Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

There were cheers, and at a finger point, Vaughn grabbed the beer and joined the soldiers climbing into their vehicle. Bart went back to get their "tools" by which he meant "incapacitance grenade," which in this case was mercifully not one to release the bowels. It was still a very fast-acting hallucinogen, sedative, and reaction inhibitor. The problem being that Vaughn was in the vehicle with them.

  Of course, the windows were open, which was not ideal, and the wind was from that direction . . .

  As he walked alongside, one of the soldiers said, "Other side. We're full here."

  "Thank you," he said. "Would you hold this?" as he popped the spoon, dropped it into the footwell, and took a deep breath.

  The soldier shouted, bent over, and got a faceful of the vapor bursting from the grenade as Bart yanked his baton out of the tool bag, zapped the soldier in the seat behind him, and ducked fast, still holding his breath. Vaughn grabbed the driver and tried to pin him in his seat. Said driver fumbled for a gas mask while trying to hold his breath.

  No shooting, Bart thought. That was good so far. He pointed the baton and fired, but the smoke grounded the plasma carrier the stun would ride on. He took a breath carefully, and waded in through the window, over an unconscious body.

  Well, it was not a neat job, but shortly, all three were unconscious and stuffed in the back. Vaughn had been taken by surprise and was woozy, but alert enough to restrain the troops with cable ties.

  "I swear, you could have warned me," he muttered. "I could have . . . could have . . . done somethinhng."

  "Are they tied?" Bart asked as he climbed into the driver's seat.

  "Yeah, tied and out. I should crash until we get back. Have to have Shamu give me an antidate." With that he fell over.

  Not a perfect operation, Bart reflected as he shoved it in gear. They didn't have long to exploit the window. But they had a vehicle. Now for Step Two.

  "On the way," he called on his radio. "Ready to load for the beer run. I need a wakeup call."

  "Roger," was all he got. He hoped Marlow understood him.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled up behind the hotel.

  "We must go right now," he said. "They will be missed within the hour."

  Anderson and Marlow quickly unloaded bodies into the room. Shaman pulled out syringes and ensured they'd be out for hours. He took one glance and handed another to Elke, who slipped it to Vaughn quite professionally and shook him awake.

  "Yeah, I'm up, bastards," he replied muzzily, coming back to the present.

  Marlow tossed a bag of gear in as Anderson darted around to the front, already dressed in the best fitting of the uniforms. They were the new UNCAM camo pattern, which simplified things a lot, as his ID said he was U.S. military, not Macedonian.

  Bart and Vaughn squeezed into pants and T-shirts with their own boots, as the vehicle started rolling. The kid could drive fast and eagerly. He wasn't as dangerous as the natives, but Bart did have to say, "We're not wearing restraints."

  "Ah, right, sorry."

  Though the shifting vehicle did cause their makeup to be sloppy, which was good. They wanted to look half dead.

  "We'll meet at the far side, as planned," Bart said into his radio as he splashed on more "camouflage."

  "Roger. Where's the old truck?" Alex asked. They hadn't discussed those details yet. No time.

  "It was disabled and I was in a hurry." That seemed to be the most concise summary.

  "Right. We'll steal another one. What's one more vehicle theft among friends?"

  * * *

  Back in the hotel, there was much action and preparation. Alex liked having a team who could all react to shifting situations quickly and intelligently. Now if he could just get certain elements, like Elke, to not measure success by the size of the cleanup bill . . .

  "Are we just leaving the soldiers?" Bal asked.

  "Yup. Right where they are. They'll either wake up and call, be found by the manager and woken, or rolled, or someone will try to track them with a recon drone." He went back to preps and was jolted back again when Bal asked again.

  "But they'll be okay?"

  "To be perfectly honest, I really don't give a shit, sir," Alex said. Really, the man was too nice and it was aggravating. To the stunned expression he said, "They were incautious, drinking on duty, didn't keep control of the situation and didn't even ask for ID. They're alive. That's more than the Skin— locals would have given them."

  Bal nodded. He seemed to get it. Possibly he recalled that BuState's original plan had been for him to be guarded by such, and there were still elements in the Assembly who complained about the cost of Ripple Creek.

  Of course, he thought, they had good reason to, now.

  Back to business. "Okay, we're meeting the others on the far side of the base. We need transport. Ideally, we'd buy one from a peasant or rent one. There are none for rent except inside the White Zone where we can't go and don't have time. They're too valuable for anyone to want to sell one."

  "So you'll commandeer one," Bal acknowledged. "Mister Marlow, I may occasionally ask for elucidation, but I am in your hands. It's unlikely I'll object to your actions. So far, you've demonstrated wit, originality, flexibility, courage, and iron discipline. I trust your judgment."

  "Thank you, sir," Alex said. Damn, that was real praise. Although things could have been better planned—more wit and less flexibility.

  * * *

  Aramis swerved on purpose, driving erratically. They had to believe he was panicking when he got there. He pushed the envelope of speed and recklessness until he saw a warning burst fired into the air, whereupon he braked abruptly. He drove with more apparent control, but still at a vigorous rate. The MPs were all jittery when he arrived.

