Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  They passed into the broad, open plain of the Presentation Room. The soft earth tones were all harsh green in this artificial glow, fuzzy and dark toward the edges, the pool of vision fading into a black nothingness. No heat sources, no obvious threats. A line of brightness flooded from under the doors ahead.

  They skittered along, silent apart from breathing and the swish of gear on fabric.

  Aramis's pulse hammered at the sight of heat distortion, but it was just that—heat, rising from somewhere below.

  The door was heavy wood, double, a lovely piece of carving. None of that showed in this enhancement.

  He flipped up his goggles as he reached the door, felt the team stack behind him, then turned the handle gently, just enough to let pressure off. He used his foot as a pressure guide, waiting to feel the slip where the latch released just a little . . . there.

  He pulled it open and was through, hearing it slam against the frame behind, the seven of them boiling through.

  Nothing.

  He realized it was likely there would be nothing on this floor. He was stressing over the initial stages, before contact was even made. Cursing himself, he led the way on.

  Through the official suites, now largely bare or abandoned to dust, to a back service stairwell that led down to servants' quarters on the third floor.

  Those stairs were narrow, tight, and had small landings. Aramis was first, and an effective shield for the rest of them—he filled the space almost completely. Behind him, Bart swore in German. The man was large enough it had to be awkward, and more so in gear.

  Then they were on the ground floor.

  "Standing by on doors," Jason said. These were the inside doors to the large gallery that was the reception area for the Informal.

  "Go," said Alex.

  "Opening."

  The doors slid open and five muzzles poked out. Bart lurked back with the Medusa, and Bishwanath was in the middle for safety. There were figures at a distance, but no one nearby worth worrying about. Ahead was the large hole Elke had just blown in the wall. No one was coming in that way. Yet.

  "Risk exiting there?" Alex asked. "Or out back and go around?"

  "Shorter is better," Aramis said. "I vote for speed."

  "I do," Bart said.

  Alex looked around, met Aramis's eyes again, and said, "Go, Aramis."

  He did. Straight ahead at a lope, weapon at high ready, fake to the right, and kick off to the left through the gap.

  The crowd outside wasn't stacked deep. They were milling about, aimlessly, drunk and stoned and largely just there for the sheeplike feeling of being part of something. There were still dust and haze from Elke's blast, and the people here seemed reluctant to push the issue until things settled more. The dozen shredded bodies right outside might have had something to do with that. There were a handful of people sitting on the broad patio, snoozing, talking, eating, and they were perfect targets, but the goal right now was to move. Aramis cleared them in a leap and panned around. There was Bart, the rest, and a confused-looking, scattered crowd.

  He ran as straight as possible, individuals unconsciously moving out of his way. He dodged around clusters and groups, all of whom stared in surprise. So far, no one had made any hostile moves. Most of this crowd didn't intend direct violence.

  Behind him, there was some surprise at Bart's appearance, though few realized exactly what he carried, other than a large weapon. Behind him was the entourage guarding Bal.

  A glance indicated there was nothing bigger than a rifle in sight. There could be a few small support weapons in windows, but on the whole, not bad. The explosions were from the occasional badly aimed rocket, cars driving by and dropping packs, or, of all things, a group of guys crimping caps to commercial blasting blocks with their teeth and throwing them. Insane. Inefficient.

  He still didn't have a target, which was good. Outside it was hazy but bright, and the mob was spread out but large. Their small cluster was not noticeable, but would be sooner or later.

  They had less than twenty-five minutes for three kilometers. That was a respectable run, with Bal who was fit, but medicated and not young, and with all the gear, especially the monster Bart was carrying, and for Elke, who was, face it, female and smaller in the upper body. She could pass Corporate standards for fitness, yes. Aramis was able to destroy the standards.

  Screw that. He was busy dodging lazy bodies, milling freaks, trying hard not to breathe. The haze of pot and other drugs was only part of it. Under that, these fuckers stank. Sweat, decay. Shit. These people needed running water so they could bathe.

  "Crowd moving!" sounded in his headset, from Jason, as carbine fire sounded to right and rear.

  Here we go . . .

  * * *

  Bart was straining but happy. Loads sucked when they were just cargo. When it was this much firepower it wasn't too bad.

  He heard the call from Jason, and the burst. A glance that way showed the threat to be behind. He wasn't about to turn unless he was needed. Behind them was good. Eventually, that would be a problem, but for now, it could be ignored. These savages could not shoot well enough to matter. He had the Medusa live but his finger on the freeze button.

  The exchange turned into a short trade of fire, quickly left behind, but it drew attention. Ahead, people were looking toward them. Likely none of them would recognize Bish— Bal, but they'd see a group that was a challenge and want to fight. A typical tribal response. They'd back off once beaten, but that would draw more attention to heavier armed groups.

  His shoulders wrenched in pain. At some point, he'd have to abandon this bitch. Meantime, he wanted to use it, because otherwise it was annoying encumbrance to no gain. Besides, it was firepower and he could use it indiscriminately.

