Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  There was almost no one about. One staffer had wandered past, a woman he recognized vaguely and who was older and not a credible threat herself. Of course, she could still carry a bomb or pass information, but she was approved and checked. Harinder? Was that her name? Likely. He'd have to memorize all that data.

  He snapped a quick photo and let the computer scan. It confirmed. Harinder, no last name, cleaner on this floor. He nodded and she smiled faintly without a word.

  One soldier, with badge, walked down a crossing corridor. At the far end, he saw Weilhung, in the combat casual wear that was apparently standard in the palace. Alex ignored him and headed for the rear corridor.

  "Agent Marlow, I need to speak to you now," Weilhung said loudly, as soon as eye contact was made.

  Alex sighed. It had to be administrative. Had to.

  "Yes, how can I help you, Major?" he replied as he turned back.

  Weilhung thumbed back over his shoulder, gesturing down the hallway to the rich atrium.

  "It's generally considered a hostile act to plant explosives inside your own perimeter," he said while glowering, almost snarling.

  Oh, the stairwell.

  Alex realized it had been several seconds and Weilhung was waiting for a response. There wasn't really an answer he could give. They weren't contracted to care about anyone except the President, they couldn't trust anyone anywhere under the circumstances, as either a threat or a leak, and, the embarrassing part, it hadn't occurred to him it might be a problem. The explosives had been an answer to a problem, so he'd let it happen and agreed.

  Weilhung took the silence as a cue to keep talking, hand resting on his weapon but not threatening. "I believe I can figure out your intentions with that. I sure as hell would like to be in the loop so my people don't wind up dead. I don't have to tell them if you're paranoid about it, but I am also tasked with the President's safety, and I need to know."

  Weilhung was pissed, and had every right to be. Alex had insulted his professionalism and placed him at risk because he'd been thoughtless.

  "Major, it was a slip caused by being busy, and it won't happen again. Besides the stairs, you'll find charges inside the elevator panels on each floor, and inside the window of the President's office." That should do it.

  Weilhung was obviously still pissed, but nodded.

  "Thanks. I'll note that privately and I won't tell anyone unless the mission dictates, said mission being protecting that same President. Are we agreed?"

  "We are. I'll keep you informed."

  Weilhung let his displeasure be known by nodding once again, curtly, and turning without a further word.

  Alex turned and headed back for their dorm. He hadn't mentioned the charges under the floor in front of the President's apartment and office doors, or the ones in the basement elevator alcove. He didn't want to explain another discrepancy, and he'd play BuState against MilBu if need be. He couldn't trust anyone. Anyone.

  There was a stranger in the room when he returned. He was standing, the team was sitting and no one seemed worried.

  "Ah, Agent Marlow. Doug deWitt, BuState," the man said, offering his hand. Alex looked him over. He was tall, balding, and had a no-nonsense presence and was possibly former military.

  "Good to meet you, sir. How can I help you?"

  DeWitt smiled. "I'd give you a list of people to shoot, but if you actually did it, my ass would be in a bind. However, I thought you could use a sitrep."

  "That, sir, will be very much appreciated. Please have a seat."

  "Thanks, but if you don't mind, I prefer to pace."

  "Suit yourself. Mind if I get others in on radio?"

  "Please do."

  DeWitt was a serious pacer. Back and forth between one of the couches and the coffee table, sideways to face his audience, he never stopped moving. He strode around looking at artwork, examining frames and tables, until Alex had Elke and Jason on a speaker. Their radios were quite decent even at this range, though much of that was the base station Jason had set up, wired into the mast antenna assembly on the roof. That was a military grade system, but Ripple Creek had its own encryption algorithms in addition to the factory codes.

  "We're here," Elke said.

  "Okay, we have an interaction problem with the Army and with the local palace guards. Each wants to be in charge. With the Army, they want total control of anything to do with the President."

  "They likely figure they'll take the blame if something happens," Shaman said.

  "Right." DeWitt nodded as he moved. "And we're the ones who have to cover the problem, which is why we hired you. At the same time, there are various elements in BuState playing this off against each other for advantage. I don't know who ultimately will be running the show here."

  "As long as you'll back us up as you have, we'll manage," Alex said. "Let us know if we can smooth anything out and we'll see what we can do."

  "Well, try not to borrow weapons from soldiers on patrol anymore," he chuckled. "Hey, I agree completely, but dammit, that made some sores."

  "Perhaps we could offer some classes on weapon retention?" Elke snickered through the speaker.

  DeWitt sighed. Obviously he wasn't getting the results he wanted.

  "Okay," he said. "Look, I know you guys are way better than the average bullet catcher. I know you're the best there is at this. I expect you to do what it takes to keep yourself and the President alive. I know that means friction, but keep it to a minimum. I don't want any pissing contests, any dick measuring, or whose fart stinks more."

  "Sorry, sir," she said, sounding remorseful. "I wasn't being entirely humorous."

  "Yeah, I know," he said. "It's a sucky situation."

  Alex said, "Can you tell us more about the parties we'll be meeting as we escort the President?"

  "You don't have that long," deWitt said. "There are twenty-three registered political parties, most of which have some variation of people's, progressive, democratic, workers, or some other euphemism for 'property-stealing communist' in their name. Sorry, did I say that out loud?"

  "Inside voice," Alex said with a grin. "Use your inside voice."

  "Right. Then, there are at least two hundred clans in varying alliances. They shift daily. No one has any idea how, if they didn't grow up here. Hence Bishwanath as an attempt to create what has never existed here—a society as opposed to a mob. Then there is relatively peaceful but massively corrupt opposition from various sources. Like the mayor and representative of Vishnuabad, a district, technically a suburb, north of here." DeWitt squinted as if pained.

  "Oh?" Aramis prompted.

  "Known rapist, philanderer, indulges in sobriety once a month or so, drugged out of his mind and incoherent, gutless, fat, known to off people who get in the way—or have them offed. He'd never dirty his hands even if he wouldn't wet his pants in fear of an altercation, though no one has ever been able to prove a thing. Witnesses are either paid off, blackmailed, or threatened into silence. The locals slobber over him like some messiah. It's revolting."

  "So he became mayor by being more brutal than anyone?" Bart asked.

  "He's mayor because his father was president and got shot in a tribal dispute. The father was a mensch. The son played the sympathy card in his first election, and bought them after that. His main good points are that he stays bought, and buys people with lots of public services. Of course, he does that with other people's money."

  "What's his name?"

  "Kenneh Dhe."

  "And why is Mister Dhe a problem for us?"

  "He's powerful. That makes him a problem. He's complaining about the cost of security, the 'off-planet intrusion,' the 'second-class status for our people.' If he can get you out of the way, he's got a better chance of killing Bishwanath. Not directly, of course; he'll create an accident. Festering scum, but powerful, and will never openly be a problem, but watch for his lackeys, both paid killers and the frothing nutjobs of the Progressive Party."

  "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 6

  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 alleys and twisting side streets. Some even redrew exist
ing 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.