Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "I, of course, would be happy to offer a contingent of my own executive protection people, at my expense. Being local, they have a far better understanding of the issues and threats, and certainly will not shy from the situation." Repeat the video of the dog pile out of the limo.

  Miss Tits resumed her monologue. "The ultimate question, of course, is why a president who can't seem to actually get aid to anyone, other than some personal matters taken care of by the Army, and is protected by outrageously paid mercenaries with no regard for anyone but him, and little even there, is being considered for a permanent position. How will Mister Bishwanath rule without the military to bail him out? Will his budget actually be used for the public good, or just for his personal empire?

  "And why has our administration, why has Secretary General Rove, set up such a situation? Is it incompetence or corruption? We'll look at that when we return."

  Utter silence prevailed for several seconds. Finally, Jason said, "Turn. That. Shit. Off." He was too angry, his voice too wavering, to attempt it himself.

  "Power off," Shaman said.

  "Dammit, I hate this shit!" Aramis said. "We retreat under fire and then we get some shit about pulling out."

  Bart tried to lighten it with, "Didn't you learn? Pulling out is not a sure way to prevent pregnancy."

  "Yeah, and I'm tired of listening to you pull off," Jason said. "That's the job, you knew it when you took it, and that's why you're getting paid."

  He couldn't blame Aramis. He was so fucking pissed himself. Aramis was young, aggressive, wanted to go after trouble, which was the one thing EPs could never do.

  He still had his earbuds in, and White's voice announced, "Conference. We're coming up."

  Alex reached into his pocket, grabbed his mouthpiece from its case, slipped it in, and said, "Understood." He pulled the transmitter back out. "Okay, everyone breathe deep and get the stress out. We're all on the same side."

  "Right, officially," Aramis said.

  "Have to be," Alex warned him.

  The knock at the door was followed by White entering, who was followed a couple of seconds later by Weilhung and deWitt. There was obvious tension on all sides, but everyone had it firmly under control. They gathered in the area in front of the doors, an atrium delineated by furniture.

  "I see the misquotes are all around," Weilhung said. He looked both angry and nervous.

  "Yeah. What exactly did you say?" Alex asked. He was offering the benefit of the doubt, and was in better mettle than Jason, who wondered about that himself. The quote as presented had been damning, but was it what had actually been said?

  "I said, 'especially since they're not accountable to the same chain of command. It means we have different ways of doing things which can lead to unexpected problems.' "

  Everyone looked at him.

  "I figured that was a story in itself," he said.

  "It is indeed," Shaman offered. "But not the story these ghouls want."

  "Yeah. I'm sorry." He looked sheepish.

  "You saw what they did to Elke and Aramis' comments."

  "I get the general idea of what they said. For the record, you did a first-class job of getting the President to cover. I am impressed, so are my guys, and congratulations are in order." He made a point of offering his hand to each of them in turn.

  Jason was fine with that, and shook it. If nothing else came of this, it helped reinforce they were on the same side. A related side was their bureaucrats. The primary enemy was threats to Bishwanath. The press, as always, were a secondary enemy. Losers and dropouts who couldn't get real jobs, but Wanted to Make a Difference.

  That settled, everyone looked at deWitt.

  "Are you bearing the usual bad news in a moral support package?" Jason asked.

  "Not this time," the man shook his head. "I have one concern here, and it's a sucky one, but I've got to relay it."

  "Shoot," said Alex.

  "Because of other situations with reporters and assorted groups, they're now whining that they're receiving threats."

  "Gee, who woulda thunk it?" Jason muttered loudly.

  "We don't get to help, right?" Aramis asked.

  "You don't get to help," deWitt said. "And worse."

  There were sighs and groans.

  "Yes?" prompted Bart.

  "There cannot be any killings of reporters. They'll claim it was a deliberate attempt to silence them, go after you in court, and go after the administration, claiming it was government sanctioned. You understand what that means?"

  "It means the government will fuck us over a barrel to cover its arse," Elke said. Everyone looked at her. That was a graphic statement for her.

  "That is exactly what it means," deWitt agreed. "Do whatever you have to, kill a fucking nursing baby if it's in the way, but do not hit a reporter. At all."

  "When this is all over, I'll do a special on them," Aramis said.

  "I'll help," deWitt promised. "We all will. But they are inviolate for now. Capisce?"

  "Got it." "Yes." "If we must." "Sure." "Understood." "I'll make sure of it."

  "New policy here," Alex said, catching everyone's eye, "is that we do not talk to reporters. Ever. Not even to say, 'That will have to go through Corporate, fuck you very much.' Not a word. I'll clear it with Massa."

  "Suits me," Elke said.

  Weilhung looked annoyed. "Damn, I wish I had that power. Regs require I deal with them. Require it. I am required to talk to them truthfully."

