Better to Beg Forgiveness

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Everyone acknowledged and went back to eating and preparing. Horace was checking his sidearm when Elke came over and touched his shoulder. He looked up. Alex was with her.

  "Yes?" he asked.

  "Consultation."

  "Of course. Do I need my bag?" He wondered if she were ill.

  "No."

  They moved to the corner of the room, to a table sliced of a local agate and set on sturdy, black wood. Like many Celadon products, it was good, but not quite good enough to justify export. Better marketing would make it exotic and rare, but that hadn't been done. So much like Cameroon and Liberia.

  Elke placed her computer on the table, angled so it was hidden from the rest and from the camera that the military used to spy on their common room and didn't know they were aware of. So far, the AF had not mentioned any of their irregularities, nor had the Army, who presumably didn't know what the AF saw, or they would have complained.

  "These are the President's vitals from last night," she said. There was an IR spectrum image of the room, taken at intervals, and one frame had Bishwanath in it, dressed in pajamas. His readings were . . . odd.

  "Yes, he's medicated," Horace said. "I suspect for a stroke condition and possible liver disease. It looks to be controlled, but we'll have to make sure we have the appropriate medication on hand in case of emergency evacuation."

  "I can reconnoiter his quarters and check my emplaced gear as I go," Elke offered.

  "We can just ask Rahul. I expect he'll be willing."

  "Both," she said. "He may be hiding information from his friend."

  "I concur," Horace said. "It can be done tonight, or whenever is convenient."

  Weapons cleaning, function checks, loading, observing each other so as not to "print" a weapon through clothing, even though everyone present would have to know they were armed, reviewing maps, routes, potential blockages and escapes, emergency procedures. The two hours before departure were filled with technical matters that most people wouldn't expect of "mercenaries" or "legbreakers" or even "bodyguards." Alex contacted Weilhung and White and got intel and satellite updates.

  "I'm changing the planned route," he said.

  "Why?" White asked on-screen.

  "Because it means any planned trap won't work." Horace grinned from the couch next to him.

  "And this is a more scenic route. That can be played in the press," Alex said.

  "Good," White agreed. "He's visiting his people."

  Weilhung sighed. "You realize I have many troops set up to guard the planned route?"

  "I do, Major. Sorry. Is it that much of a problem?"

  "Not for me or them, no," Weilhung said. "However, certain officers are going to scream."

  "Aw, too bad." Alex was grinning now. "No need to say anything. You can move the troops as we go, they won't know why, which means no one else will know why."

  "Yeah. Are you planning on telling me the actual route?" Weilhung asked.

  Horace sensed tension. Did these two commanders trust each other? If not, how was it going to play out?

  "Yes, I'll give you the route. Can you come up for a hard copy? And you also, White."

  "I'll get both copies," she said. "It will take me a few minutes to clear my board."

  "Understood. I'll have them here."

  As he muted the audio and locked the camera, Alex looked at Horace and said, "And that'll delay things about until we leave," and winked.

  "Don't we trust them, sir?" Horace asked seriously.

  "I trust both of them implicitly," Alex said, also seriously, his face quite sober. "I have no reason to believe that everyone they deal with is trustworthy. White I imagine keeps everything locked tight and only shares it with her shift relief. Weilhung has to perforce share it with his subordinates. It trickles down from there to . . . who knows?"

  "There are other snoops," Horace said, indicating the camera above with a flick of eyes only. "If Elke can read the President with her gear, so can others."

  Alex looked disturbed.

  "I keep forgetting how much surveillance goes on, even here. It's almost as bad as London, Chicago, or San Fran back on Earth."

  "Assume everything is public," Horace advised.

  ****

  The movement went well, as usual. They performed their dance through the palace and into the vehicles. Military vehicles led, limos in the middle, more military tailing. The new route was circuitous and led past the market, where some garbage was thrown.

  A rotten cabbage thudded against the glass of the principal limo, and three EPs raised weapons, then holstered them again. Alex looked at Bishwanath, who shrugged.

