Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Okay, what kind of gear?"

  "I need to sign out a couple of carbines, some flechette canisters and AP grenade mags for my team," Fife said. "Anything will help."

  "Who are you with, exactly?" Borrow weapons. Not likely.

  "I'm with a contractor tac team assigned to City Center."

  "The mall?"

  "Yeah, the mall." His expression seemed as serious as his buzzed hair.

  "You want carbines and grenades?" Aramis could barely believe he was hearing this.

  "Did I stutter? The lockdown has hurt my deliveries. I'm short on gear I need for my job. The Army's useless. I figured you might be able to help."

  "What are you guarding in a shopping center that takes grenades?" Bart asked, sounding amazed.

  Fife drew himself up. "It's not just a shopping center. It's a major threat point for terrorism. You'd be amazed what goes on there. Kidnappings, some of them VIPs, black market gang deals. Assault and rape in the bathrooms."

  "I can believe that," Bart said. "It is the 'mall tac team' concept I am having trouble with." He was smirking.

  Fife got belligerent. "Go ahead, laugh, asshole. You have that luxury. Who do you think's going to respond if you're in trouble there? The police? Have you seen the police around here? The store security or any of the corp crowd? They'd not only wet their pants, they're terrified of a lawsuit or counterstrike. It's up to me and my team to keep order and peace. With the collapse of this society and the decay of morality this world is getting more and more dangerous daily."

  "Wow. I don't know what to say," Aramis said. Diplomacy was essential when dealing with a potential loon. He was pretty sure this was a loon, but he wanted to be sure.

  "Yeah, it's a pretty heavy job. I mean, I get paid for it, but you can imagine the responsibility."

  "I'm just trying to figure out how you use this stuff amongst crowds of shoppers," Bart said.

  "If we're discreet, no one notices. We have electric carts to cut response time, and two marksmen for backup. But it can get hairy fast. I'm wearing double plates in the armor"—he rapped his chest—"in case of multiple eight millimeter rifle strikes."

  " 'Multiple eight millimeter,' " Aramis echoed.

  "Yeah, that's what I said."

  There was no restraining it. He started to snicker, Bart joined, and in moments they were gasping with laughter.

  Aramis choked through the laughing, "Dude, that's one hell of a story . . . but I'm sorry, I can't give out corp-owned HE and weapons to another agency without it being approved . . . and definitely not from RC to mall security."

  "Yeah. I guessed as much. Thanks, assholes." He turned to leave. Over his shoulder he offered, "Just remember, I'll back you up when you need it, because that's what professionals do. I don't need your attitude."

  "Sorry we can't help you," Aramis said as he closed the door.

  Aramis stared at Bart, Bart stared back, and then they were sagging against the seats laughing.

  "Oh, man, that's just bizarre . . ."

  "Double plated armor for a mall?" Bart asked. "That is the same mall I'm thinking, yes?"

  "Only one type of mall around here, yup. Question is, is he just a loon, or is he trying to black market?"

  "Dunno, but a fucking rent-a-cop, as you say. Gott."

  "How do we even write that one up?" Aramis asked.

  "I wouldn't. We won't be believed."

  "You're telling me. I'll call the boss, let's head back."

  * * *

  Horace checked over his supplies. He'd used a few on escort, a few more for minor injuries the team had acquired here and there, working and exercising, and quite a few additional on staff and guests of the palace. Technically, that wasn't allowed, but people needed help and no one had been inclined to complain. Certainly not either Mister deWitt nor Alex, and what anyone else thought wasn't really relevant.

  He barely noticed when Aramis and Bart returned. Aramis was as excited as he usually was, and relayed a loud after-action to Alex. It jarred Horace from his concentration when Aramis slapped a package down next to him. He twitched slightly.

  "Thank you. Is that everything off the list?" he said as he looked up.

  "And then some." Aramis was grinning.

  So Horace looked. The top of the box was covered with a rough-forged tomahawk with a vicious spike on the back, and a large bowie or panga style knife with a horn hilt.

  "Impressive," he grinned. "You realize that file-finished carbon steel is a haven for toxins and bacteria that can turn a simple wound into a festering infirmity?"

  "Really?"

  "Yes. Most excellent!" he grinned and laughed loudly. The infection wouldn't matter to anyone he treated at once, and if he wasn't treating them, that meant the wound was one he'd rather did get contaminated.

  Underneath were replacement dressings and medications as requested. He saved and closed his list and neatly piled all the gear so he could resume shortly. He'd received a gift, and that meant being sociable in return.

  Elke looked at her slightly smaller blade and axe and smiled with twinkling eyes and a heave of her chest that had to be melodramatic . . . although she might have similar feelings to Horace, with his rituals for treatment. It was hard to say. She laid them back down and pointed at her screen.

  "Oh, terrible news," Elke said. "I am in tears."

  "What?" "Oh?" "Something wrong?"

