Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Very good." It made sense to do that now and then. One could be late, too, though that was riskier without an advance party to look for threats.

  This was a factory opening. Purely show, no need for the President, but it was press. Let them see that he cared and it might carry over into the population. Horace doubted it would work, but it had to be tried.

  The convoy contained both UN armored carriers and Regional Consolidated Militia vehicles from the local alliance that was now his official bodyguard. Those vehicles were . . . interesting. Ugly, but with a certain functionality. They were commercial light trucks with welded steel armor and epoxied ceramic and fiber panels. The work looked very professional and not at all slapdash. There were also gouges, dings, and craters in them. They'd taken small arms fire and some heavier HE. He didn't estimate any of them would take any kind of armor penetrator above a 7mm rifle.

  Still, it was good to see a unit that had at least some of the courage and discipline of professionals. The question was, whose side were they on? The professional units in Cameroon had changed sides whenever anyone from the military had taken over a large faction, out of mutual respect, so to speak, and had generally allied themselves with whoever was stronger. Would Bishwanath be seen as strong even though most of his support was off world? Would this local unit help with that perception?

  And would they suddenly turn out to be a threat in the middle of the day's proceedings?

  Horace was with the President on this trip and Jason was not. That kept potential threats guessing as to which medic was on the bubble and where Bishwanath was. Bart was also along as driver, and Elke, but Aramis was in the other vehicle. All part of the dance.

  "Oh, this is interesting," Bart said. His tone indicated it was the type of interesting that resulted in work for Horace Mbuto.

  Bishwanath was on the news, while an overlay said, "Live."

  " 'Live,' " Elke said, with some dry amusement. "Well, he is alive, as opposed to dead. I suppose that is what they mean."

  There were other, less obvious cues that it was not really the President. The light shifted slightly as the cameras cut back and forth. But that wasn't the most interesting part.

  Alex's voice came through the net. "Are you watching Channel One?"

  "We are," Horace agreed. "Most fascinating." Angering, even, because nothing good could come of this.

  The "President" was saying, "Of course, while I appreciate the necessity of my security contractors, I am less than thrilled with certain recent events, and will be doing my best to address it."

  "No more talking," Alex warned. Since they already knew their commo could be hacked, this was not something to debate on air. Even with the supplemental encryption White had provided them, they were leery of trusting their own commo.

  Bishwanath looked sad more than anything.

  "This is my country," he said. "Things would have been better all along if there'd been more attention to leadership and less to exploiting the resources and situation."

  "Sir, this could set you and us up for a fall," Elke warned, pressing the mute button on her lapel. The annoying thing about the jaw transmitters was that they were always transmitting. It took a button or setting to switch them off.

  "Yes, I am very much aware of that," he sighed. "Of course, the fabricators seem to have missed one point."

  "Sir?" Bart asked. He was trembling and looked ready to destroy something. From the driver's seat, he couldn't see the image, but had heard it clearly.

  "As a politician, I am free to contradict myself." He chuckled in an odd way that was both hearty and depressed. "It's not as if anyone on Earth gets the complete story anyway."

  Bart said, "Roger," and accelerated. He pressed the button to kill his live mic and said, "Per Alex, we are speeding up in an attempt to arrive before this 'live' broadcast ends."

  "Nice," Elke said, smiling with faint crinkles.

  "I don't expect that will matter," Bishwanath said. "I've seen too many obvious deceits and lies covered up."

  "No, but we have to try." Horace kept an appraising eye on medical readouts. Stress and situational depression could easily trigger any existing problems, including the pre-stroke condition that Rahul had reluctantly admitted to, then discussed in detail.

  "Our speed is limited by your official bodyguard, sir. Alex wants to know how you feel about that."

  "We must stay with them. That appearance can help counteract many other problems."

  "No go," Bart said. "Cohesive movement." He nodded and said, "He's annoyed but he agrees. Not much else we can do."

  The mock Bishwanath took a few questions on nothing significant. He promised money to various groups and then excused himself in a bit of a hurry. It was obvious that this electronic fake had been put together on short notice, and was being tweaked as they went.

  "None of the reporters asking questions are the regulars we know," Elke said.

  "Right," Bishwanath said. "They're all going to be out here. I would imagine some of the younger ones who appear are being bribed or cajoled into going along with promises of an 'exclusive.' The entire media knows how dishonest they are. They just don't care. Jackenas, all of them." He referenced a local scavenger known for eating the young of competing packs.

  It was five minutes later when they pulled into the factory area, which was unremarkable; nothing but tower supported polymer and blown domes with a magnesium façaded office area up front and a small loading dock. For a change, everyone present seemed in favor of the President, probably because they all were expecting jobs and support out of this. No one wanted to tell them that the low-end tech gadgets they were producing were throwaways in any modern nation, and were being heavily subsidized to make them of interest to Earth consumers. These people needed the work, even if it was charity.