  "Let me see your holy shit, guy!" the one at the window exclaimed.

  Aramis waved his ID card. "Quick, I'm Sergeant Anderson, Logistics. I've got to get them through."

  "Will do. Wassen, check that side fast! Casualties."

  "Hurry!" Elke said from under a helmet worn backward in torn clothes that made her look small and helpless without actually showing a lot of skin. A hint was all it took. She'd acquired a completely broken handheld video recorder and audio mic to add to the image. Her micro gear was running for record purposes. They still believed they might need the evidence at their court-martial.

  "Please hurry," she blubbered. Her eyes were red from rubbing and weeping from a touch of tear gas. Just wiping a finger across the nozzle and her eyelids was enough. Aramis thought she was nuts, but hard-core. She was okay, for a woman. "Ohgodthey'rehurt!" she squealed.

  In the back, Bart and Jason writhed and moaned, stuck with black gunk and tar that would look like shrapnel at a glance, and covered with a half liter of pig's blood. A couple of well-timed twitches added to it.

  The MP said, "Roll, guy. Clinic's that wa—"

  Aramis was already spitting gravel.

  "Stand by, maneuvering," he said, and started taking turns. The idea was to head generally toward the clinic so no one would question it, make it possible they got lost so no one would panic for a few minutes, and slow down on the way so as to blend into existing traffic. Bart and Jason wiped off with rags and chemical towels to look no dirtier than troops fresh off patrol. Elke changed into uniform pants and T-shirt, showing a lot of skin that Aramis would like very much to appreciate, but dammit, work came first.

  "I hope this works," she muttered.

  "It will," he said. "Jackpot."

  "What?" Bart asked.

  Aramis pointed. "That building. Squad back from patrol, cleaning, showering, drinking. They aren't paying attention and there's a lot of weapons. They're probably cycling them back to the armory in loads."

  "Good call," Jason said. "Distract them in front, load up in rear. Park over there behind that utility building." All the buildings were much the same: poured concrete blocks with slant roofs. Their military experience was all that let them quickly tell housing from utility buildings.

  "Y
es, but we'll also need to find explosive," Elke said. "I'll need that bottle of liquor now."

  Bart handed it over.

  The troops in question were cooking food—meat especially—over an improvised grill. Beer was present, and the few women were getting a lot of attention that officially couldn't lead anywhere but might, just might unofficially.

  It was less than fifty meters from the open vehicle to the barracks. On a sunny day on post no one had any reason to expect serious security problems. Making up losses from one unit to another? Sure. Outright theft of major firepower? That wasn't a concern. Yet.

  * * *

  Elke smiled as she walked by in a shirt too snug and an expression too loose. The man officially guarding the rack alongside the building stepped around the corner as she glinted at him.

  At once, Bart and Jason were on the weapons like dogs on a downed antelope. Eight rocket launchers and two machine guns disappeared, along with belts of ammo and several mines. There were always people loading or unloading weapons, so they weren't noticed by anyone else. If the rack guard hadn't stopped them, it must be okay, so the occupants of the adjoining barracks said nothing. It was a fair day, slight haze under a noon Bob, and everyone off duty was enjoying it. She sought that guard and kept his eyes on her with a sway of her ass.

  "Are you going to get off in a while?" she asked, deliberately meeting his eyes and not watching her comrades.

  "Another hour," he said. "Have we met?" He stared back, fascinated.

  "Hello, Lucy Rabino, over at Logistics," she said and offered a hand. Logistics was going to get a lot of inquiries from this event. "Are they going to save you some meat?"

  "Bastards better," he said. He was grinning and still staring.

  "Do you want me to ask? I'll make sure they do, if I can get a sausage out of it." She was throwing innuendos left and right, but there was no time for subtlety.

  "Sure, please," he said. "Will there be any of that bottle left?"

  "Oh, I expect so," she agreed. "I've hardly touched it yet."

  "Thanks!" he said. "I appre— Come back here with my rifles, you cocksuckers!" he yelled as his glance caught the happenings behind him. He'd missed the first load. This was the second.

  Bart turned, made a gesture, and laughed. The plan was to play it as a prank, and not let them worry until it was too late.

  "Recon rules!" he shouted. "You can buy them back with beer!"

  "Assholes!" the troop returned. Some of his buddies were heading over, but the rest were snickering and pointing. They thought it was a score of bragging points.

  Meanwhile, Elke slipped back, grabbed a drum-fed grenade launcher and edged around the building behind the crowd. One man made to stop her, but she handed him the bottle as she walked by, and just kept walking. He eyed the bottle, eyed her, shrugged, and said nothing.

  * * *

  Bart and Jason panted as they piled into the grumbly. They weren't young anymore, it had been a long day, and they'd grabbed an overload of hardware. Aramis nailed the throttle as soon as they were balanced more inside than out, and came out onto the street where Elke was at a sprint, grenade launcher at high port. She threw it at the open door where Jason was, who caught it awkwardly and hauled it into the back, while she dived into the passenger side through the window.

