Do Unto Others-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  After that, he sorted routine matters such as schedule charts, incident reports open and closed, most of them birds that flew into the sensors, threats sent and made in various places, most of them from whining socialists who imagined the Prescots had done them some ill by being successful. Cady had tossed most, flagged a couple for followup. He concurred and sent the list back, where she'd send relevant information to law enforcement. He smirked briefly. If those pansies imagined they'd been done some wrong so far, wait until UNPOL and their local police got hold of them.

  That was when a call came up from Facilities.

  "Sir, this is Roger Edge." Edge was one of Cady's men.

  "Go ahead."

  "There's a woman here who claims to be Miss Prescot's mother. I can't reach Mister Prescot to confirm. She's rather irritated."

  Even through the phone, Alex heard a voice that was a cultured and harpish snap, "I am not 'rather irritated.' I'm pissed off at this treatment. Let me see my daughter."

  "Assuming she's clean, escort her up and we'll do personal ID here."

  "Roger. Out."

  Alex smiled. That poor man's name was going to be a pain for communication.

  "Miss, are you awake enough for a visit from your mother?"

  "Oh, god, not that old bag," Caron writhed a bit and groaned. "There's a reason my father paid forty million to divorce her. It was worth it. I'd've paid it myself."

  Ouch. Not good. However . . .

  "I'm afraid in the interests of avoiding hassle in the press, I'm interpreting that as, 'Yes, I'm fit to see her briefly.'"

  Jason came over the net. "She's here now, at the lift."

  Alex nodded and said softly, "Aramis, you post in here. We'll cover the hall. Make sure she gets sniffed." The young man nodded and stepped out the door at once. Then he stepped back in.

  The woman who came through the door right then had to be Ashier Prescot. She was near fifty, slim and decently kept, and had a slightly more Asian cast than her daughter. The Kazakh was obvious, and the Maltese apparent after a moment. She was simultaneously beautiful and a hawk-faced bitch.

  She extended an arm with a jacket in it, and said, "Thank you, young man. Would you be so kind as to hang this for me?"

  "My pleasure," Aramis said with a smile, and hung it on the hook right behind her. He didn't act at all put upon. Well done.

  "Thank you. And a chair, please?"

  Aramis politely moved a chair a meter for her.

  Caron said, "Hello, Mum," and sounded woozier than she had.

  Ashier stepped over and sat down, every bit concerned mother.

  "How are you feeling, dear?"

  "Alive. The Ripple Creek doctor is amazing, and so were their EMTs. My lady guard went down first. She's next door."

  "Lucky that. Is she okay?"

  "So I'm told."

  "And the men are good looking as well, 'ey? Worth the money." The woman twisted and winked at Alex.

  "Mum! They're bodyguards and very professional. I don't involve with the help."

  Her mother clutched her hand and said, "Sorry. I'm never sure what to say. I'm glad you're alright. I can move in for a bit if it will help. The South Wing is far enough your father need never see me."

  Caron paused and barely stiffened for a moment, which Alex interpreted as absolute panic.

  "Mum, I hope to be on my feet in a day or so. Then I have to keep up with classes."

  "Alright. But do stay in touch, please? I hardly hear from you."

  "I will. Every morning."

  "Good girl."

  "But you caught me just as I had a dose. I'm drifting off now."

  Ashier looked at Alex. "Is it okay if I stay? I can sit here."

  Caron's expression behind her mother's was mortified. It was a reasonable request, though.

  Alex said, "Yes, of course, ma'am, but do please be quiet. Doctor Mbuto gave strict instructions for her to rest quietly."

  "Oh. Not Doctor Freling?"

  "He consulted, and decided that since Doctor Mbuto performed the first response and the treatment, that he should continue as lead. He's checking periodically."

  Actually, he was completely shut out. No one Alex couldn't vet personally was allowed anywhere near Caron Prescot for the foreseeable future. Freling got updates as a courtesy, and so he could offer input on the progress.