  Of course, Horace reflected, bootstrapping had failed to work in most of Africa. A nation either developed itself or failed. Political scientists seemed incapable of figuring that out.

  Professionally, he scanned the signs the crowd carried. "Welcome President Bishwanath" was neutral enough. "Work at Last!" was positive. "A Promise Kept" was clearly from a supporter, though it was possible it was a fake, too. Any excuse to get close to a target for assassination. There was little dissent. He saw a few grumblers a block away. He took a quick scan through the polarized canopies with binox, and was satisfied.

  "Out we go," he said when he got the radio and hand-signal cues from Alex, and Elke nodded and opened the door as Aramis and Jason arrived to help.

  Out into the cleared area, and cheering, with arms waving and possible threats making Horace go cross-eyed. A glance at the medical info. Bishwanath was elated and calmer. He genuinely wanted to help and this was a small step in that direction, even if he knew it was misguided. His official Bodyguard had the perimeter, and Horace admitted to himself that they did seem to be at least low-end professionals, if a little thuggish. That made them near elite by local standards.

  Horace walked past one of the soldiers from the Bodyguard and indicated for him to follow. The man nodded and came along. He seemed fit if wiry, knew how to at least carry a weapon properly, and was a random choice so as to prevent anyone planning to take down Ripple Creek that way. They each had one local as backup.

  Horace and his shadow walked their route in the warm air while watching Bishwanath.

  The President shook hands with the factory general manager, shift supervisors, and some VIPs. He posed for photos. Horace and the others moved around in a rehearsed randomness that kept two of them near him at all times, two far enough back to provide crossfire and two more out patrolling for threats, each with their support. There was a hard perimeter of Recon backed up by more of the Bodyguard.

  All in all, it went smoothly enough. One or two people were drunk, some were slightly belligerent but not disposed to fight professional troops, and in twenty minutes the ribbon was ready to be cut and Bishwanath was making his speech.

  Which was when
the trouble Horace had been anticipating happened.

  His earbuds suddenly blared, "Incoming fire!" on a military override. UN military, not local, of course. Then he heard the whistle of artillery.

  The six of them bulled through the crowd shouldering people aside and ignoring their local aides, in a frenzied rush to get to the President. Bart and Jason were already closely around him as Elke swarmed into the huddle, then Horace, Alex, and Aramis. They allowed just enough room for him to don his extra armor and open the umbrella, than pushed him down behind the reinforced podium and squatted against the impending blasts.

  Alex pointed to the arriving members of the Bodyguard, then to the crowd and said, "Move them back and get us a hole to the ca—"

  CRUMP!

  Big mortar, probably 120mm, Horace thought. Indirect fire without terminal guidance.

  WHAM!

  Howitzer, large.

  CRUMP! WHAM! CRUMP!

  And now they're on target, he realized as the explosions tugged at his breath, sharp overpressure waves blowing by.

  The factory took hits. Big ones. It was built to take the modest storms of this area, a light earthquake or a few minutes of heavy weather. Indirect high explosive fire was so far beyond that . . . and there went one corner, some of the framing. Chunks arced into the air amid gouts of smoke and dust.

  Watching for assassins, Horace skittered backward in a crouch. He ached and it was tiring, because he wasn't young anymore. But he could still do it, and the whole group was like duckwalking crabs, to mix a metaphor, as they moved toward the vehicles.

  Bishwanath swore and sobbed. "God damn them! Our people need that work. Damn them to hell! Please, stop it!"

  There was nothing anyone here could do but get him to safety.

  Three more explosions tore much of the structure apart, sending jagged splinters whistling through the air. The screams of the departing crowd took on an edge of panic as someone was hit. Debris and dust rained down, with a sharp smell of explosive.

  The Bodyguard had cleared a good path, and had the crowd restrained without more than a few shoves. They actually did meet basic professional standards, which on this godforsaken world was impressive. They hadn't squawked and run, the way the previous hires would have. They'd made this job a hell of a lot easier, and Horace threw a finger to eyebrow salute when one of them met eyes with him. The kid looked scared, but determined as he waved back.

  Then they climbed in, buttoned up, latched down, and rolled. Aramis was at the wheel and left marks on the pavement, using most of the emergency override. Turbine, starting fluid squirt, and capacitor load caused the vehicle to move.

  Bishwanath was sobbing, but his vitals were healthy. A quick fumble under his suit and the briefcase body armor revealed no injuries. So Horace tipped out a double dose of an oral tranquilizer and passed them over with a drink. Bishwanath recognized the bottle, nodded, and took them without comment.

  * * *

  Back at the palace, the news wasn't reassuring, in no small part to bearing no resemblance to reality whatsoever.

  Bart had become stoic about the treatment they were getting in the press, but this morning's complete fabrication of Bishwanath was infuriating. The current "news" on-screen was beyond belief.

