Better to Beg Forgiveness

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "And what can we do?" asked Alex, pondering that if that was "relatively peaceful," either deWitt or the locals had a different definition than he did.

  "His people want gear. If you're a source to him, he'll keep you off the target list for now."

  "And our principal?"

  "That's harder to say. Dhe can be bought, but Bishwanath is ethical."

  "Not what I meant, but good," Alex said. "How do they interact? I don't want to try to involve myself in politics. It'll take me away from my real job."

  "And I don't want you to," deWitt said, with a point of his finger. "But you need to be aware. If you need to trade gear for safety, I'll back you up. I'll be holding my nose against the stench, but if it gets us through this, I'll do it."

  "Okay. What type of gear?"

  "Intelligent question. Nonmilitary stuff is fine—fuel, vehicles, whatever you can acquire. If you can get his personal guard matching uniforms and shoes he'll owe you hugely. If you have to trade ammo or weapons, just keep it as low-end as possible. Sidearms, armor would be okay. Rifles are iffy. Do not give him anything larger. You're welcome to promise it if you must, but weasel out of it and call me if you need help. I'll try to protect you if you have to do it, but I can't ignore it."

  "Well, we've got someone buying loot. I suppose selling it is ethical."

  "Can't we order extra from Corporate?" Aramis asked. "Oh, right," he said, flushing as everyone gave him "What, are you stupid?" looks. Nothing with proper import papers or RC stamps could wind up missing without extensive documentation. Even in those cases, not much could go, and nothing accountable.

  "Sounds like a goat fuck," Alex said.

  "Ah, that explains the lanolin on our pants," Jason quipped through the speaker. "Well, I've been worse places. I think. Though I prefer not to."

  "You know, there are two types of people on this world," Elke was heard to say.

  "Yeah. Those we're going to shoot now, and those we'll have to shoot later," Jason replied.

  "You don't have that much ammo," deWitt said. "And just keep the sentiment quiet. The less the Skinnies know about how low we regard most of them, the better."

  "Of course," Jason said. "I was thinking more of politicians and mob organizers."

  "Them, too," deWitt agreed.

  "Any trouble with unions?" Alex asked.

  "Heh. No," deWitt said on a turn, his head shake matching up so it looked as if his body pivoted under it. "This place is so far down in the shit that unions would help. They'd create some income, some incentive, and some kind of training program. As it is, the local operations hire ten times as many as they need, figuring to get one who wants more than drinking money, short-term rent, or who lied about skills and can't do it. And that's in regard to mostly unskilled farm and loading labor."

  "Damn."

  "How are threats?" Bart asked.

  "Another good question." DeWitt seemed glad of it. "You can expect mobs anywhere for any reason. No pay, no water, blocked road, not enough jobs. They'll sit and sing and chant and yell until someone gives them money or shows enough force. They don't usually riot like chimps, but that can happen. Arson. Rape. Theft."

  "Good, clean family fun." Shaman didn't sound surprised either.

  "Yes. Mobs with clubs, machetes, and brush hooks, even hoes and spades. Rifles as far back as the twentieth century are out there, and even revolving pistols. Modern stuff you know about. Comes in by the shipload. Mostly projectiles. Explosives aren't common. Not reliable ones."

  "No vehicular IEDs?" Elke asked, stumbling slightly over the long word.

  "Not much anymore. They dropped below that level of technology about six months back. Trying to find anyone with a working phone is problematical. Finding anyone who knows the fundamentals of marksmanship is almost as hard."

  "Good news."

  "Mostly. There are still some bombs here and there, and mortars. If they can buy it they'll use it."

  "No domestic production though?" Jason asked.

  "Nope. Not even close. They did have a factory producing rifles under contract from Sulawan Industries. Closed. Ammo was coming, and still is in lower volume, from Olin's plant in Kaporta. They never produced any heavier weapons. They didn't need many support weapons and had a whopping six tanks and four howitzers. What fighting they did do was infantry backed with mortars and machine guns on light vehicles."

  "And what about our window shields and an emergency exit for the President?" Alex asked. "Any word?"