  She read from her screen and said, "Someone held a Mass Market Electronic Advertising Convention."

  "Er . . . spammers?" Bart asked as he translated.

  "Five thousand spammers in one convention hall," she said.

  "Damn, and no one hit it." Jason sounded disgusted.

  "Yes, actually. Someone fed nerve agent through the ducts and apparently killed over three hundred. More than a thousand are hospitalized."

  "The tragedy being not enough died?" Alex asked.

  "They should have called me," she said. Were those sobs real or an act? "I could have offered a hundred kilos, strategically placed with fragments."

  "Hell, I'd do it with a ball bat," Aramis said. "Not efficient, but satisfying to see faces mushed."

  "Damn. I wonder if that idea will catch on? People harass, assault, and occasionally kill one . . . but mass murder. I like it. I would love to be on that jury," Jason said.

  Horace asked, "To ensure the guy walks?"

  Jason was grinning. "Absolutely. A god among men. A hero for our times. Anything that kills spammers . . ."

  Alex interrupted with, "Anything of interest about here?"

  "Yes, it's a forgotten war. Why are our troops on Mtali when they're needed here?" She even sounded sarcastic.

  "There are no troops here?" Bart was still finding sarcasm awkward at times.

  "Allegedly not."

  Aramis was tense. "Man, right after the spammers, can we organize one for reporters?"

  "Stand in line," Jason said.

  "Just be sure I am called," Horace said. "I will be very happy to provide medical support."

  That his statement ended the conversation was perhaps the most fun of the day.

  CHAPTER 13

  A week passed with nothing but routine. They escorted Bishwanath to other industrial and commercial events, some in near-bombed out sectors of the city. Everyone was tense, expecting trouble that never came. There was a Council meeting, and several Earth and other off-world investors came to the palace to meet with Bishwanath in the large drawing room. There were a couple of press conferences, with the President insisting on giving his own answers, not allowing words to be put in his mouth, and lots of late nights where he drew up plans and consulted by phone.

  The only real break in the routine was the supply run.

  First, a shipment arrived from Corporate. With Massa's help, they had authorization for proper rockets, a Viper light cannon that made Aramis drool, and ammo. The crate contained far too many capacitors, rations, and similar sundries.

  "So those are your trade goods," Al
ex said.

  "Yup," Jason said. "I figure a trade with Mister Dhe will create goodwill towards men and peace on Salin. That, and I'll get a better look at his goons."

  "Makes sense, but be careful." Alex was a great manager, but he'd had far too civilized an upbringing, Jason thought. Even with his spotted past, he was too clean and straightforward. Of course, that could be in reaction to his spotted past.

  "Aramis, let's go deal."

  "Roger," Aramis said, grabbed a vest and carbine and was ready to roll. He scooped up a belt carrier of launcher grenades as he came.

  Once out of the palace, the trip was straightforward. Dhe's territory was near the industrial section to the east. That was a safe route as long as one stuck to main roads. Jason barreled along, Boblight slightly bright because of an ongoing flare storm. The local life was all hiding, including the cute birdiles. The Earth imported life barely noticed.

  Judging from the wandering, working, lazing people, few of them were even aware of the solar storm. He realized it was a good thing that the flares weren't dangerous, or most of this bunch would die. Although, that wouldn't be much of a loss. The difference between the settlers here and other places like Novaja Rossia and, well, Grainne was vast.

  He drove into the parking lot of Dhe's office, which was a block building. He counted thirteen cars in the lot, varying from ruggedly functional to gorgeous. Strictly from a point of view of connections, Dhe might have been a "better" choice for the BuState people. He wondered what had arisen to prevent that. He was corrupt, connected, and a bastard, just the type they liked.

  The guards at the door were no match, but they'd have backup and it was a long way back. He decided to humor them.

  "Leave all weapons in the car," he told Aramis. "They won't steal them while we're here, and we won't be fighting."

  "I . . . will comply," Aramis said, looking bothered.

  "That means the second pistol, too," he grinned. "Yeah, I know about that," he said to Aramis's expression. Aramis sighed and slid the pocket pistol out from his pants and under the seat. While he did, Jason checked his own pocket for an item. Yes, it was there. A multi-frequency scanning imager, a fancy name for a camera that could shoot through fabric and around corners.

  They each carried a box and walked up to the door.

  "Whatchu need?" the apparent senior of the guards asked. The red and blue uniform still looked bizarre, but it was clear this bunch did at least know which end of a rifle to pick up.

  "We have stuff to trade, figured you were the best people to trade with," Jason said.

  "Damn true."

  An hour and a bit later, they left, toting some local wastepaper, a few marks, and a handful of silver.

  "Sucky price," Aramis commented as they climbed in and geared up. He seemed relaxed now.

  "The idea wasn't to make money," Jason said.

  "Oh, I know. And Dhe's no threat militarily."

