spine,” he said with a voice so calm that Riordan thought he might have just witnessed someone stepping on a bug rather than a man being killed. “I have to admit, Mr. Jameson, that I never thought this would be necessary, but at the time I bowed to the greater foresight of those who were interrogating you.” He grinned. “Lodka.”

  Jameson laughed quietly. “Oh, General Antonov,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “I was the President. Don’t you think I had any conditioning you gave me removed years ago?”

  Antonov finally showed desperation then, lunging forward, trying to grab Jameson’s gun. The report of the large-caliber handgun echoed off the building walls and across the landing pad, out into the trackless desert. Antonov’s lunge turned into a sprawl that sent him to the ground face down at Jameson’s feet.

  Jameson watch
ed the Russian for a moment, seeing the rise and fall of his chest cease forever, then he shoved his handgun into a pocket of his coveralls and stepped over to Riordan, offering him a hand.

  Riordan’s mouth was still hanging open in disbelief, the idea that he might not die finally penetrating his consciousness, as he let Jameson pull him to his feet.

  “Greg…” he stammered. “You saved my life…”

  “Brendan,” Jameson said, his expression darkening, his voice harsh, “you’re a fucking idiot. The only reason you’re not lying on the ground bleeding out with those two,” he spat in the general direction of Fourcade and Antonov, “is that I still have a use for you. So you had better do your best to endeavor to remain useful to me if you want to stay above ground and out of penal exile digging up crops on some colony world.”

  “How the hell are you going to manage that?” Riordan wondered. “I’m going to be blamed for all of this.” He waved a hand at the horizon demonstratively. “They’ll use me as a scapegoat… I’ll be publically executed. You can’t stop that, no one can.”

  “Stop whining,” Jameson admonished him, pushing him towards the flyer. “They won’t be thinking about you at all… they’ll be too busy blaming a much higher profile scapegoat.” He grinned. “Ask me how I know.”

  “You…” Riordan cocked his head as realization came over him. “You want to be President again.”

  “I will be President again, Brendan,” he said. “And I won’t be waiting six years until the next election. Now get in that flyer and get out of here. I already called the military and you need to be gone before they get here. I mean to control this narrative, and you aren’t a part of it.”

  Riordan walked up to the open hatch of the flyer, then hesitated and looked back to Jameson, where he stood beside the two bodies.

  “Greg,” he said carefully, “just how much did you know about all this?”

  Jameson was silent for a moment, his face unreadable, and then he repeated: “Nothing is as secret as you think it is, Brendan.” He waved a hand. “Now go home. Let me take care of the rest.”

  Epilogue:

  “…it is my honor and pleasure to award you, Captain Andrew Franks, the Republic Medal of Valor.” President Daniel O’Keefe seemed a bit haggard as he draped the ribbon over the young officer’s head, settling the gold star of the award against the breast of his black dress jacket. As for Franks, he looked stunned and intimidated by the line of cameras that stretched over the stage in the middle of Reagan Plaza and by the crowd of thousands that had braved the grey drizzle to watch the ceremony.

  The camera view panned smoothly to take in those standing at attention on the stage behind the President and newly-minted Captain Franks. There was General Kage, looking very stoic and professional, flanked by Lt. Matienzo and Captain Kovach, with Ari Shamir beside Roza, supporting her as she stood on still-healing legs. Ari had asked for a transfer to a training position and after what he had accomplished, Jason McKay and Shannon Stark were inclined to give him whatever he wanted.

  On the other side of the stage were McKay and Stark, standing close enough for their hands to touch even if they weren’t holding hands at the moment. Neither one had been inclined to be apart in the days since he’d returned. Neither, apparently, were Vinnie and Esmeralda so inclined, as they had begged off the ceremony, going on a well-deserved leave together. Josh and Tom had also skipped the ceremony, Tom resting from the beating he’d taken over the course of the last few days of action and Josh because he figured it would be boring and would rather be “trolling for Sheilas on the beaches back home.”

  Tanya Manning was there, newly promoted and already wearing a medal of her own, though not the Medal of Valor. Tom had spoken so highly of her, McKay thought he wanted to give her Vinnie’s job, but she’d have to settle for Sean Watanabe’s instead. Beside her were newly-promoted Admiral Minishimi and Captains Pirelli and Gianeto, all of them newly decorated as well… and all just out of the hospital. Joyce Minishimi’s husband stood next to her, a tall, athletic man with long, wavy dark hair and a narrow face made broader by the smile he couldn’t contain.

  And then there was the dark-haired teenage boy in the dress uniform of an Academy cadet, a cased Medal of Valor and a folded Republic flag grasped tightly in his hands, his dark eyes brimming with tears waiting to be shed.

  “He looks so much like his father,” McKay said softly, reaching over to switch off the NewsNet broadcast.

