by Jesse Gordon
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY JESSE GORDON
Anthologies
The Midnight Recollections
The Reformed Citizen
Novels
Time Chaser
The Knack
Stories from the Steel Garden
Heroes’ Day
Series
SuperMegaNet, Vol. 1
SuperMegaNet, Vol. 2
SuperMegaNet, Vol. 3
SuperMegaNet, Vol. 4
HEROES’ DAY
a novel by JESSE GORDON
Published 2010 by Madman & Moniker,
an imprint of Vertigo Alley Books
Heroes’ Day. Copyright © 2008 by Jesse Gordon. All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, send an e-mail to [email protected].
ASIN: B001TDL592
Visit the author on the Web at
http://jessture.com/
For Aleksas, the montage maestro.
PROLOGUE
They came for him on a Saturday afternoon. The shuttle was unmarked, breaking off from Pacific Skyway and descending upon Darren’s oceanfront property with a discreet hiss. He’d been playing catch with the twins on the front lawn; the game was quickly forgotten as his driveway became a makeshift landing pad.
“Who are they, dad?” asked Ben, pointing as the shuttle settled itself.
A pair of uniformed men got out, started up the driveway, their boots clicking against the concrete.
The ghosts of your daddy’s past, Darren thought, catching a glint of sunlight off the mens’ badged collars.
He handed Ben the ball. “You and George go inside and help your mom get dinner started, okay?”
George started to whine. “But dad—”
“Go. I’ll be in shortly.”
The boys pouted only a moment longer before retreating towards the house. Darren watched them go, envying their carefree laughter, wanting to be beside them as they argued over who was to pick out the evening’s videobox program.
“Darren Hades?”
Darren faced his unexpected guests. “That’s right.”
The military men removed their hats. One of them handed Darren a notepad. “Lieutenant Gutierrez, NPAA personnel division. This is Lieutenant Teague. It’s an honor to speak to you, sir.”
“Sir,” Darren thought, and not without a trace of amusement. Sixteen years later and I’m still getting the Patriot treatment. He activated the notepad, skimmed over the enclosed letter (a sugar-coated order, really), blinked in surprise when he saw the signature at the bottom.
He handed the notepad back to Gutierrez. “So, Zor’s a commander nowadays, eh? And aboard Olympus, no less.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gutierrez.
“You guys still looking for a couple of good soldiers, then? Bright faces, sound bodies, boundless spirits?”
“Of course, sir,” said Teague.
Darren chuckled, glanced westward, his gaze following one of the planked pathways that led down to the shore. There, a couple walked hand in hand, a little boy reinforced the walls of his sand castle, seagulls coasted on the breeze. “You’d never guess there was still a war going on, would you?”
Neither Gutierrez nor Teague said anything. They weren’t here for smalltalk. They’d been given orders—they’re waiting for me to comply.
Indeed, when he’d let more than the appropriate amount of time pass without speaking, Gutierrez cleared his throat and asked, “Will you accompany us voluntarily, sir?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Do any of us have a choice, sir?”
A moment’s pause, another glance in the direction of the house, where Danielle, his wife, stood on the deck, her mixing bowl in hand, a questioning look on her face. She was a stickler about dinnertime, a firm believer that no order of business should ever interrupt a good meal shared in the presence of family.
Alas, today she would have to wait.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Hades,” Teague said assuredly as he gestured towards the shuttle. “We’ll have you back in time for dessert.”
* * *
The National Training Center was smaller than Darren remembered—and uncommonly empty. “Closed for renovation,” if you believed the large sign posted out front (though there was a suspicious absence of building materials, scaffolding, or custodial mini bots, even). Gutierrez and Teague led the way into the main training room, with its impressive fleet of podiums and various gymnastics apparatus spread out over 75,000 square feet of taxpayer-funded floorspace. Above, the air-conditioning system hummed away dutifully, slightly muffling the distant sound of a door opening, closing.
Geoffrey Zor—once head of security, now, as his insignia denoted, a commander aboard Olympus—sat in a foldout chair that had been positioned at the center of one of the podiums. He’d been studying his notebook screen intently, but when he saw Darren his expression lightened, and he smiled.
“Darren, my boy!” Dismissing his men, he switched off his notebook and rose to his feet. He shook Darren’s hand. “My goodness, look at you! I see you’ve kept up your training—still hard as a rock! Good to see you again.”
“I can’t say I’m not…intrigued,” Darren said, and fingered one of the medals on Zor’s uniform. “You’ve been busy.”
“Oh, take a bullet, earn a promotion. That’s usually how it works in the Patriot world.”
“Some things never change.”
“It’s a work in progress. How are the wife and kids?”
“As well as can be with their husband and father having been suddenly spirited away by a pair of mysterious military men.”
“Come now,” said Zor, “I’ve only asked to borrow you for a few minutes.”