  Elke was jumpy. She wanted her shotgun, but it was stowed under her feet. This vehicle was well-armored, she reminded herself. No immediate danger.

  The President said, "If they wish to express themselves thusly, I won't try to stop them. A few stains on my limousine just punctuate what our situation is like."

  "It must be irritating, though," Shaman said.

  "Enormously," Bishwanath agreed. But it anything, he sounded bored.

  The route seemed to work. Nothing further happened. The chosen course into town paralleled and crossed the old one twice, and then looped around. Anyone trying to respond would not have much notice or time in which to do so.

  The park in which the meeting was held could only charitably be called so. The grass was long, tufty, and choked by weeds. Several decorative paths were now broken and overgrown. The trees needed pruning, and several had snapped off in storms or been broken; it was hard to tell which. Elke saw trash, bare spots, areas that had obviously been campsites with fires until Dhe's goons had chased them out for this meeting.

  "Oh, my," Elke said as the entourage pulled to the curb. Dhe's contingent was already set up and . . .

  There were no words. His supporters were behind a rope that was patrolled by police and local soldiers. A few real soldiers, Turks and Bulgarians from the insignia, reinforced them to give some semblance of professionalism. Dhe had his own guards, too. Well fed. Overly well fed. They could certainly wave guns around, and they wore bright red pantaloons, white socks, flowerpot-shaped hats, and blue shirts with piping and braid. They almost looked like some ancient army from early rifle days.

  The crowd . . . people in rags, flowery princess outfits, working clothes, fine suits, and the tuxedo tights of the wealthy, all here to show support for a politician who "spoke for the poor."

  In Elke's estimate, the jewelry and limos of three or four of the guests on the bleachers could double the standard of living of ninety percent of the crowd. So much for the "graduated tax" Dhe was fond of.

  The rich few were not only ostentatious, they were strutting gay peacocks. The poor were gutter poor, and the other groups were every flake and freak one could imagine. This was the so-called "People's Progressive Party." They cared about the poor.

  Mister Dhe was sitting, but did rise to meet Bishwanath. Elke quivered alert. The crowd was largely uncontrolled; Dhe's men were armed. She knew the Army and the Recon troops were in a perimeter behind that crowd and on the buildings nearby, but it was still an area full of threats. Her professional instinct was to move in closer to shield the principal from attack, but that had been ruled out for appearance. She could be reactive only.

  "Checking crowd, no immediate threats, nothing but freaks," she said. They all slipped out of the vehicles as one. Elke and Shaman took the front as Bart and Aramis moved in from the sides, and Jason slipped in behind next to Alex.

  "Confirm freaks," Aramis said. She could hear sotto voce and the radio both.

  "Bad terrain, multiple potentials," Bart said. He was referring to threat positions that could be occupied.

  "Solid readings," Shaman said, referring to Bishwanath's vitals. "Nothing additional."

  "Freaks and scum," Jason said.

  "Consulting with Mama. Potentials cleared, and will be recleared." Alex had to be going nuts at the rear, watching Bishwanath walk into a potent
ial trap.

  Nor was it a paranoid fear. Someone might take advantage of the open terrain, or try to frame Dhe, or Dhe might make it look like someone was trying to frame Dhe. You never knew.

  The press were out, of course. They were privileged, and considered threat free, which was ludicrous, even if you considered their lies and carrion eating to be nonthreatening. Media was a very easy way to insert a spy or worse, which was why most governments were so leery of them, while being required to cater to them.

  Bishwanath smiled broadly. Considering his comments about Dhe, that had to be a fine acting job. Elke watched him and watched her sector of the guests and the crowd. She felt her fingers twitching and restrained them. No weapons, no explosives. Not yet.

  The cameras and "official" guests made it a jungle for an EP. The only good part was that Elke looked less like a fixture as she wandered around, past fractured trees and the human buzzards perched below them.