  Caron was faking sleep by the time he finished. He and Aramis maintained stony silence at parade rest for almost an hour. Finally, Ashier rose quietly, whispered, "I'm done with the chair," and padded out, requesting Aramis hand her her jacket again.

  Once he was sure she was off the elevator and away from any mics, Alex said, "It's safe, Miss."

  Caron twitched and sighed.

  "That's my mum," she said. "Never do for yourself what you can have someone do for you, especially if it's menial and irrelevant."

  It seemed safe to comment. He said, "I gather it both maintains her self image as a wealthy person of means, and keeps employees engaged. I suppose some appreciate that to doing nothing."

  "Yes, she has more staff than Dad. No need for it, just a status thing."

  "I suggest you do call her every morning, if you don't want her dropping in again."

  Caron cringed slightly. "Yes, you're probably right."

  Elsewhere two people discussed the attack from a different perspective.

  The woman said, "That was awfully damned close to killing her. She's not the one we want dead."

  The man decided not to argue that now. Eventually the woman would figure out her place, or she'd be on the list, too. The kidnapping didn't work, and they'd lost another inside source over that. While they got a lot of useful fear factor and the remaining staff distanced themselves, all for the better, they were scared enough that they'd probably not consider any offer or threat. Dead end. Now this.

  "It had to be a serious enough scare to make them consider dropping stock options, or splitting control. That's the goal." For now. Actually, the goal had been to kill her, then go after the father in his remorse. Most of the staff loved the arrogant little bitch, though. They'd get in the way.

  "Yes, but do be careful. The man will button up if pressed enough."

  I hope so. "Obviously, since that didn't work, we'll try a different approach. We'll get them off planet, which will make communication harder, and morale worse. Then we hit them again."

  "Keep him here! Once he gets there and finds out what's been done . . . "

  "He won't. He's too nice to suspect, and too cloistered to notice."

  "I don't trust that little bitch, either. She's too clever for her own good."

  "Noted," he agreed. That was the reason he keep the woman around—inside information from the house, even if it was a little out of date. Pity she wasn't tough enough to help with killing. That would make things so much easier.

  "But he definitely needs taken down a peg, the arrogant sod."

  He was wryly amused at that. That was an egregious case of the pot calling the Queen's china black.

  He said, "We'll keep the pressure on with lots of low key stuff until they move."

  "Moving will separate them from a lot of resources. But I'm not convinced they won't figure out some of our advance strategies."

  My advance strategies, you conceited bitch, he thought. She was useful, and savage in bed, but ultimately, he might have to decide between her and the money. He didn't see that being a tough decision.

  It could have been so easy, too. There was so much money involved even the help and hangers on had millions.

  Vaughn said, "I do like these cars. Classy."

  "Indeed," Bart agreed. He braked firmly and pulled them into the market street of some little town called Llanfair-ym-Muallt. A sleek motorcycle wove past them and into the slower traffic ahead.

  The family had Mercedes, Volvos, Skodas, classic Lincolns, but the Bentley, with a three stage turbine, variable torque electric transmission, and the mass of a small tank was just a joy. That turbin
e, though, threw it around like a sports car. The long wheelbase was a pain, but that was necessary for the stretched cargo area. This was a limo meant for real travel, not publicity gags.

  Bart asked, "Do we need anything locally?"

  "No," Jason said, "I just like seeing the area and getting a feel for it."

  "As good a reason as any to be here," Bart said. He kept his eyes on the road constantly.

  The team had instructions to keep the Prescots' vehicles in use, for whatever they needed. Having three or four vehicles rolling around each day kept any potential hostiles guessing as to who might be where. Between fourteen personnel, and some of the household staff, it should be pretty well impossible to predict who might be in which vehicle and when. Jason estimated that as a 75% reduction in success rate for any attacks.