  “You should have been getting a medal,” President O’Keefe commented, sipping from a glass of Scotch.

  McKay shook his head, sitting on the corner of the desk in the President’s private office. It was just the two of them now: Shannon was checking in on Valerie and her daughter. “Too much of what I did wouldn’t be wise to make public yet,” he said. His mouth turned up into a smile. “Besides, I already have a Medal of Valor and it’s considered bad taste to wear two at once.”

  “Hell, I should give you two more just for bringing home that map of the wormholes and the technique for opening them up,” O’Keefe snorted. “You may not know it, but you might have just saved the Republic economy.” He sighed. “Not that it’s going to do me much good.”

  “Is it bad?” McKay asked, feeling a jolt of sympathy for the man. What had happened under his watch wasn’t his fault and hadn’t been foreseeable, but that wouldn’t stop him from being blamed for it.

  “I’m considering resigning the Presidency,” O’Keefe admitted, not meeting the other man’s eyes.

  “I never thought you’d give up without a fight, sir,” McKay said, shaking his head.

  “I’ve had a lot of fights, Jason,” he replied, downing the last of his Scotch in one gulp. “My fights got my wife killed, they got Glen killed, and they almost got my daughter and granddaughter killed… would have, if it weren’t for you. This job,” he shook his head, “this job just isn’t worth it.”

  “Dominguez is dead,” McKay pointed out. “There would have to be a special election.”

  “And I believe I know who will win that election,” O’Keefe touched a control on his desk and brought up another news report, this one showing the serious, heroic face of Gregory Jameson. “The press is really running with the story about him taking down Antonov.”

  “No mention of Riordan or his role in all this, though,” McKay noted. “Whose doing is that?”

  O’Keefe shrugged. “I was convinced by my advisors that it would do more harm than good to go after him. There are too many things we don’t want made public that would get out.”

  “Sir, I understand why you’re doing what you’re doing, but I think you’re bowing out too early. There’s another layer to this onion. There’s just too much we don’t know yet.”

  “That’ll be your job, Jason,” O’Keefe poured himself another glass and topped off McKay’s. They both picked up their drinks and O’Keefe raised his in a toast. “May you find the answers to all your mysteries.” They each took a sip and O’Keefe set his glass down with a sigh. “And may you have fewer regrets than I have.”

  “We all have regrets, sir,” McKay said thoughtfully. He took another drink. “For one, I regret ever getting D’mitry Podbyrin involved in all this. He was happy where he was, and I got him killed.”

  “He didn’t make it off the Sheridan?”

  McKay shook his head. “We’ve accounted for all the survivors. It was a bit difficult, since the ship’s power surges were ejecting lifepods unoccupied and some of them reentered automatically, but there’s been no sign of him. He probably died when the ship’s fields intersected.”

  “Then here’s to Colonel D’mitry Podbyrin.” O’Keefe raised his glass again. “He died doing the right thing.”

  * * *

  Colonel D’mitry Grigor’yevich Podbyrin sat quietly in a dark corner of the bar, half-watching the NewsNet broadcast of the awards ceremony in Reagan Plaza and half listening to the scattered murmurings from customers nursing their drinks.

  I
t was so strange to hear Russian once again. He hadn’t been back to Earth since the War, but he would have thought it a dead language now: and it was, except for a few places. It so happened that Alaska was one of those places. Many Russian immigrants who had fled the Rodina during or after the War had settled here, and every city had a large minority population of Russian-speaking citizens.

  It was fortuitous that his lifepod had landed on the bare tundra, and even more fortuitous that the first people he had come across after two days of wandering through the wilderness were Russian immigrants. Or perhaps it was fate…

  Either way, Fairbanks was much more homelike than Loki had been.

  Podbyrin saw the man approaching his booth and slid aside to give him room. Yuri was an older man, his face weathered and strong and his eyes as blue and cold as the Arctic sea.

  “I have contacted our friends,” Yuri told him quietly. “They have sunk the lifepod in the ocean. There will be nothing to connect any of us to it, and they will never know you were on it.”

  “I thank you for your help,” Podbyrin said earnestly. “I truly did not wish to return to exile. But I wonder… you do not do this just because I am Russian?”

  “There are few enough of us left,” Yuri said, grinning frostily, “that we help whoever needs it. But yes, there is a special interest in you, particularly among the bratva.”

  Podbyrin felt a chill run down his neck. Bratva… the brotherhood: it was a term used for various families in the Russian mafia back in his day. Apparently, the language wasn’t the only thing that had survived the War here.

  “And why would they be interested in me?” he wanted to know. Or perhaps he didn’t, he wasn’t really certain.

  “We are interested in certain information you might have,” Yuri said. Ah. “We” are interested, Podbyrin noted. That settled what Yuri’s stake in this was.