  Dhe's guards had earbuds, too. There were also three Recon troops she recognized, checking the threat zones that had been reported. Elke snapped photos with her eyeglass setup, and nodded to her compatriots. Recon, at least. She didn't regard Dhe's thugs as anything other than targets she couldn't shoot yet. They were all style, if that revolting combo could be called "style," and no substance to speak of.

  She couldn't avoid looking at Dhe because Bishwanath was next to him. What a disgusting creature. Pallid, a corpulent slug, obviously drunk out of his mind—she could smell the ketones fermenting out of his body from here—stuffed into a suit, and unable to speak a full sentence without drifting into incoherence that was quickly masked by the applause of his bootlickers.

  But Bishwanath smiled and was relaxed, and acted as if they were long lost friends. He'd even hugged the man and kissed his cheeks. Elke shuddered.

  The event was canned, nothing but speeches and platitudes, which was reassuring. Both parties were showing their presence, agreeing that they could work together, and the pats on the back were just to locate where to stick the figurative knife.

  Her attention was split between Bishwanath and the event. Nothing untoward seemed to be going on, and there were plenty of personnel around. Assuming Dhe's people cared about him, and he had competent friends somewhere, there didn't seem to be much to worry about.

  Shaman walked past and just nodded, nothing to comment on. Aramis had, too. Everything seemed clean without any excessive neatness to suggest a setup. Nor was there anything to indicate Dhe's people were anywhere good enough to set up something so clever that it would look innocent.

  When the face-to-face finished, there was a brief question-and-answer. The whole thing was so predictable.

  "President Bishwanath, what do you intend to offer to the unemployed, since Department benefits have run out?"

  "Obviously, we will be creating a system of payments to ensure these people are taken care of. However, there are delays in the implementation, since we have to identify everyone and arrange for funds to be delivered. With the existing lack of infrastructure, this could take time, but you have my assurance it's high on my list of priorities."

  Bishwanath was good. All the questions fell into the same pattern. How much, what benefits, what money are you going to give to group X to buy their vote and ensure they don't riot like chimps? Isn't it your fault we trashed and burned our society and now have nothing to show? What about Lady G, who's living on the street? Why do we have to wait? Can't money be handed out now? Make people happy and security won't be a problem. Look at the money being spent on your guards . . .

  Then a reporter approached Elke. She tried to turn and be busy elsewhere, but a microphone was in her face, and she was on the spot. Their SOP was to give polite but uninformative replies and finish quickly. Elke could also pretend to speak no English, but she disliked doing that.

  "Miss, you're one of the President's hired guards. How do you respond to allegations of waste on your contract?" The speaker had a practiced, pleasant smile and a huge set of tits that stunned Elke. They had to be natural, couldn't be comfortable, and the outfit was designed to make them very visible to the interviewee. That meant distraction. The woman operating them had to be bright and planning on being underestimated mentally.

  "That's really not my place to say," she replied, programmed response. "The contract was arranged through BuState to my company. I don't handle such matters."

  "Very well. What is it like guarding the President? How much time do you actually work?"

  Inquiry of information not to be shared. "I really can't discuss that," she said, hoping to pass this off to Alex, but he was busy and she was in the crosshairs. "We have an ongoing task of planning and executing security in the palace and for events, rehearsing, training, making advance trips to locations. We're busy pretty much all day, every day."

  "And what is he like, then?"

  Personal. Be discreet. "He's a busy man, and we keep out of his way. He's been very gracious and hospitable with our facilities and support."

  "Hypothetically, if there was an attack at one of these functions, would you work to protect other victims? Or is only the President your concern?"

  Trap question! "Obviously, the President's safety is our primary concern. Once we have ensured that, we are available to help others, depending on the situation. If you'll excuse me, I have to escort the President."

  "Absolutely, ma'am, and thank you for your time."

  She fell back into position as Bishwanath headed slowly for the car, shaking hands and smiling. "Grip and grin" it was called. Necessary, if time consuming.

