Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

"No?"

  The man sipped his coffee and shook his head. "No, the press are . . . not helpful. But their whole MO is to stand back and stir through people's images, then glean more ratings. If they had a leak, they'd be publicizing the fact and scooping each other. That's how they think. They're just not that subtle. But it might be a good idea for Major Weilhung to help me clear my own office," he said with some embarrassment.

  "I'll arrange a scan, too," White said.

  "I agree the press would not do so," Bishwanath said. "They are even friendly to me personally. I am, after all, ratings for them. They would not attempt to prevent or inform anyone of such an event, though."

  "So we carry on as we have," Alex said. He felt tired. "If anyone has any ideas, can we agree to share them all around? We have our issues with each other, but it would be nice to get the job done. We can fight over credit later. It's safer than fighting over blame."

  "I agree," Weilhung said with a nod.

  "Yes." "Sure." "You know I have been." "Point."

  They were all in agreement.

  But I'm still not telling you where the explosives are hidden, Alex thought. Not until this was over.

  * * *

  Another day, another escort, Horace thought. The routine ones were not troublesome, merely work with a low-level threat all around. That was the justification for half their pay, he figured. The other half of the pay was for the ninety seconds here and there where the entire world was trying to kill them.

  He hoped this return trip would avoid one of those sessions, but it wasn't guaranteed at this point. The loitering crowds were increasing, and there'd been a few tossed rocks as they left in the morning.

  "The plaza is bad," Alex said.

  "Yes, they really don't look happy out there," Horace replied, squinting. He wasn't looking out a window. He had a camera view from the palace relayed through to Alex's computer.

  "Increasing riots and protests," Elke said. "And all of it focused here."

  "The President has offered them a scapegoat," Bart said.

  "I really recommend finding another way back," Aramis said. He looked nervous, and wasn't joking around. In fact, he was carefully checking over some of the weapons.

  "Nope, it's on," Alex said. "Just have to drive through the crowd without killing anyone. The press will be watching. They love crowd scenes."

  "Can we use tear gas to clear a route?" Jason asked.

  "I agree with that," Horace said. "Better to make them cry than run over them."

  "I'll ask," Alex said. He didn't look happy. He might need some stress medication, since drink and sex were not options.

  "Can we divert and air evac?" Jason asked.

  "Trying," Alex said with a bit more strain evident. He had a lot of people demanding answers, including someone on phone. "Yes. Thank you, sir, and fuck them very much." He clicked his phone off and sighed. "BuState refuses to cough up for air support. The military won't do it unless we are in a fight. I had Massa check with our people and other contractors. Nothing. There isn't enough air support on this planet, because the government doesn't want to 'escalate the intensity' of the conflict."

  "So we have to drive in?" Aramis asked, sounding disgusted.

  "Yup. I did ask for tear gas. Weilhung agrees with me," he said. "DeWitt does not, for perception reasons, but agrees it's a logical choice on our part. Higher up, leMieure has accused us of germ warfare and terrorism, without seeming clear on what those words mean."

  "So we aren't doing it?" Aramis asked.

  "We are doing it," Alex nodded. "It took a call to a general, but we're doing it."

  "Excellent."

  "I, too, wonder at the repercussions," Horace sighed. "Mobs don't react well to much of anything, and we can't shoot them all."

  "I believe that is the fundamental issue we face," Elke said. Though she didn't seem to have her usual wit about the statement. She was stroking her riot gun. She seemed to expect to use it.

  All convoy drivers called and cleared, and the vehicles moved out in close order, a bare two meters apart. Once in the Plaza proper, they closed up to a meter. Progress was slow.

  People crowded in close as they drove by. Ahead, the relayed camera images showed the Marines, Norwegians, and Indian troops at the gate having a hard time keeping control.

  There were definitely cameras on them, and the crowd was not nice. Nor was it organized, but it seemed to be an entity of its own. As people crushed up against the cars, others moved in front until the convoy slowed to a stop. Rioters beat and rocked the massively armored limos, spray painted them, which would just hose off the molecular-painted surface, tossed rocks, screamed epithets, and raised misspelled banners. Everyone clutched at weapons and prepared to fight if the vehicles were breached. Nothing seen so far was even close to a serious threat, but it wasn't impossible that there was a rocket launcher out there . . . and a limo was not a tank.

  They crept forward a bit more, almost touching bumpers, while the crowd milled about in a psychologically driven Brownian motion, depending on anger, ego, or machismo.

  Then a loud hiss and a roiling transparent mist of gas caused screams of panic. A large bubble opened in the crowd and they tried to advance.

  And stopped.

  "Mama, this is Playwright, what's the problem, over?" Alex asked.

  "Bodies in the road," Weilhung replied. "Got to wait for them to move. We can't run them over . . . over."

  "Understood, over. Shit."