Darren nodded, folded his arms—and found his old competitive modes suddenly reactivating themselves as his brain quickly assessed and analyzed, summed up in a single glance all of Zor’s fundamentals: tall, moderately-built, bearded (most of it had faded from brown to gray), soft lines, relaxed waist, noticeable worry behind the eyes. Sixteen years of Patriot work had affected Zor inversely. “All right, then. Let’s get to it.”
Zor’s expression shifted from superficial to grave. “You’ve heard that we lost four of our top gymnasts?”
“Mental breakdowns,” said Darren. “Political differences cited by t
he parents. It was in the news, yes.”
“Then you’ve probably heard the rumors that the NPAA is retooling their approach for the upcoming season. The entire girls’ team has been scrapped. We’re rebuilding the roster from the ground up.”
“If I’d wanted a news report, I’d peruse the appropriate video feed—”
“There’s more, Darren.” Zor sighed. “The Patriot program has come under heavy fire.”
“The Patriot program has always been under fire.”
“Yes, well, it doesn’t help that America—and the rest of the NAU, for the most part—has bypassed the gold and silver for three straight terms. The media has decided that we’re battering our children for a lost cause, or that we’re not training them hard enough, or that we’re simply mismanaging taxpayer resources. ‘We’re paying for it!’ they shout. ‘We want results on Heroes’ Day!’ Yet, in light of recent events, it’s apparently become popular to shun the months and years of practice it takes to get our athletes into top fighting condition.”
“War without casualties,” said Darren, nodding. “Not such a new idea. Isn’t that the NPAA’s secret credo?”
Zor chuckled. “That, and, ‘Train hard or bend over for the EU.’”
Both men laughed.
“You know,” Zor said, grasping Darren by the shoulders, “you were our first and last true Hero. Perfect attitude, perfect body, perfect scores across the board. Media sweetheart. Poster child. You could have been a spokesperson for the sport, an actor, a dancer, a model. I never did understand why you retired prematurely. I’m sure your coaches were a hundred times as confounded.”
“It was six years of my life,” Darren said. “Training, eating, sleeping, training, six days a week, year-round. I was tired.”
“You were good—”
Darren snorted. “What’s the score here? Tell me you didn’t set up this little meeting just to rekindle old regrets.”
Zor let him go. He turned away and strolled a few steps towards the edge of the podium before facing him again. “The NPAA is unhappy with the present-tense. Hence, we are to look outside our current predicament. A little of the past to hasten the arrival of the future. Effective immediately, I’m putting you in charge of the girls’ Patriot division.”
Darren felt an unexpected twinge in his gut. Truthfully, he’d known as soon as the shuttle had landed in his driveway that something big was up, that his days as a competitive elite hadn’t been entirely lost to the ages—he hadn’t expected a coaching job, though. “Just like that, huh?”
“Just like that.”
“Never mind the fact that I’ve never coached a day in my life?”
Zor smiled. “You already know that the NPAA wants to do things differently. They want someone who knows discipline, someone who has experience with publicity, someone who once captured the hearts of every American man, woman, and child. They want the star power.”
Sounds like the videobox sitcom that won’t die, thought Darren. “I’m a family man now. I did my time, served my country.”
“And you will again,” said Zor. “Don’t forget the reactivation clause in your contract.”
“And if I’m out of touch? If I’ve forgotten all the twists and turns?”
“You’ll have an assistant—not that I suspect you’ll need one. You were a warrior at twelve, and from the look of that hulking physique of yours, you’ve never stopped training.”
“Aesthetics,” said Darren. “Good health. Force of habit. Nothing more.”
Zor went over to his chair, picked up his notebook and tucked it under his arm. “Look around you. The National Training Center is a ghost town. This isn’t just a minor glitch in the system. Americans are questioning their very belief in the system itself. I need you, Darren. America needs you.”
“Oh, don’t give me that.” Darren shook his head. On the way into the training room, he’d been horrified by the barrenness; now he was beginning to think it was better this way. “Do we really need to go down this road again? Do we need to put yet another batch of boys and girls through the rigors because it’s cute and noble and the popular thing to do?”
“Children are resilient,” said Zor, shrugging. “They learn to cope, and it makes them stronger individuals for it. You yourself are a perfect example.”
Darren spread his arms. “I only did what I knew.”
“And if you’d known different? Would you have gone back on your contract? Would you have resisted ever competing at a national event, perhaps refrained from ever setting foot inside a gym if you’d known there was more to it than just numbers on a scoreboard?”
I ask myself that every day, thought Darren. But what was done was done. He had his regrets, yes, his accolades, sure, but he’d managed to move on. Danielle had helped loads. She’d been a gymnast, too, and while she’d never become a Hero, she’d competed at enough of the bigger meets to know fantasy from reality. Bowing out rather than burning out, regardless of what our coaches told us was right. I did what I had to do—and now the NPAA is after retribution.