  He shouldn't have worried. Up ahead, they'd been seen. Whether they were perceived as Army, contractor, faction, or challenge was irrelevant. Shouts and points and frenzied dancing presaged a swarm heading their way. Aramis was already on it.

  "Threat at front-front right!" he shouted. Bart heard him in his ears and phones both, and the short burst fired at the closest member of the party, though "closest" was still fifty meters, but closing at a run each way.

  Bart sighted the group through the viewfinder, zoomed in close enough to avoid most civilians, and let loose. Medusa selected a frag grenade, whipped the barrel over his shoulder, and fired. He heard a bang and a hole appeared in the crowd.

  The ersatz squad closed up, providing interlocking fire in all directions. The carbines split among each side and rear, allowing the Medusa's firepower up front now.

  The rear was still mostly secure. So far. No reports, no fire, nothing triggering the rear sensors on the Medusa. He concentrated on the front, peripherally aware of the sides.

  It wasn't a straight running collision. Both sides waded through a crowd, and that crowd was starting to sense a threat. That made them a hindrance. There was a technical term for that in executive protection. Soft cover. You couldn't have any qualms about using stupid locals as sandbags. At least there were a lot of them if it came to that.

  Aramis slowed to almost a walk, and Bart almost ran over him.

  "What are you . . ." he started to snap, but realized the reason at once. Empty cartridge cases from old-fashioned cased bullets. Thousands of them. No, likely millions. The shooting had been going on here on the edge of the plaza for days, and the ground was littered in low spots by the rolling cases. They were mostly from Kalashnikovs, a few from Bushmasters. You knew the enemy by what he used, and these people used the cheapest, most inaccurate, and in some cases crap weapons they could get hold of. It was surreal to see this many cartridges, though.

  "Shuffle, slip hazard!" he said, warning the others, who would be closing on the point fast. He saw a man raising a rifle to shoot. He was in the "pose" stance, showing him to be a man for his friends. The stance was horribly inaccurate and he was unlikely to hit them, but a lesson had to be delivered and Bart wasn't taking the chance on b
ad luck. He pointed a finger from his waist, and the Medusa extended one snaking neck with a barrel and shot. The single bullet was dead center of mass and almost blew the guy in two.

  Bart eyed his nearest allies and made sure they were whitelisted. Aramis was not panicking. Bal wasn't his problem, as long as the man didn't accidentally shoot him in the back.

  The kid had learned well. He obliqued across the incoming front, since he was already to their left, and began a firing retreat toward a group of burned out vehicles. They wouldn't be much cover, but would be concealment.

  "Lateral left, supporting fire right, cover on vehicles," he said for everyone else's benefit. Bart backed him up. The sensors registered friendlies moving in behind. There was incoming fire, but it was hard to localize. The Medusa's sensors could backtrack shots down to 3mm, but the random motion of the crowd made determining which body was responsible harder. The shooters were hitting other parts of the mob, while only coming close to the team. For now, they were not a severe enough threat to waste ammo on, though that would change in a moment, sometime soon.

  Males would generally be the threats, but that was made harder by the damned cross-dressers. They didn't have the Asian chic affected by transvestites on Earth currently. They were just bearded, manly men in skirts and dresses, and hats. Gott, what an array of hats these people had. He still had not got used to it, and likely would not. Having some "lady" charge up with knotty biceps holding a gun or a club was always freaky, and potentially lethal.

  *Threat!* the Medusa flashed in his visor, and he turned, pointing, ready to unleash Thor's own thunderbolt. He dropped his hand at once.

  It was the AF contingent, abandoning a light vehicle that had been hit by fire and by . . . actual fire, probably a Molotov cocktail. The smoke trail indicated they'd driven it from the direction of the palace garage. Quickly he punched up the threat circuit and let it read all four of them as friendlies.

  It looked as if they'd been willing to let the team hang off the edges, but someone had decided the vehicle was a serious target on the way. Bart was glad they'd decided against vehicles themselves. The only vehicle that would work in this crowd was a tank.

  In seconds, the four fell into formation. White ran up, offering him a dirty look, and shot at something as he turned his attention back to the fight.

  Two things were obvious about White from the way she'd been moving. First, she had very little training beyond familiarization with personal weapons. Second, she was disciplined and professional. That latter was more than compensating for the former.

  "I am in the cover and shooting, watch movement and retreat. White, you must duck and roll right now!" The voice was Elke's, and the response was instant. Five EPs moved straight back while shooting, two of them hauling Bal. Three STs dropped low and kept station on White, who fell instantly to the ground, took but a moment to orient herself, and started rolling, carbine clutched close. She banged her chin and face on a roll, and took some bruises from debris, but did exactly what she should.

  Discipline.

  Then Elke, God bless her, made the world explode.

  The first blast had to be from her grenade launcher. The sequential blasts following it led back across the plaza, and a couple erupted in the crowd. They were bright with metal powder and heavy on report and smoke. The crowd stopped for a moment, and that was enough for all personnel to dive into the pile of vehicles, which had been left crashed and abandoned on some marked road on the broad plaza. They weren't a solid line or ring of cover, just some artificial boulders to hide amongst. She must have left charges in her wake as they ran, and had triggered them now. The line of blasts looked like major fire from a vehicle-mounted weapon.