  They moved in, passed off and surrounded the President, escorted him to the car, and slipped inside as planned.

  Alex said, "Okay, wrap up and head for the barn." Bart drove the escort this time, Jason had the President. They switched off at random for further safety, and rotated on who was close to Bishwanath as well. The catch was that either Shaman or Jason had to be nearby for medical support, and Bart and Jason were the best drivers. Jason was also deputy, so either he or Alex had to be in the primary vehicle. Jason was really the person to watch.

  The local police did manage to hold the press back as they boarded, Elke on duty with Alex, Jason driving, and the others in the chase car. Bishwanath gave a last wave as they pulled away slowly. That slowness was predicated by the crush of crowd the police hadn't managed to restrain.

  Once through the crowd, Jason accelerated. Elke grabbed a water bottle and downed a liter.

  "Thirsty," she said, suddenly feeling sweat in the air-conditioned compartment.

  "Very," Alex agreed. Bishwanath didn't say anything. He also was drinking, also water.

  Gulping, Alex said, "Three kilometers and we'll group back up. Shouldn't be any real—"

  Which was of course when the attack hit.

  Elke's bottle went flying as something crashed into the car. She let it fly and dropped down, grabbing one of the dump guns and reaching for her shotgun. Alex sprawled across Bishwanath, and she snagged helmets from the center mount, one for each of them, then grabbed for her own. She had the wrong helmet, she realized as she slapped it on. It was too loose, but there wasn't time to deal with that.

  Jason yelled, "Incoming rockets, get the fuck out! Right!" and she took that as gospel. Alex had one of Bishwanath's arms, she had the other. She kicked at the release on the right door as she slid over, and raised the carbine over her feet.

  Half the seventy-round stick evaporated into a roar and a sharp smell, with plastic vapor in the air. By the time the burst finished, three point two seconds at full rate of fire, heat waves were pouring off the barrel and distorting the image in her glasses, and she'd fanned the shots across ninety degrees of space in front of them. A second burst indicated Jason unloading. Right now, it sucked to be anyone in the area, because their only concern was saving Bishwanath, no matter how many locals took fire. Innocent bystander was an oxymoron when someone was bringing rockets to bear.

  She dropped the dump gu
n and tumbled out, Bishwanath rolled over her, pushed by Alex and crushing her left breast between their weight and the sharp angles of the carbine. Luckily, the serrated cap of the suppressor wasn't where it could poke her. The armor was good against impact but was quite soft otherwise, which was a mixed blessing. Alex stepped on her shoulder, but lightly as he sprang, then he was lifting the President off her.

  "Mister President, we have to move! Please come with me!"

  First thing was to clear a perimeter, but Jason had mentioned . . .

  SLABOOM!

  Direct fire grenade. He'd said rockets, she thought through the ringing, and was glad of her earbuds. A glance back showed Jason patting Bishwanath down and slipping plugs in his ears, and Alex scanning. There were the other three. She'd missed their car being hit, but it was in pieces and flames now, everything forward of the passenger compartment shredded. Or maybe it going up had been the warning Jason had shouted. Bart limped a bit and curled around his left side, but was moving well.

  They had a perimeter and their principal, and they were within a couple of kilometers of backup, including possible air cover. It was even possible Dhe's men would show up and be of help.

  She shook her head, realizing she was a bit stunned to think something so silly. Those posers were useless even if they had courage, professionalism, or the desire to help, which they didn't.

  "Report," Alex demanded.

  "Argonaut, one, full, go, Dishwasher," Jason said. He had the President.

  "Shaman, one, full, go, Dishwasher," Shaman said. Both medics had the President. No report of injuries.

  "Babs, one, full, go," she said. Condition one. Her injuries were some scrapes, stings, and bruises, minor enough she wasn't going to report them.

  "Brat, four, half, go," Bart said, indicating some injury and half ammo load.

  "Aramis, two, three-quarter, go," Aramis said. Minor dings, a couple of bursts shot.