"Very well, if you wish to be formal," the woman said—she came across as a "woman," not as a "soldier." She still hadn't stood up from her desk. Meanwhile, people were milling about. Bishwanath saw three District Representatives from the capital, two others from outskirt regions, and Mister deWitt from BuState, who was looking rather amused at the exchange.
But then the . . . soldier was addressing Bishwanath. "So will you please relay our request to your contractor, sir?" She made the word contractor sound like a cross between "pet dog" and "maid." And since Bishwanath's mother had been a maid for most of her life, he really got annoyed.
"I will not," he said. He waited for the confused look to return, then grinned. For a moment, he saw Marlow's face, which was also grinning.
"But, sir, Army policy—"
"This is not an Army function," he replied. "This is a formal meeting of the District Councils and myself. The Army's function is to keep outside threats outside and away."
"But we've taken control of this building," the woman said stupidly. She'd already lost the debate and didn't have any grasp of it.
"It is a civic building, and falls under the Office of the Mayor," Bishwanath said. "As Executive, he answers to the Executive Branch. That is me. If he gave you such authority, I am revoking it. Did he?"
"Er, well, lieutenantcanyouhelpme?" the woman said, turning.
The lieutenant was already standing behind his poor, outgunned sergeant. However, the question was one he hadn't been prepared for. "Er . . . I don't know if he did or not, sir. To be honest."
"Well, it's quite simple," Bishwanath said. "If he didn't, your presence here is not authorized. If he did, I can countermand it. Now, for the sake of good relations, getting started on time, not making a scene, and not interfering with the Army's ability to perform its mission, I will allow you to stay. I see no need to change a plan that's working in the middle. We shall discuss who has what jurisdiction afterwards." Yes, indeed, we shall. You bastards.
"And in the meantime, it pleases me to have Agent in Charge Marlow and his team escort me to my booth, and to sit nearby. I also believe their apparent civilian presence will improve the perception that I am actually in charge here, and not a mouthpiece for the UN SecGen and Assembly . . ." He paused a moment, watching the expressions of embarrassment, discomfort, and anger, before concluding, ". . . as some have implied in the news."
The lieutenant actually looked relieved. Possibly not having to put his name on the decision?
"Very good, sir," he said with a slight sigh as he exhaled a held breath. "I'll relay that at once to—"
Bishwanath didn't wait to find out who he planned to ask to be the next obstacle. He turned and said, "Agent Marlow, gentlemen, lady, please escort me."
Then he turned his back on the Army and walked past the booth. He was quite confident that . . . and yes, there they were. The team was around him again, in a perfect square, guiding off his steps. Miss Sykora was slipping what had to be some kind of small explosive back into her pocket.
He grinned. No, he had not been intended to be a sovereign, only a figurehead. But that was changing. Oh, yes. The mobs, gangs, and clans had been warring over this land for a hundred years. He didn't like the waste and suffering from that, and he was damned if the UN was going to add its different, more evolved, but still corrupt influence to the mix.
Behind them, the Army was having a shouting match over who had authority, and who might be prevailed upon to destroy their career by stopping Bishwanath. He smiled. Now if only the negotiations ahead would go as well . . .
CHAPTER 5
President Balaji Bishwanath. The title sounded like much more than it was. At best, he wielded the power of a midsized town's mayor on Earth. Despite its population, Celadon's economy was small.
He entered his apartment and turned to his escort. "Miss Sykora, thank you. I appreciate your efforts."
"Thank you, sir. Let us know when you need help," she said. "Delivery complete." She nodded once more and turned as he closed the door. He'd never get used to them speaking into the air. Their transmitters were dental plates that sat on the teeth and were all but invisible. The receivers were those tiny buds in their ears that also worked as amplifiers and filters. The equipment wasn't even particularly high-tech, but it was higher than anything here.
He exhaled heavily at once, and pulled his tie the rest of the way off, then started on the shirt and jacket. He needed a drink.
Bishwanath was tired. At every step, he'd had to debate not only his opponents, but his allies. It was infuriating. BuState, with good intentions and a committee of political scientists, was prepared to create his government. They were smug and not very discreetly condescending about his thoughts on the subject.
They wanted to "modernize," and in that he agreed. However, they had different definitions of "modernize." Their definition would make Celadon a molded copy of Zimbabwe, and Bolivia, and Borneo. A second-rate nation stuck with the expensive trappings of first-world pretension in the capital, with an ongoing struggle for relevance. Too, they expected that the same infrastructure would be used, which would destroy any national identity. No culture, trade, or tourism, just one more cog in the machine, providing raw materials at a horrible exchange rate, with the cost of interstellar travel.
He sat in one of the broad, stylish chairs. "Stylish" in a fashion of two decades ago. They came from no real culture, were just castoffs from the modern world. New, but not original. All of Celadon was like that. All of the planet, in fact.