  It wasn't unpredictable. People on foot could be pushed aside by slow pressure. Even a moderate speed would cause injury, but they'd clear the route. Once the vehicles stopped, there was no practical or moral way to drive over the gasping gas victims. The convoy was effectively stopped a mere five hundred meters from the palace. No one had anticipated the crowd being that tight.

  Horace realized he was going to be administering a lot of aid before this was over.

  "What do we do?" Jason asked. "Sit and wait? Drive on? Call for the Army?"

  "Stand by. Conference," Alex said.

  He conferred by encrypted phone for security. Meanwhile, Horace watched the crowd gather its small wits and great anger and swarm back in. They were close to each vehicle and beat on them like drums. The limo rocked with pounding noises, and Alex had to shout, and demand that the other speakers shout, even with the soundproofing and armor. Bishwanath was silent, motionless apart from a quiver, and wide-eyed.

  Then flaming fuel was dumped on the hood.

  A quick whoosh from the vehicle's engine fire suppression system stopped that, but it was only an indicator of how much worse things were going to be.

  They sat for eighteen minutes by Horace's watch, sweat dripping despite the air-conditioning, watching the crowd close in. Some had even licked the glass obscenely. Now several were urinating on the car. Horace decided there was a strong danger of brutality and rape if the cars were breached, and it wouldn't just be Elke.

  This wasn't a simple riot. It was a massive uprising. There weren't that many firearms in this immediate area, but there were thrown rocks, sticks, spears of wood or pipe with machined metal heads, flails made from plumbing pipe joints and chain, shields of plywood and sheet metal . . . it looked like something from a medieval documentary.

  The Recon troops atop their vehicles were nervous. This was something they were trained for, but at present lacked the equipment for. The Hate Truck couldn't handle more than a couple of hundred at most, and there were thousands of rebels here. Even if they emptied their weapons, there'd still be over a thousand, assuming perfect accuracy.

  "There are no nearby units," Alex said, sounding amazed and disgusted. "Between the uprising out west, the battle in the north side, and some attacks on the base, no one can get here in the next thirty minutes."

  "How inconvenient," Horace said. "Do we think it's accidental?"

  "Weilhung does," Alex sighed. "He said no schedule was changed. He thinks and I agree that it's a combination of piss poor plann
ing, a fear of doing anything to the poor people, and plain old apathy."

  The radio spoke, "We're going after gunmen and major threats. You're in charge of the kitchen. Confirm."

  "Roger, Mama, good luck." He looked around. "We retreat toward the palace. On foot and through obstacles if needed."

  "Roger that."

  He looked at Horace and Jason while dialing the others in on air. Then he faced Bishwanath. "Sir, we're going to pop smoke—gas—again. We're going to dismount, after it's thinned out but probably before it's all gone, so we're going masked. Then we're going back to the palace with you in the middle. Would you like a weapon?"

  Bishwanath shook his head. "I would greatly appreciate one, but if it comes down to that, history will treat me badly enough as it is."

  "That's an interesting choice, sir," Jason said. He didn't push the issue. Horace wasn't going to call him an idealistic bloody idiot, but the thought did come to mind.

  "I'm waiting for the right position in the crowd, based on what Recon shows of the route back the way we came. Also, they're going to toss gas back along that line. Recon will also dismount and act as support and decoys."

  "Roger." "Understood."

  Bishwanath nodded and said, "Thank you for your efforts." He sounded very fatalistic.

  "We're not dead yet, sir," Alex said with a grin. He didn't look up from the screen, though, where he was monitoring movement.

  Horace checked his kit and shouldered it, and checked his weapons. He grabbed a spare magazine for his off hand to speed reloads, and set everything down while he donned his protective mask. Those would hinder visibility and breathing, thus increasing the likelihood of casualties. Casualties on their side. There were definitely going to be casualties on the other side.

  With everyone ready, it came down to waiting again. This time, it was much shorter. In only forty-five seconds, Alex said, "On three."

  Gas whooshed out and sent the crowd leaping back in a crush into itself, as he said, "One."

  "Two," and Horace clutched the door handle, foot up and ready to kick, then . . .

  "Three."

  He pulled and kicked, leaned out and dumped one of the cheap H&Ks into the ground, moving the burst toward the crowd but around downed rioters, who were clutching at faces and throats and strangling on saliva. No need to add to the body count.

  He drew Bishwanath out as Jason bounded over the top and jumped down next to them with a grunt. Then Alex was with them and the others from the front limo, with Rahul. Rahul wore military body armor, a submachine gun, and a huge grin inside his mask.

  "It is time for some payback," he said.

  The gas shells were still bursting along the road, clearing a corridor for them to advance. They started at once, not waiting for the Recon element.

  He realized in seconds that the mask was going to make him one of the casualties. He simply couldn't draw enough air in. With the crowd back and disoriented, he reached up and loosened a chin strap until he could feel cool air blowing past his chin. He'd open his jaw to block the flow if he caught a whiff of gas, and this was only an irritant, not full-blown incapacitating agent.