  It was all about probabilities. Don't be predictable. Add in distractions. Confuse the enemy. Display multiple targets, most of them decoys. And if they got through the fog of probabilities, counterattack hard and viciously and bring the pain.

  "I don't like how that cycle keeps pulling closer," Vaughn said. He was visibly tense.

  "I see him," Bart agreed. Yes, that was possibly a threat, and definitely an annoyance. "Is he a threat or just a twit?"

  Vaughn said, "Maybe both, maybe neither. We can't risk it."

  "I will relocate us. It seems easiest."

  "Yes, but don't let them think we're being corralled. We'll find somewhere else to shop and make it look planned."

  "I understand," Bart said. He intended that anyway, but Vaughn never talked down, he just presented facts. They both knew they were thinking the same, and that was reassuring.

  Bart turned left onto a major but winding street. It might have existed since just after the Romans left, or even before. They probably hadn't been here, but some Celtic tribe . . .

  Another cycle turned in fast from a side street, and a package rolled off the cargo rack.

  "Mine!" Jason shouted. He ducked, Bart kept driving. It was important that Bart keep the vehicle moving, and that Jason be able to respond to the threat.

  They both tensed, and the limpet exploded. Armored plastic crashed in a crescendo of sparkling shards, the blast punched Jason in the head and body and ripped at his arms.

  He was half deaf, but it was probably temporary, but that meant he was still alive and combatant, so he rose up and reconned again.

  There was a window missing, the back seat was shredded, and the rider was close enough to reach in, though he stayed back with a pistol.

  Still groggy, Jason shouted, "Brake!" and hit the door release. Bart eased into the brakes hard and evenly, and the door slammed and creaked to full open. Jason popped up over the roof, and gapped the kid, between the eyes, through the upper lip, through the throat, then dropped back down to shoot right past Bart's head, through the hole in the window, and peg him low in the belly.

  That done, he sprung out the door, over the roof in a roll, grabbed the collapsed body as the bike started slumping over with it, and dragged. Bart already had the large cargo section open, and crept forward enough for Jason to throw the body in, then heave the bike up with a grunt and shove it alongside. He darted back around and rolled into his seat.

  Bart nailed the throttle, Jason's door slammed closed from the acceleration. The big limo barely clipped another car whose anti-collision circuits couldn't move it fast enough, zipped through the intersection and was gone. He pushed the button for the rear hatch. Jason keyed his phone.

  "Marlow."

  "Vaughn. We got hit by a hostile. Inbound with evidence. Need diplomacy with cops."

  "Understood. I'll call. You heading straight in?"

  "Yes. We're done anyway. Out."

  As he disconnected, Bart said, "You didn't mention that we're bringing the actual body."

  "Yeah, that would be hard to explain on the phone. They'll figure it out."

  "Before or after it starts to stink?"

  "This whole situation stinks."

  "I agree."

  Alex was very attentive to the threat, and made supplemental notes as Jason debriefed.

  "So there are now random attacks, despite the counter tactics. That's not good."

  "Right," Jason said. "They're either desperate, or amateurs."

  "We already have pros trying. This could mean multiple threats."

  "Yes."

  The local police chief twitched when he was called.

  "You removed evidence from the scene, including a body, which you allege was killed in self defense, and explosives were involved?"

  That call led to a brief standoff with police, the government, Ripple Creek corporate, lawyers from all parties, and from Prescot. It would have made great headlines, if anyone had been interested in letting the press in. All seemed to agree that would just make a world class nightmare into a drug-addled horror.

  Prescot was remarkably understanding when Jason explained to him.

  "In summary, sir, we had to neutralize the real world threat fast. We had to egress the area in case of followup threats. A body on the street would have been worse. We needed potential intel or evidence. We had to do it all in a matter of seconds. We reported the incident at once, returned to a safe operating location, and provided all facts to the police, our management, you and the government. It's one of those situations that just doesn't have a good outcome."