  Marlow said, "Reload, rearm, check for casualties in turn. Bart, Aramis last."

  Bart turned his back on the huddling, gasping group. Fatigue aside, they were in good order and all accounted for. Shaman checked Bal first, then others. Elke was busy rigging more explosives as fast as her dexterous fingers could move. The STs reloaded and were in conference with White.

  "I'm hit," Anderson said in dead calm. Bart looked over, fearing something catastrophic, but it was a flap of forearm skin ripped loose by a bullet. Shaman slapped a field dressing over it and tied it.

  White said, "Convoy delayed. Twenty minutes from now. Gives us some breathing room."

  "Dammit, I don't want breathing room!" Vaughn snapped. "I want to get through this mob!"

  "Right. Through the mob and hole up. We can't stay in the thick of this."

  Bart didn't answer. A short squad of men with rifles was climbing atop a fountain and shooting in his direction. He selected and pointed and a grenade zeroed them in a matching fountain of fire supplemented by all four carbine barrels. The Medusa was god. The Medusa was also a heavy bitch and getting heavier, and wouldn't last forever on either ammo or capacitors. He concurred with Vaughn. They must get through fast. He took a glance to where Shaman was bandaging some nicks and scrapes. Patdowns were important. One could be injured and not know it. Luckily, the Medusa protected most of his back, and Shaman glanced over him, nodded, and kept moving.

  A thought came to him and he said, "Anderson, can you carry Bal if he slows down?"

  "What? Yeah," Anderson replied.

  "Sir, I suggest we split and move. Anderson and I will take a direct, fast route to our destination with Bal, Snow White, and the . . . dwarfs. The rest can act as a fighter escort and flying squads."

  There was a pause for a moment only. "Excellent. Everyone load back up and prepare to move."

  "Roger," "Check," click came multiple acknowledgments.

  "And move!"

  It was none too soon. A section of the mob had decided those guys among the vehicles looked like interesting loot. Anderson shot off a burst, and two of the STs were alongside for support. One, Buckley, stayed with White and was directly behind.

  As soon as they'd fired, the two men swarmed around a car and headed straight toward the far side, where a platform stuck out from the Esplanade for parades. Bal was next with Aramis close by him, ready to drop weapons and carry him if need be. Bart could provide enough support for both, and he was behind. One side benefit of this tactic: They moved at a slow lope to save Bal's lungs, which took a little strain off Bart. White was to his left and Buckley left of her. They almost bumped as they squeezed between the melted metal and plastic hulks of the vehicles.

  Two men popped up in the crowd, sitting on the shoulders of others. Both waved toward Bart and shouldered rifles. No sooner had they done so than the Medusa flashed *Threat!* and snaked out two barrels over his shoulders. They spat twice each and that was the end of it. Another warning blinked and the heavy barrel rose to shoot at the building across the plaza on their right. The range was two hundred meters or more, Bart was running, but it fired two shots and stopped. The first round was antiarmor and punched a hole in the wall that blew out. The second was an incendiary that made the hole erupt in white flames.

  "We will acquire a vehicle," Marlow said. "Good luck. Currently flanking to your right rear rear, cover fire if you need it."

  "Check," Bart said, and grinned. "Acquire" a vehicle. There were only two ways to acquire one, and he didn't see Marlow dipping into his pocket right now. He continued his thudding sprint through the crowd, not bothering to dodge any males. The Medusa cleared a swath for him, shooting anyone within ten meters as the tentacles waved and cracked.

  * * *

  Bishwanath felt alive! He knew he could die at any moment, but for the time being, his purpose was resolved. He had his side, loyal and willing, and everyone else was an enemy. That was crude, even atavistic and shallow, not to mention immature, but it took all the complications of debate and politics off his mind.

  He was allowed kill legitimate targets to burn off rage at those who would figuratively sodomize him.

  Oh, yes, he planned to stay alive. If living well was the best revenge, he intended to take it.

  But he was gaspin
g for breath. The trip through the palace, his palace that was now being looted and violated, then down the steps and across the plaza had been a marathon run as far as he was concerned. He'd been fit once, but no longer, and much exertion was involved.

  That thought was tinged with disgust and shame. His people, and those of other tribes he'd hoped to bring forward, had maintained their position as peasants and savages, looting and smashing anything that suggested progress. It was almost as if they liked filth and squalor, and resented the suggestion that there was a better life.

  All there was to do was to put on a good show. He was worried at first. Amid a crowd like this, with weapons everywhere, none of the professionals fired a shot. His experience screamed at him to fire a burst. One wanted to warn, scare, unnerve the enemy. Then, if one was good as opposed to merely brave, one could pick a target. But none of them fired. His finger fidgeted with the trigger before he forced himself to stop. This was a completely different way of fighting.