  "Only that it's pending." Alex started to fuss, but deWitt continued with a raised hand, "I even asked about an emergency elastic chute. Nothing yet."

  Alex nodded. The man was trying. They had one ally, at least. "Thanks," he said.

  "No problem. I'll keep on it."

  Chapter Six

  Jason, at the wheel, was tired when the briefing ended, and not just from the information load. Even dirtied up, the vehicle was obviously in better repair than others—it had all its windows. The dome marked it as something luxury. He didn't mind getting screwed on the price of weapons based on that perception, because he would, even without being seen as rich. The attention and possible rumors he could do without.

  The fatigue came from being hair-trigger alert for hours. He had to be prepared for any attack that might happen. Someone could figure him for wealthy, important enough to kidnap, want to steal the vehicle . . . the temperature was set at a cool eighteen degrees Celsius, but he was sweating, sour, flushed sweat. His eyes were gritty.

  Elke was sweating, too, hair plastered on her head and stuck at odd angles. She had the entire arc from 90 to 270 to watch, and her fingers twitched on her carbine. Not dangerously; she wasn't near the trigger. More a case of caressing it and checking function. In the footwell was her riot gun, which was damned near a cannon for close range, with a selectable twenty-round cassette. She'd loaded it with buckshot for antipersonnel, compressed slugs for breaching doors, impact frags, and even finned reconnaissance rounds in case they needed aerial images. She loved it and even slept with it. He wondered if she slept with it in that way, too, the way she hugged it so much.

  "Let me know if you see anything interesting," he said.

  "Yes," she replied. Neither of them needed to say what they did. They were just confirming they were both together on the job.

  "Hell of a situation, eh?" he mumbled, trying to keep alert with conversation. This all seemed so unreal.

  "Very. Mobs with clubs and hoes. Sounds like a bad zombie sensie."

  "About right, I think. They believe in zombies here."

  "I believe in zombies," she said. "Drugs can do it. They don't have much else here."

  Something heavy banged on the roof. Jason goosed the throttle and gripped the wheel during the downshift. Civilians learned to stop when unsure. Soldiers learned to nail it. He changed into the far lane, into oncoming traffic, and honked loudly as he accelerated around a slower sedan. Luckily, there wasn't that much traffic.

  "Rock," he heard Elke say. "Thrown from a third floor. I see the man."

  "Threat now?"

  "No."

  "Check." He braked carefully and slid back into traffic. "Asshole."

  "Yes. Grinning. He wanted attention. It's a shame I can't give him some." She was twisted around backward in the passenger seat, one foot up, ready to pop through the roof if needed.

  "So note the address. We'll be back this way." He shot a glance in the mirror but didn't see anything.

  "Thank you. You are a gentleman."

  "I try to always please my partner," he said. The banter wasn't sexual, wasn't even humorous. It was just contact. "Wish we had a drone overhead," he complained.

  "It would be obvious we were important," she said. "This is an all-or-nothing environment."

  "Yeah," he replied. "Don't stick it out unless you're ready to back it up big. And that's just against the peasants."

  The streets varied. There was a grid, but it was overlaid with multiple local mazes of a
lleys and twisting side streets. Some even redrew existing streets, where there were vacant lots. Some of those larger lots had been broken up by squatters into several smaller parcels with odd geometry, and paths wended through the chaos, over what had been curbs and sometimes foundation blocks. As they bumped and careened, Jason was glad of the armored, resealing, and reinflating tires.

  Some surfaces were glazed, some hardpan, some paved, some cobbled, and some mixed. Others were rutted, dried mud. Many of them were broad, like most colonial roads. Obstacles included running and broken vehicles and stripped hulks, pedestrians, bodies in the roadway that might be dead, drunk, or just fucking stupid, and God help you if you ran over them anyway. There were random cats and dogs, some ungainly ostrich-looking thing, chickens, draft animals—mostly mules—random men, boys, and gangs with guns . . .

  "Not like Grainne," he commented, to himself but aloud. "We've got cities, the Hinterlands, the Habitats, and some slums, but I don't see anything here that is above slum, including the palace."