  First, the press made them out as cowards for not "stopping to help the unfortunate victims." After that, it was another round of inquiry as to whether they were worth the money. Then there were the incriminations, and attacks on the Bodyguard, who'd been brave and professional if inadequately trained through no fault of their own.

  Representative Dhe came on-screen, and he wasn't any better looking even with video enhancement. There was only so much one could do, Bart reflected, to improve the looks of a pile of scheisse.

  Dhe was as drunk as a derelict behind an Oktoberfest rubbish pile, but that didn't affect his ability to spew diatribe.

  "Well, I hate to say bad things about our President and his staff," he said, then proceeded to do exactly that. "But you can't blame the attackers wanting payback because of the elitism of placing a factory there, where it only benefits the capital, of course. It's also not surprising that security didn't work. Keep in mind that the President's Bodyguard is just for show, around the contractors who take the credit and the military who does the work, because this whole presentation is one of waste and mismanagement, smoke and mirrors. This would not have happened in my district, where people want to work and the police are on the job."

  "But what about the segment of the security force that were hired from your district?"

  "Well, well"—it was amazing how the backpedaling started—"you don't expect the best to sign up for a position in a corrupt organization. If the President had asked me for help, I would have offered support, but of course, that would mean acknowledging that our society is broken . . ."

  "I need hip waders even here," Vaughn growled in disgust.

  "I wish we could drink," Bart agreed. Oh, how a few liters of beer would make this less painful. Or a few shots of good whisky.

  "Who the hell is that fat toad? I recognize him," Aramis said, pointing.

  Alex said, "Yeah, he was big on TV when you were about twelve. LeMieure. He rolled it into a job with BuState. He's deWitt's boss."

  "No wonder Mister deWitt looks so unhappy," Elke said. "And no wonder he's not allowed to have weapons."

  LeMieure's comments made his blood run cold.

  "The President of course regrets the events, and has assured me that he will work tirelessly to provide a new solution, which is more equitable. He is unavailable at present, due to being stressed by the attack . . ."

  It was right then the President stormed in from his apartment, past Shaman at the door. He certainly appeared to be stressed. He was not resting.

  "How dare he? I made a statement, and that was not it! I aaeerggh!" His fists were balled, he was sweating, and his eyes bulged. He looked as if he were about to smash holes in the walls. Shaman hurried over for reassurance, but had a trank behind his back, just in case.

  Incoherent rage didn't seem to indicate agreement with the program.

  There was a knock at the door. Everyone tensed until Alex said, "It's White. I cleared her a few minutes ago."

  White came in, along with deWitt and another AF technician. She raised a finger to her lips until her assistant, who actually outranked her, being a sergeant, fumbled with some gear and nodded.

  "I've damped all the sensors in this room," she said as she sat on the corner of a table. Her uniform, as always, was spotless and she looked professional. That wasn't just a look for her, Bart realized. It was her normal manner.

  "All of them?" Vaughn asked, sounding cynical.

  "Trust me. Look at your own gear if you wish." She was curt and snappish, but it wasn't directed to anyone in the room that Bart could tell.

  "All right, what's up?" Marlow said.

  "You've seen the alleged news," she said.

  "Of course," "Yes," "Yeah," and a growl from Bishwanath.

  "All I can tell you is that there are serious attempts to hack your commo and network. We're here to strengthen it for you."

  No one moved.

  Finally, Elke said, "And will you have a back door?"

  "I have a back door to everything," she admitted, "but I don't talk out of school. Not even about that conversation Elke, Alex, and Shaman had this morning," she said. "Nor about Elke's game program of a few nights ago." Elke twitched at that but retained her poise. Bart had no idea which either of the references were to, but they seemed to reassure Alex and Elke.

  It was true that White was inscrutable, and that their radios had already been cracked. Bart didn't know what conversation she was referring to, but nothing he'd done or said had leaked out other than through the press's spying. Though it could have gotten to them several ways.

  When Marlow looked his way, Bart nodded. It made sense. Better her than whichever scum were trying to run things.

  "Do it," Marlow said, and
the tech nodded and went to work. His name tape was off his uniform. That seemed to be a hint.

  DeWitt finally spoke. "It should be obvious there's a power struggle going on here. I can't do anything about it. All I can do is offer hints and possible warnings of disasters. I'm not worried about my job, I'm worried about the lives of people I work with and care about. It's escalating to that level fast."

  "What can be done about it?" Anderson asked. "Anything? Are we just puppets?" The kid was cool and attentive, all pretense gone.

  "The President could do what people want him to do," deWitt said. "I'm sure that's not going to happen, and I don't suggest it. But that's what they plan to get."

  White said, "I'm here for Major Weilhung, too. He's not happy with being in the line of fire of what he calls a 'pissing contest' between BuState and BuCommerce factions. So while he can't officially do anything, he's not a hostile at this time."