It wasn't just that they were poor, uneducated, and undeveloped. They had no cultural identity. No reason to care. Each tribe had leftover scraps and machismo, and xenophobia of other tribes, from back on Earth, mixed with their development here. They all regarded it as important to keep the others down, and thus never made progress.
Earth made him think of Abirami. He'd promised to send for her soon, but he wasn't sure that would be possible. Until the threat level came down, it wouldn't be advisable. No doubt Miss Sykora would be happy to escort Rami around, but a single principal, as he was called, was easier to guard. Best she stay on Earth in the town house in Connecticut, conveniently located close to New York. Her photos showed it to be very pretty in fall, and she had things to keep her occupied, if she was lonely. Once he had things in better mettle here, then she could come home.
He needed a drink. He also needed to avoid falling into it as a trap. One double of a fine bourbon would help his tension and anger, which was tightly controlled and eating at him. He must keep his poise, invite others to see him as a voice of reason in the scrum.
Bishwanath knew the solution. He was willing to make the sacrifice that must be made to accomplish it. That would win him no friends and lose many he had. He was already seen with distaste by his would-be handlers. He would be reviled by many here, including his own people. He had no idea how history would view him, but that wasn't important. What was important was a nation, a people.
The sipping that had brought him through the first half of the fine amber liquid was not enough. The rest disappeared in a gulp. Elijah Craig probably wouldn't have approved of his whiskey being guzzled. The man had come from a culture with an identity that lived on, though its geography was now merely part of the North American urban sprawl. Celadon did not have that.
But in Balaji Bishwanath, Celadon, BuState, warring tribes, and now the Army, it seemed, had the one thing they all needed to get past the obstacles and solve problems.
They had a person to bear the blame.
* * *
"Okay, so what went right with that operation?" Alex asked.
Jason sat back in his chair and didn't put his feet up on the table. He knew where this would go, and was curious to see if the kids got it. He met Alex's eyes and both of them nodded a bare fraction of an inch.
Bart spoke first, after considering for only a moment. "It was smooth in transport. Movement on the ground was excellent." His voice was clear even from acros
s the room, where he was guarding the other entrance to the President's quarters. As soon as possible, there would be a barricade in the hallway and any supplicants would have to come through the team first.
Alex said, "Good. Next?"
Aramis said, "I think commo was clear and concise. There was nothing confusing." He was obviously thinking about it at length, which was the point of this.
"Right. Elke?"
She stretched upright and erect and said, "I had the resources I need, a good amount of intel to start with, and our position was understood by our immediate allies."
"Exactly. Shaman?"
"We had control of the situation door to door." His voice boomed even when conversational.
"Jason, what about you?"
Leaning on his arms, deliberately looking casual, he said, "We had room to maneuver and the crowd was at a distance, plus we had backup."
"Right," Alex nodded. "We weren't alone in this. So then: what went wrong?"
No one spoke for a moment. He pointed and said, "Aramis?"
"Er . . . we could have had a better look at the cars ahead of time," he said. "All we had for info was 'limo' and 'enclosed estate type.' " He looked nervous, afraid of making a mistake.
"That's one. Elke?"
"We needed better planning with the facility security ahead of time. They had a very different oplan than we did." She didn't hesitate.
Nodding, Alex moved along the couch. "Shaman?"
"I would like to see a full medical kit onboard in case I need it. What was there was marginal."
"Good point. I'll make note of that." He scrawled. "Bart?"
Bart considered again. His English was excellent, but he definitely seemed to translate as he went. His grasp wasn't instinctive. He said, "I believe we could have used more gear aboard as well. Backup weapons."
"Almost got it," Jason said. "What the hell was our backup plan, and what were we going to fight with if the convoy got attacked and split up? We let someone corral us into traveling in a civil convoy, under military control, with dispute between departments over who was doing what, and all we had for ourselves and our principal was pistols." He hadn't liked it from the moment they started downstairs. He should have made a stink then, when Alex didn't.
"Right," Alex said.
After that sank in, he said, "I should have been more on top of that, and I'm sorry. Recon has a hate truck, but we don't. Six of us is almost a squad, we should be armed like it—grenades, support weapons, sensors. I'm getting with Corporate and BuState, and I've also been authorized to spend some money locally. We can 'get weapons off the street,' as the press likes to say, and use them to our advantage. I'm also going to be leaning on the military to get more independence. They seem to think contracted to their operation means we take their orders. They've got grunts for that. We're specialists."
"What are you thinking of picking up?" Jason asked.
"Machine gun or two. Repeating cannon. Couple of antiarmor rockets. Extra ammo. Shaman's field surgical kit. Barricades. Antivehicle mines. All the stuff they wouldn't let us bring in. Problem is, I have to get it without the military knowing, and through shall we say 'discreet' sources, and I'm not yet plugged in enough to know where. My possible sources of information are indirect questioning of the military, especially that nice Tech White and her office, though I don't know them and can't really trust them. I can ask the President, but his office is monitored by his people, probably BuState and the military. I can try to ask Rahul. I gather he'd have some idea."