  "No, nothing like this in Europe," Elke replied. "The worst areas of Bosnia or France aren't even close. Well, maybe the nastier parts of Paris."

  They found the hardware store, or at least what should be the hardware store. The painted sign said so, and there were some tools and supplies stacked outside, but nothing to suggest it was doing real business. No one had money, and there was enough rubble to scavenge for building materials. Tools not already in circulation were likely stolen as opportunities presented. People loitered outside the store, either employees or day hires, to make sure nothing went missing. There was a donkey-drawn cart tied up to a rail.

  "Dare we get out?" he asked.

  "I think we have to," she sighed. "Park so we can run if we must?"

  "Yeah, I'll back in," he said. They were taking delivery, offering good terms, and wanted invisibility. There were alleys on each side of the building, likely for that purpose.

  "Arriving to shop," he said into his phone. It cost a lot to keep the circuit open, and he didn't care; it wouldn't be his bill.

  "Location noted." Aramis had the duty.

  "Roger," he said.

  "Look at that place," he said in awe. It looked a lot like an American Old West store, complete to the deck and rail that the cart was hitched to.

  "I'll get a snapshot," she said. Her camera was built into her belt pouch, and aimed by "eyeglasses" that offered no correction but acted as polarizing shields and ballistic armor. She'd been in this field a while and that was a ten to twelve thousand UN mark setup. Of the money contractors got paid, quite a bit came out of pocket for extra gear.

  She was by far the most mature of the three younger operators. She had a lot of experience, even if she'd only been on contract for six months, with this as her second assignment. Not being military, Ripple Creek had no double standards. Elke wasn't small for a woman, but not imposing either. She was titanium under the slim outside, though. Jason was comfortable with her demeanor. She'd done well coming in, with the borrowed grenade launcher, even though on paper she'd seen little combat.

  "Got it," she said. "Shall we go in?"

  "Yup. Taking the keys, leaving it unlocked, got the wand if we need it." He'd lock it, remote start it, or trigger tear gas if needed; being a palace vehicle, it had several built-in features not found on standard models. But this looked to be a fairly safe location. Just smugglers and illicit arms dealers. No real threat.

  There were four men lolling outside the hardware store. Lolling seemed to be the national position. None of them rose, even though at least two were armed. Were the rifles mere status symbols? Or enough of a threat to dispel plans of attack? The lazy attitude didn't mix well with the concept of ongoing tribal war. Though there were probably multiple nuances to the disputes. All four were skinny and pale, wrinkled and aged. They might have been anywhere north of forty, but were probably in their twenties.

  "Good morning," he said. "I'm told Jim can help me shop."

  No one moved. They watched him, and didn't appear threatening or threatened, but there was no response.

  "I need to buy some stuff," he said. After a moment he fished a silver round out of his pocket and caught sunlight on it.

  That caused stirs and eyes to widen. Plastic fiat money didn't shine like that. Two men stood up and went inside. He watched them expectantly, and with some caution. Elke was behind and to the left, and he could feel her facing out for potential threats.

  Then one of the two remaining stood, stretched, and said, "I be Jim. Yo." He extended a hand then pulled it back. No actual contact, just a gesture, and likely proof he wasn't holding a weapon. He was tall, skinny, had a dopey look that was obviously an act to Jason's trained eyes, and was wearing a snug T-shirt. No major weapons.

  "You be wanting de manly hardweer, yas?"

  "Yes. What can you show me?" he asked.

  "Depands on wut you show me."

  The man was smiling, no threat. Elke was behind and they both had carbines. Jason decided to show him a little. He slid out several silver rounds and a small gold bar. Replacing them, he flashed the edge of a roll from his other pocket.

  "Not bad," Jim grinned. "Okay, let's shop. The woman she wi you?"

  "Yes. She's with me."

  "Come back," Jim said. Jason couldn't tell at first if he meant come back later, or now. But he gestured as he turned and they followed.

  They went through the main store, which did indeed have a modest selection of tools and hardware in bins, in a style not seen on Earth in nearly a century. Further back were garden implements, largely untouched. Most people here didn't garden anymore, and those who did either had staff or used home-built implements.

