Rick Partlow - Honor Bound

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.”

“…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.”