Jason spun it over in his mind. "I can get the info and the other stuff. What do I have to work with?"
"You can?" Alex looked alert.
"Sure. You want to scrounge common weapons in a war zone. Not a problem. All I need is a clear entrance into the building when I get the stuff. I can take any vehicle. I'll buy sundries while I'm at it."
"Do it. When can you go?"
"If I have ten hours free now, I can do it now. I think I can find a dealer, with enough money. What do I have to work with?" he repeated. "Cash?"
"Some cash, some silver, some gold, and a little palladium."
He choked. "Holy shit. Palladium? Don't even bother. No one here will have change for that, if they even know what it is. It's got little industrial use in this shithole. Gold, silver, cash."
"Ten thousand."
"More than enough." Sheesh. At least Alex was bright enough to ask for help, but the man was way too honest. "I'll need good backup that's not obvious. Elke?"
She nodded. "Sure, I can come along. Should I bring my shotgun and explosive?"
"And pistols and a couple of carbines," Jason said. "ID and a vehicle and commo. Please keep the radio hot? In case of problems or questions?"
"Will do," Alex agreed. "The rest of us will make space, check the palace over again, and work on ROE and MO for tomorrow. Another conference."
"We'll leave at once," Jason said. Sweet. He liked being a tourist, and it was so much better when you had enough firepower no one wanted to fuck with you. You could really see a town then. "I'll need some stuff from Rahul."
"Go ahead."
He nodded and rose.
Rahul was in the President's apartment, and answered the door promptly. "May I help you?" he asked in mock obsequiousness.
"Rahul, let's be honest. We need more hardware. I need some supplemental trade goods. Here's a list." He handed over a scrawled sheet, then reached over to jot one more item down. "The first section I need right now. The rest later."
The bulky man scanned the list, clearly literate in English, and said, "I will need a couple of minutes." His face bore a grin that was knowing and deadly.
A few minutes later, Jason and Elke were in an open bay of the "carriage barn" looking at a large Volvo estate wagon. He liked Volvos. Reliable, classy, and tough as hell. This one had moderate armor upgrades and a couple of largely useless gun ports. It was far too clean and nice to be unobtrusive, but some dust and mud would fix that. He put down the box he was carrying and drew two bottles from it. Rahul had found everything on the "now" list, including a case of wine, easily.
"Elke, can I ask you to get dirty for me?"
"As long as I don't have to get on my knees," she replied with a smile. "Yes, I can muck up the truck. Is that what you want?" Damn, she was perceptive. That was why he'd recommended her, and was glad to have her along.
"You are no fun to tease. Yes, please do. I'm going to ask some questions."
She nodded and sought dirt in an abandoned flower bed just outside the huge garage. This time of year it was all dry and crumbly.
Meanwhile, he sauntered over to the gaggle of local troops ostensibly guarding this area. They looked uniform from a distance, but up close, it was obvious their maroon jackets came from several sources, and varied in fit and repair. Their pants were black but not standard, and they didn't look and obviously didn't feel professional. As he approached, they nudged each other alert, rose to their feet, and turned to face him.
"Hot out here?" he asked.
"Sher be. You need we help wut?" one asked. He appeared a bit more alert and observant.
"I think you need a drink," he said, raising two bottles of wine. It was a mass-produced Earth brand, but he suspected they cared more about proof than robust complexity with a well-worn bootlike finish, or whatever terms the wine snobs used.
"Yar, we cud. Tank and cheer." The man took the bottle, glanced at the label long enough to show he could read, and said, "Help you we?"
The local dialect was English, but God, it was a barely comprehensible mess.
"I could use an extra gun," he said. "No, not one of yours," he said to their shying movements. "I want to buy one for my collection. Where would I find one locally?"
"Ah, you want Jim. Cuzzin mine. Look for le harweer sto at Fitty Nye an Gee."
Jason translated that and noted it. "Should I tell him you sent me? Send a message?"
"Shi, not. I boom his wive las mont."
The delivery was deadpan, but the whole squad started giggling. Jason settled for a smile and said, "I'll look for him. Need anything brought back?"
"Yea, we gots no rifle bults. Pistole, do sho, but no rifle."
"I'll see what I can do," he lied. If they only had pistol, and none of them had rifle ammo, it was probably on purpose and he agreed with the probable reason. He'd weasel around that. "Thanks for the help."
"Ya, no probum."
* * *
Alex took a quick tour of the floor. It gave him time to think, and it let him keep apprised of any changes. There'd been some cleaning, and a couple of the rugs had been removed, presumably to be cleaned or replaced. The bare areas of inset wood were dusty from a history of improper cleaning, and paler and less worn. That said something about the past. Everything here was façade, but no substance, a pattern of laziness.
Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC Page 7