  * * *

  Aramis was scared. There was a very real possibility of being ripped to pieces, literally. That wasn't glamorous and would be very painful. They were on their own, with the Recon unit forming up behind them to make its own advance.

  He, Bart, and Elke were advancing from their limo, with Rahul bounding alongside, a broad man who'd make a broad bullet stop. He seemed decent.

  "Shoulder to shoulder assholes," Jason said on air, apparently not caring if he was heard. "Makes targeting easy."

  "Yeah, I figure anyone in this mix is a hostile," Alex said.

  Needing to say something, Aramis said, "Let's hope they figure that out."

  "I'll keep them distracted," Elke said.

  "Elke, if you're handling demo, can I get the shotgun?" Aramis asked. He wanted a bigger gun, dammit.

  "Sure," she agreed. "Standard shot, frag, breacher and recon loads are in the cassette."

  "Got it," he said, taking it as she unslung it. "More firepower now, and maybe we'll need less later."

  The mob retreated slightly, forming a ring around the line of gas and daring each other, shouting, building to a frenzy. Soon they'd attack, and if there was no way through or backup, it would get really ugly.

  They made a hundred meters, the gas effect and the threat of death working to keep the riot back. Once in a while, a wiggling victim on the ground would try to tackle one of them and earn a vicious but professional kick. Most of the crowd was male, mostly younger, almost all underfed. One on one, even ten on one, no problem. Aramis moved at a moderate jog at this pace, which was frustratingly slow; he wanted to sprint, but their speed was predicated by the capabilities of their principal. Elke carefully tossed bombs that were definitely loud, all concussion. Anyone within a few meters jerked and shied from her toys.

  Aramis shot past the head of someone who was getting too aggressive with his club waving. The shotgun beat his shoulder, and he idly wondered what the heavy shot would do when it fell from the sky? Likely less than a carbine round would.

  He'd have to watch his ammo. The shotgun cassette held twenty, and Elke would not want it left behind. She was very enamored of it.

  He'd gotten used to Boblight, but with gas and the mask, it looked quite a bit more orange. It wasn't close to red, but it seemed to indicate a bloodiness anyway. Weird. His mental state couldn't be helping. He made sure he wasn't tunneling; his vision was clear.

  Calm, he urged himself.

  They thumped over the ground, eating up distance. While their footwear looked like classy dress shoes from a distance, they were very agile military boots underneath. Those were one of the expenses they had to cover out of pocket, but it was well worth it. After this, however, they were all going to be scuffed and ugly. Jason already had marred his with blood. Aramis's mind hit him again, wondering about suing the asshole who dared bleed on his expensive shoes. It was a cruel but entertaining thought.

  The bubbles were eerie. Chanting, screaming people throwing stuff, most of it falling short, though he did have to dodge a brickbat or two, and then this safe zone with just a few on the ground, now slowly recovering and standing. One rose not too far ahead, and Aramis leaned over, thrust out his fist and bashed the shotgun butt into his face. Down he went again.

  But the bubbles were collapsing quickly, and they were nearing maximum range that those shells could reach. The vehicle crews should be bailing out now, hopefully, and would be en route as a mass formation.

  Whose worthless fucking idea had it been to dispense with air cover and support elements? It was as if they wanted Bishwanath dead.

  Did they?

  Then they were approaching the wall, because the gate was blocked. Not only was there the entry control barricade the military had, there was that crowd of rioters. Alex led the way straight to the wall, but the safe zone was getting smaller. Rapidly. Elke kept tossing explosives, but there was a practical limit being reached.

  The bodies were moving in, some topless, some in work clothes, a guy who almost made a really good-looking girl wearing a dress, which meant Aramis was going to have to scrub his brain out again.

  Jason and Bart pulled out canisters of tear gas, but even the military grade stuff they carried was good for no more than twenty full shots.

  "Think I can open a hole if I have a few seconds," Elke said.

  Bart said, "I've got the grenade launcher, too."

  "How about it, boss?" Aramis asked Alex.

  "Yeah, good idea. Elke, blow a channel, and we'll hold on the far side."

  * * *

  Elke dodged under Bart's arm and got ready to throw another downsized grenade. She hated that. This called for shaped charges and frag to shred people into a state of fear, but they had to be nice. She didn't like the mask and the exertion was rough.

  Someone shot far too close to her. She track
ed the shot, identified the man, and pulled a premade device off her harness. Leaning back, she pitched it like a baseball. The device was a plastic missile with fins to stabilize it and it corkscrewed in to a perfect impact on his chest, where it blew bloody gobbets out the back.

  Now that was sexy, she thought.

  "What the hell was that?" Aramis shouted next to her.

  "Father Christmas brought him bullets for Christmas," she said. "He brought me Composition G."

  "I swear, Elke," Aramis returned as he fired another slug and she tossed her next flash charge, "you like that stuff far too much. Do you make dildos out of it?"

  "No, it's too soft and oily, and toxic," she said to annoy him, admitting she had considered it once. "Or I wouldn't need men."