  "I disagree. I think the outcome was perfect. At least one enemy knows you're playing to win, and that you can protect us. It didn't become public. You demonstrated to me and my family that you can keep us safe at all costs. The money involved would have been an issue some time ago, but not the fundamental issue, and isn't that important now. However, can you think of a more discreet way to handle it in future?"

  The casual and relaxed attitude caught Jason off guard, but he'd prepared for that question.

  "Honestly, sir, I can't. Someone turned the street into a combat zone. I have to treat it as such while minimizing collateral damage to innocent people and property. That means I kill the threat, relocate and call for backup, both economic and with guns. As it is, there's one minor hit and run that will take some bodywork. Most people didn't even witness it as fast as it was. A lot of them won't believe it was real. They'll assume it was some art stunt or video trick with props."

  "Very well. I accept that. And I'm very glad you and Bart are both unhurt."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Two days later, a stolen European Army shoulder-fired rocket came over the hedgerow. It did no damage, because the debris landed fifty meters short. It landed as debris because Elke had a directional mine on the roof, that blew a shotgun spread of tungsten cubes into its flight path. No one commented on either the mine, nor on the damage the backblast did to some two hundred year old slate tiles. She'd obviously done the right thing.

  Alex sat attentively and rather calmly, given the circumstances. Prescot paced as he thought aloud.

  "I want to move soon. I have things to finish, but Caron is days from her degree. We'll probably have to skip the commencement."

  Alex said, "I'd recommend it. It's too big to secure without the government, and they'd want control."

  "Unkind to her, but necessary." Prescot sighed.

  Even though calm, Alex was at a heightened state of awareness.

  He said, "It just seems that all these attacks are urging us to hurry up and get off Earth. Which makes me wonder if we really shouldn't. Except we can't cover the entire globe, so moving makes sense, even if it is into the vipers' nest, because we'll have better control of the situation. I suspect it's not going to be a picnic, though."

  Prescot said, "At least on Govannon we will have more relative force available, better odds and at least some filtering, yes?"

  He was no fool and no coward. Alex appreciated that.

  "I agree. It'll make it easier to focus, but I suspect any threats will be more dedicated."

  "How fast can you move Caron if you have to?"


  "That depends on how fast transport is available. There are limits in the schedules."

  "How fast could you evacuate here, go to ground, relocate and get to transport?"

  "I'd need ninety seconds notice for a survival egress with vehicles," Alex said firmly. He liked that line of questioning. He could prove they'd done that in a war zone under fire. Here would not be a problem, relatively speaking.

  "What about a permanent departure?"

  "I'd ship possessions now, or duplicate, and have everything ready. Same schedule."

  "Then I'd like you to set up that procedure for Caron. Don't tell anyone, including her. Don't even tell me when you're leaving. Once her class is done, you make the call for me and get her to Govannon."

  "I can do that, sir. That's a very secure method."

  He wouldn't even tell his own people the exact moment, in fact.

  Chapter 12

  Elke only half heard any of the lecture. It was all half familiar, half irrelevant. She had most of her attention dispersed for threatening movements, and an eye on Caron's seat proper.

  The crashing echoes of a Superior Armaments 10mm carbine jolted her alert.

  There was no mistaking that sound, even through the structure of the building. The students mumbled and some of them thought it was construction. Elke heard muffled shouts and screams, though.

  She reached over, snagged Caron's arm, and yanked her from her seat.

  "Get ready to move or drop when I say so," she said. She punched her transmitter and said, "Incoming." Aramis probably already knew, but he'd make the call for backup.

  She popped open the doccase she'd carried these last few weeks, and grabbed a riot baton. The school had refused to compromise on any real weapons, so an electric toy with a glorified flashlight was all she had.

  Caron hunkered under the desk, as everyone around them stared in curiosity and amusement. They still hadn't caught on. The lecturer said something about paying attention, but Elke wasn't listening to non-threats at this point.