Honor Bound

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 watched 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