  Her abused victim had a great view of her ass, framed by the window as the team drove off shouting obscenities.

  "Back gate, fast," Jason said as he helped haul Elke in. He grabbed shoulder, breast unintentionally until she squawked, arm, and belt and got her fully inside. She tumbled from head down and ass up to sideways to right way and buckled in.

  "Hand me that grenade launcher just in case," she said.

  "In case of what, exactly?" Bart asked, but handed it over.

  "If the gate is closed, we go through the fence," she said.

  "We're going to die or go to jail for this," Jason said.

  "That gives it some spice!" Aramis whooped. "Don't you feel alive?"

  "Not as alive as I do after a good beer and a fine blow job," he said. "Sorry, Elke."

  "No problem, I agree," she said.

  "It's been less than three minutes. Think it's safe to go through the gate?"

  "Change vehicles? Split up?" Bart suggested.

  "Or just say FIDO," Jason said. "Fuck It. Drive On."

  "Drive on it is," Aramis said.

  They made it through three of the four weaving barricades on the exit before someone came running toward them shouting.

  "Just smile and wave, boys," Jason said, and did so.

  Then they were through.

  Behind them, Security seemed unsure. A military vehicle with military personnel had run out the gate. They had military weapons. The report was that pranksters had taken hardware from another unit. They were outside now, and a firefight wasn't a good thing to have on the street. Then, they were military, and that wasn't a cool thing to start . . .

  By then it was too late. Aramis took a corner, another, and a third, and slipped into a long line of traffic of which every tenth vehicle or so was military.

  "So far, so good. Now we head back."

  "And then we have to decide how to get out of here," Bart said. "We're still in hostile territory and have just abused our friends."

  In ten minutes, a car behind blinked its lights twice. "We're here," Alex's voice came. "How's it look?"

  "We're good if you are." Casual. The radio lingo was very casual. Anyone scanning the net should decide they were civilian workers.

  "Follow us to dinner," Alex said, then pulled up and passed them. He and the others were in a much newer enclosed truck. Aramis was pretty sure it hadn't been purchased. It looked like another contractor vehicle. That made sense. Contractors hated reporting thefts, and the military gave them low priority anyway, as they were just basic transport, not military gear, and it was largely deemed an insurance issue.

  He led along one of the main routes, with military vehicles going both ways. It took serious balls to drive a stolen vehicle with stolen weapons as a solo, not part of a convoy, and act as if everything was cool. It was working, though, and damn, was it a rush. Jason was chuckling, Bart quiet but smiling, and Elke snickering. They had a hard time keeping serious expressions, because they were so blatantly in trouble if they got caught.

  Shortly, they pulled into another cheap motel, this one a long row of little boxes, the type of place where six men of various races and a woman would be taken as an illicit party, a criminal enterprise, or government agents making a woeful attempt at camouflage. They'd be watched by the locals, but they would not be reported, if Aramis guessed correctly.

  The others swarmed his grumbly and looted it for everything removable in seconds: weapons, tools, first aid kit, and the second capacitor. Elke brought out empty packs and bedding that were used to camouflage the stuff for transfer into the room and the other vehicle.

  Then Jason jumped into the grumbly with Aramis while Bart grabbed the new vehicle.

  "Follow me."

  In short order, they abandoned it in a seedy neighborhood and swapped to the new one. Aramis kept his hand on his pistol. It was that kind of neighborhood, all burned-out stores and houses converted to something else, with little going on save drinking. He figured the grumbly would be stolen or spare parts or ransomed back within the hour, and leave a confusing mess for anyone to decipher. Of course, an in-depth scan for DNA would identify the occupants. Bishwanath would not show, though, so it would be taken as simple theft by the team. Since they could legally travel through BuState or Mil, that would mark them as having gone criminal, likely over some black market stuff. He didn't envy Alex the job of explaining this afterward.

  * * *

  "Well, that would appear to be significant," Weilhung said to deWitt. Both were seated at terminals with a screen set up in front of them. Two intelligence troops and some contractor from BuState were helping sort through information.

  "Money spent, military vehi
cle hijacked, and base raided for weapons. Certainly significant," deWitt agreed. "What do we make of it? You're the military expert."

  Weilhung clouded for a moment then realized that deWitt meant it earnestly, not as a slam.

  "Well, there are similarities between me and Marlow, but considerable differences, too. We're talking background, training, and current mission and assets. I see this going one of two ways. Either they're trying to set Bishwanath up somewhere with guns and money to be a local lord who won't be noticed. That means eventually he'll send for his family and we can track him that way. He's not the type to abandon them. Or else they're gearing up to find a way off planet."

  "How likely are they to pull that off? I served decades ago," deWitt admitted, which was not too surprising—he had a good, professional attitude that smacked of soldier, but it was also rare for a bureaucrat to admit to getting hands dirty. That he said so was a mark of trust. "But I'm not as up to date on a lot of this gear as I'd like to be."