  "What I want to know is, who hacked our commo?" Alex asked, tapping his ear and jaw. "These are supposed to be secure."

  White said, "I'll see what I can find with my gear. That will mostly matter if they transmit. Detecting a receiver is much harder. I will put together a package for you to take on your next run." When she said, "I" in that context, it meant an entire staff. She was merely the one who did the public speaking for the others, and one of the four people who covered a shift at that station in the palace. AF kept very much to themselves, and didn't socialize. Jason wasn't sure if that was local to this operation, or a new policy. They'd been more congenial in years past, or at least his elements had. Of course, the Army wasn't talking to them, either, and he had no idea whether or not the military spent much time talking without contractors. Certainly they often appeared together.

  "So why is everyone secretive?" he went ahead and asked.

  "Jason?" Alex queried, but in a normal tone, no warning in it.

  "We don't talk to them, they don't talk to us. Everyone talks to Bishwanath, putting him on the spot. Mister deWitt gets to relay policy that applies to us a lot and the military less, even when it goes through their chain of command, and Aerospace doesn't seem to talk to anyone, but has all the gear. Are we on the same team or not?"

  After several seconds, Weilhung spoke first.

  "We are on the same team, but there are some matters I cannot share. Threats, certainly. Intel on the locals, once the source is sanitized. Certain material has to be kept secret to protect capabilities."

  There was a pause, and Tech White said, "The information isn't the problem. Sorting and categorizing it takes time, and then we prioritize by mission and unit."

  "Is there something more important than protecting the President?" Jason asked.

  She replied, looking suitably embarrassed, "Well, please remember that the priority lists are not drawn up by me. I have a list of functions that must be fulfilled before I can perform supplemental functions. The list comes down from Theater HQ, and I have to submit requests for variation up through them."

  DeWitt said, "I can help with that." Everyone looked over at him leaning against the wall. "I'll lean on General Ellis and reiterate the importance of the Presidential Escort mission. You must understand, the military's mission is pacification. BuState's is diplomatic, and BuCommerce's is development. It's a massive pie-eating contest, and only one pie."

  "I feel we've been eating something totally different from 'pie,' " Aramis offered.

/>   "Yeah, that's about it," Weilhung offered. "Look, I don't bear you guys any malice. But we can't be friends. No matter what BuState wants"—he nodded to deWitt—"we're in different chains for different reasons. That said, I'll keep you more informed if you agree to the same."

  "I'll share what we can," Alex said.

  Jason tried not to sigh. All lies. There was no way anyone could share what they had freely, because there were too many leaks. BuState was full of fuzzy studies types who'd share the intelligence as bargaining chips and for their attempts at world building. The Army tended to get drunk and talk, or just boast, or could and had had bona fide spies selling intel. White had openly admitted that Aerospace had totally different goals.

  And we are tasked only with keeping the President safe. Not with being team players.

  There was nothing to indicate the situation would get better. Only that everyone agreed on the press as a mutual enemy.

  And that fact just made secrecy all the more desirable.

  CHAPTER 11

  Colonel Weygandt braced himself for the pending visit. Dealing with BuState was always annoying. DeWitt was a pain in the ass because he was smart and at odds with UN HQ. On the other hand, that being at odds often meant he was supporting the military, which made him an asset rather than an adversary or hindrance.

  The man on his way in now though, was none of that. If there was anyone in the BuState mission who could be dispensed with . . .

  The door opened and in he came. His own "personal assistant" held the doorknob. Either Weygandt's aide had been pushed aside or hadn't wanted to get too close. Either was possible.

  "The good news is, we can use this incident against those Ripple Creek bastards," Michel leMieure said without preamble. He was talking as he walked in. He seemed like the kind of man who should shamble. His assistant just slipped to the corner and started making notes.

  A visit from the fat bastard was always unpleasant, Weygandt reflected. The man was everything a soldier was not. He was unkempt with greasy hair, unshaven but not actually bearded. He had the physique of a slug and he stank. He also affected "common" clothes.

  "We do need to be careful," Weygandt cautioned. "There are people in BuState who endorse them greatly." Thank God the man didn't believe in shaking hands. Weygandt just sat up in his chair and nodded, hands evenly on the desk.

  "Oh, like deWitt? Fuck him. Man thinks because he's posted here a year or two he's an expert. I've got my information from top sources. Not government ones." LeMieure's expression was a sneer. Weygandt was struck by how revolting this man was. Yet he'd been a darling of the intelligentsia as a troublemaker who started "dialogs." That semifame had been rolled into an appointment by the new administration.