  "How do you figure?" he asked. He'd already reached the same conclusion, but it was good to have agreement.

  Aramis wrinkled his brow as he spoke. "None of them have any notion of tactics or strategy. They're a halfway disciplined but untrained mob. They obviously don't have enough gear if they were buying that stuff, even if they thought they were getting a great deal."

  "Correct. Any threat he poses is political. I don't believe he's capable of actual military force."

  "Hell, he's a 'progressive.' They tend to wet their pants around weapons," Aramis said, rolling his eyes in disgust.

  "Usually, but not always and a lot of that is Earth culture, especially Western. Elsewhere, they'll shoot in a second if they think it will avoid an election they can't win."

  Once back, Jason wrote up his findings for Alex, who was delighted that he had photos.

  "They didn't even scan," he said. "Quick look, lousy pat, and didn't check the pockets, so the camo didn't even matter. That's his HQ."

  "Damn, it looks like a couple of banquet tables with a fliptop and satellite set."

  "That's what it is," Jason agreed.

  "Primitives."

  Then it was back to the routine, but even routine was tiring, with pretrip mapping, weapons checks, commo, exercise daily, and updates on threats that Alex brought daily from his second briefing with White and Weilhung. The team was paid not only to stop attacks on Bishwanath, but to prevent them when possible.

  Everyone knew there would be another attack. This was a nation at war, and high-end mercenaries hadn't been hired because of their image, which was a poor one to most people. Of course, when the attack did come, it was a political nightmare as well as, in Jason's terminology, a "tactical balls-up."

  * * *

  Another long convoy, Alex thought. At least they had air transport for most of it. The drive would have been ten hours each way, far down the coast.

  It was amazing, he reflected, how routine something involving imminent danger could become. The convoy consisted of four civilian limousines, a loyal Celadon Army unit, specially cleared and reinforced with a number of UN Army soldiers and some Recon troops, ready to displace or take down the locals. The soldiers were mounted on local vehicles, mostly small diesel utility trucks. The Recon troops had their light, air-mobile armored cars. Rahul drove the second limo containing his boss, with Elke, Shaman, and Jason. Aramis, Alex, and Bart were in the third slot with Bart driving. The first and last limos were pure decoys. They had overhead cover, in the form of two vertols. This area had been described as "Hot," with three major factions duking it out for control. One sided with labor, one with the owners, and one with a group that wanted to annex the entire region and attach it to the one south, to reduce the drain on travel and acquire more government handouts.

  They geared up, loaded up, and off they went, the President reviewing his speaking notes for a regional council meeting. These were farmers and orchard owners and their workers, with the usual management versus labor problem compounded by not having any real market for their goods. The hope was that they could be brought into a convoy co-op to transport the fruit to the capital.

  How sad a nation was that such issues required a president's presence, he thought.

  It was routine if tense. No convoy was quite like any other, but there was a standard feel to them. Having the military up front did help—armored vehicles had a way of clearing the road of gawkers and slowpokes. They also hindered—it was hard not to know who this was, with a convoy of limos and military vehicles. The occupant was obviously at least a mayor, governor, or senator, and these vehicles were fairly distinctive. There were a finite number of models and specifics. At Jason's suggestion, all the government vehicles had removed their number plates to make ID harder, but it wasn't too difficult for someone to make Bishwanath as the President. No other VIP was in this area, certainly not so protected.

  Nor were any protected quite like this. In lieu of a carbine, Elke had her shotgun, which was shorter ranged but devastating for crowds. Aramis had the Viper cannon, which laid down smaller bursts than a machine gun, but with correspondingly greater damage. It fired a 15mm rocket-assisted projectile that would punch through anything optimistically called "armor" on this rock, and most of their so-called "hard cover," too. Aramis had joked that he could make a called shot to the Islets of Langerhans.

  So they watched their sectors from the vehicles and clutched at weapons, low and out of sight. They tried not to overreact to excited teenagers and sometimes adults, to people drugged or crazy who reacted bizarrely. They didn't care particularly if someone got killed for being stupid. Elke's comment had been, "Chlorine for the gene pool," but it wouldn't do to attract the resultant attention if it wasn't necessary.

  "Vehicle coming in!" Aramis shouted next to him. "Oh, shit, he's not stopping!"

  "Understood," Alex said. He didn't turn to look. He had his sector, and it was a large one, being the entire left side behind Bart who was driving.

  "I see the man," Bart agreed.

  "Brace!" Aramis shouted as
Jason said, "Confirmed thre—"

  Bart braked hard as all the vehicles reacted.

  "Strike, lead limo, right front," he said.

  "Check right front," Alex agreed. Everything took on a slow-motion clarity.

  "Vehicle to left rear on collision course with tailing limo," Jason said.

  That was within the overlap of Alex's sector. He glanced back. Big truck, right through a crowd of civilians, limbs flailing as they were tossed like dolls.