Zor started off the podium. “Your girls will adore you. They’ll look up to you as their hero and their coach. If all else fails, you’ll have their undying respect. My guess is that the NPAA wants some of that to bleed over into the public domain. Think of it as motivational speaking.”
Darren started to protest, but trailed off when it became apparent Zor wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation any further. He’d made his decision, and so had the NPAA.
“I’ll have the paperwork sent over first thing in the morning,” called Zor, now heading towards the exit. “My men are waiting outside to take you home. Goodbye, Darren.”
He disappeared through the door.
Darren stood, still and quiet. The air conditioning system hiccuped. From civilian to Patriot in under an hour.
What did I do to deserve this?
CHAPTER 1
An hour before the recruiters were to arrive, Monica Sardinia limped into her coach’s cluttered office and set herself in one of the plastic foldout chairs usually reserved for parents or guests.
“Problem,” she said, wincing.
Greg Keene, founder, owner, and head coach of Keene’s Gymnastics, set down his sandwich, sighed, and said, “It’s been almost a week since you banged anything up. I was getting worried.” He left his desk, knelt in front of Monica, taking her foot in his hands. “What are we looking at?”
Monica flexed her ankle and felt pinprick shards shooting up her calf. “I landed a dismount the wrong way.”
“You’re supposed to be on your lunch break,” Greg said, an eruption of wrinkles creasing his forehead as he probed her ankle gently. “Was Donna supervising?”
“She was…there.”
“Was she looking in your direction?”
“Most of the time.”
Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Her skill or yours?”
Monica bit her lip. She’d had this discussion before with Greg. No doubt he was wondering why on Earth she’d felt compelled to try something behind his or his wife’s back on this afternoon, of all afternoons.
“It was mine,” she admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “I guess I had a little nervous energy.”
There was weary disapproval in Greg’s eyes. “You go the entire season with little more than a few mild scrapes and bruises, but you pick today to bring out the big guns. And on a Friday, no less.”
“It’s only a sprained ankle,” Monica said. “Don’t be so stressed.” She patted Greg’s bald spot.
“Me? Stressed? Hah!” Greg reached for the med kit. “All I do is work with a room full of bouncing, jumping, twirling, tumbling, chattering, utterly tireless little girls six hours a day, six days a week. Who’s stressed?”
Out came the nano gel, along with the control wrap. Greg spread the gel over Monica’s ankle, applied the wrap. Then, using the remote, he infused into her flesh a miniature fleet of nanites, probing, knitting, healing.
&n
bsp; Monica sucked in her breath. “Ooh, ooh! They’re pinching me!”
“Don’t be so stressed,” Greg cooed, imitating her earlier tone. “Their work will be done in a few minutes if you keep still and quit complaining.”
Monica clenched her fists. The nanites didn’t hurt, per se, but it certainly felt like millions of tiny insects had invaded her ankle—the bane of modern-day instant medicine, convenient as it was.
“So.” Greg propped one arm across his knee. “You’ll help with the car wash next week?”
Monica groaned. “Another car wash?”
“We were a huge success over the summer.”
“What does a car wash have to do with our club, or with gymnastics—or with…with anything?”
“It gets the community involved. It helps pay the bills.”
No, thought Monica, it only gives creepy grown men and high school boys a chance to have their crappy Dodges scrubbed by little girls in T-shirts and gym shorts. “I don’t know. I start school on Monday. And my parents will probably have me unpacking all week. Maybe, if I have the time—but if I do help out, I’m wearing a jumpsuit and boots.”
Greg laughed. “Well, think about it. Think about us when you’re out there in the real world, a high school freshman, going to raffles and dances and meeting boys who’ll wonder how you spent seven good years of your life cooped up in Greg Keene’s little old gym.”
“I could never forget you guys!” Monica proclaimed. True, Keene’s Gymnastics was a small club, with no more than ten gymnasts enrolled at any given point in the season, and true, you could easily miss the old converted general store with the silhouetted acrobat sign while passing on the street—but what the gym lacked in fancy, cutting edge imagery, it more than made up for in rustic charm. Monica had been training here since she was six years old. It was her home away from home.
And today’s my last day, she thought.
Greg, ever the uncannily-perceptive conversationalist, nodded and said, “Last day. I know. It seems like only yesterday you and your mother came in here looking for some tricks to take home. Now look at you, my finest junior elite, worth every headache, every gray hair on my head.”
Monica smiled, appreciating the sentiment, but to her, the past seven years hadn’t been “only yesterday,” they’d been a lifetime—her lifetime. And she wanted it to go on forever. Through college, at the very least. Certainly she didn’t want her career at KG to end because of money, politics, or, in her case, a hearty sampling of both.