  He reflected that taking a shit in the middle of a conference hall would start a "dialog." That did not make it a desirable or worthy act. He'd have to have the cleaners come in and disinfect everything this man touched. He got queasy just looking at his sweaty figure. The assistant's presence didn't help. He was a progressive "cartoonist" whose scrawls offended a great many people, especially the military.

  Weygandt kept his mask on and replied, "I believe Bishwanath might support them, too, in a crunch. He was a bad choice." But no matter how annoying Bishwanath was, he was at least a civilized man. A petty player and an upstart, certainly, but not the scum this man was.

  "I was against him from the beginning," leMieure said, "but they liked his 'neutrality.' A man without strings is harder to work. Especially if he's a fucking idealist."

  "Yes, he wants to build a nation." And was an idiot for it.

  "And we want him to shut up and let us stabilize this hole. The minuscule improvements he could make are not worth the trouble of trying to put down every riot and insurrection that crops up. And they are going to crop up if we let them bring in development in technical areas. You start getting an educated and technical class, and a middle class of merchants that get wealthy, and all of a sudden it's a stratified society with class warfare."

  LeMieure liked to talk a lot, Weygandt had noticed. He was never going to trust the man with anything relevant. He was never going to even mention anything relevant in case the rumors of how he extorted further info were true.

  "Poor isn't desirable, but it's stable," he commented. He wished the man would just make his point and leave. Then Weygandt could make sure it didn't smear the Army. He'd so far managed to keep his secret that not only did he despise the fat cretin, he thought he was a blithering idiot.

  What you needed was a strong leader. Class or classless society be damned. You set up someone with charisma and drive, told them what to do, and let them organize things. A central authority could slap down trouble and keep things stable, which ultimately led to a better society. Rights and development would come along once you proved it was stable.

  "Who cares if they're poor? They don't know what it's like to be rich, except for tribal fathers like Bish, and that goddammed Dhe. Give them a few apartment blocks and running water for their village shitters, and they'll behave."

  It was amazing how allegiances formed and crossed, Weygandt noted. The military, BuState, and contractors all hated the press. The press, military, and BuState weren't keen on the contractors, and the contractors and military hated BuState. You needed a dance card.

  "Good point about him supporting them, though," leMieure muttered.

  "Sir?" Weygandt prompted. Something interesting, no doubt.

  "I'll need to warn the media not to accept any statements from Bish about his contractors. Not unless I write it for him."

  "Good idea, sir," Weygandt said.

  Well, at least he had an idea who'd fucked Weilhung over with that misquote.

  On the other hand, Weilhung was an asshole. Let him take the heat.

  "I want everything you can find on those contract fuckers. Those six specifically. I want to know every fuckup they've had. I want to know when they pull trains on that slut with them, I want to know what porn sites they cruise. Anything I can use to get them out of the way, so I can get rid of them. Preferably in shame and disgrace."

  "I'll see what I can find," Weygandt lied. Though he wasn't going to protect them, but he wouldn't go that far. Just enough to suggest they be removed. "Aerospace commands the intel assets, and I'll tell them what I need."

  "You do that. The moment Marlow started that 'we work for the President' crap he should have been gone the next day. They work for me. This is my project."

  "I'm eager to see the end result, sir." It was true. Weygandt half expected this rotting toad to reduce the entire planet, both nations, back to the Stone Age.

  "Get me that information. I'll have these fuckers gone."

  He turned and left and Weygandt breathed a huge sigh. The odor lingered, but was fading. He would find that intel. It would take work, because he only wanted dirt on the contractors. As annoying as Weilhung was, anything that touched him would hurt the military. So he had to maintain appearances and find a more subtle way to get rid of him. But then, he was just a soldier. You didn't have to like everyone you served with. You just had to make sure they did as they were told.

  The Ripple Creek contractors, as well as leMieure, were slime that weren't needed. Though at least the RC people were human.

  * * *

  Horace was just finishing his morning exercise when the call came. The buzz in his earbuds was Alex. He stepped out of the treadmill reflexively, as soon as he heard it.

  "Fastball. We're moving."

  Must be a schedule change, he thought as he checked his watch. They were starting earlier than intended.

  Sighing, he grabbed a towel and a bottle of antibacterial goop, squirted a healthy dollop onto it, and started wiping down with the cool gel, which would have to do in lieu of a shower.

  "I'll be up in two minutes. Please secure my weapon and a coat." He meant his carbine, of course. The pistol was in the gym with him, and his medical kit also. He grabbed for the slacks and shirt t
hat he'd brought along.

  He was dressed and heading up in seconds, and caught the team as they reached the stairs. Elke tossed him his body armor, which he slipped on, followed by his jacket from Jason and his carbine from Aramis. She carried her shotgun and looked much calmer. For her type, that was normal. For most people, it would indicate sociopathy.

  "We're going early to avoid traps. I just felt paranoid this morning," Alex said.