  Behind that was lumber and synthetic building supplies, in huge piles inside a fenced yard. Jim's two friends from earlier were here, now armed and standing over a neat pile of four- by eight-centimenter polymer studs stacked on three pallets spread on the dusty ground underneath as dunnage. The yard was compacted earth, not fused.

  It wasn't hard to figure out what was next, and no doubt Jim thought himself clever. The top layer came off, and the lower studs were cut to hide a large crate. Inside the crate were samples.

  Jim didn't know how to handle weapons, either. He dragged out a nice carbine, didn't check the chamber, and waved it around. Jason politely reached out, accepted it, and inspected it.

  Well . . . it was okay. Bore was a bit worn, trigger was a bit loose.

  "Okay," he agreed with a nod, to Jim's eager grin. "But I need something stiffer, longer, more powerful." He made an appropriately rude gesture with both hands and the rifle, and Jim giggled.

  "I be have it, man," he said with a nod, while licking his lips. "Hold on." He reached in and hauled out . . .

  "Oh, yeah, that's it," Jason said. He tried not to grin, but this was more like it—one of H&K's newer box-belt-fed machine guns. This one was crusty and beat up outside, but it didn't take long to determine the inside was clean enough. "What about a test fire?" he asked.

  "Sho," Jim agreed, and slapped on a box. He knew how to load and fire well enough. The finer, snobbish points of safety and maintenance he eschewed. He got past loading without killing anyone, pointed out over the fence and pulled the trigger. The H&K responded with a nice, steady roar and a scattering of case bases in a neat pile.

  "Good mechanism," Jason agreed. "How much?"

  "Two tousan," Jim said, and sounded very sure of that price.

  "Fuck me what?" Jason said at once. You haggled by being offended no matter what the opening bid was. Then the amount registered. Holy shit, that was offensive. "Do I look like a masochist you can bend over and fuck?"

  The look on Jim's face suggested he just might swing exactly that way. He raised his hands placatingly and said, "Nono! Two tousan list. For you, eightee hunnerd."

  "Five hundred. It's stolen, used, and I know you didn't pay that much."

  "Fiteen." He looked annoyed at being talked down. Not annoyed enough to su
it Jason, though.

  "How about I go somewhere I won't be insulted?"

  Elke played along brilliantly. She tugged at his sleeve and said, "There was that guy by the port. I'll bet he'd start at a thousand. He had a new one, too. I don't really care if the UN is missing it."

  "Twelf."

  "Actual list is nine fifty. I'll pay that. I want three. You'll throw in ammo and tools."

  "Hunnerd exta for that," Jim said. Now he looked disgusted.

  "Done. I want hand and rifle grenades. I'll pay twenty per grenade. Two hundred for mountable launchers."

  "Two fitty," Jim said, squinting.

  "How about I leave this shit and go elsewhere?" He made as if to throw the H&K.

  "Go!" Jim replied with an open hand. "You won' get cheaper."

  "Six launchers, fourteen hundred."

  Jim nodded. "Okay. Haf ta see if I have six."

  Jason had expected as much. Jim was likely used to selling to local gangs, and would take whatever was on hand in trade. A "legitimate" arms smuggler would have set prices at a reasonable markup over list, with discounts in quantity, and parts on hand. Of course, all the "legitimate" ones were traced by somebody who could be made to talk.

  "I want four cheapie Bushies, too. Something I can throw away."

  "Fiteen hunnerd for fohr."

  "Done." That was reasonable. Jim wasn't stupid, just small time and hopeful. Now they could bargain decently. Someone went running off to get the ordered goods.

  Nosing over, Jason took a look in the crate. "Shit, what's that?"

  "Old," Jim said. "No good."

  "Let me see."

  "Okay."

  He took the weapon handed to him and drooled. It was well over a century old, and worn. It was an original AK-120, vintage twenty-first-century. A museum piece.

  And Jason lived in one of the few nations where he could own a weapon. He'd have to find a way to get it home, but . . .