“Ready, Aramis?”
“Yes.” The man seemed calm, prepared and relieved to be back at work. Good. Though Shaman indicated he had occasional nightmares and was taking medication for sleep. Still, work was good therapy, and they worked best as a team.
The military had relented on the test-firing issue. The team had their own clearing barrel in their wing, in a well-insulated and deadened alcove, with extra fill to trap bullets. Officially, there was a ventilation system for toxic gases, because Cady, Alex and the BuState facilities engineer said so.
They approached the drum, Alex said, “Escort Team, performing function check,” and waited for the computer to acknowledge and flash green.
“Please proceed,” the waveform voice said.
Alex pointed his pistol and fired, checked the cycle, then repeated with his carbine. He stepped aside for Jason.
Jason never flinched when shooting, but in these quarters, even with earbuds and deadening panels, the volume was painful. Still, it was good prep and practice for combat. He let the anticipatory tension build, then drain, slipped the muzzle into the tube, and fired. The shockwave rolled over him. He reholstered, slung the carbine around, pointed, and fired.
Yes, that got the adrenaline rushing, just enough to heighten senses. He was well-primed for the mission. Not for the first time, he thought that the test fire served to check the shooter as well as the weapon.
Fergus Hendry from Facilities arrived as Bart checked his weapons. They trooped to Highland’s apartment, and Alex knocked.
“Minister Highland, we’re ready,” he said.
As always, he was polite. They worked well as a team. Alex was always polite. Jason could defuse trouble with humor. Of course, he could also exacerbate it when that served better.
Highland and Jessie stepped out to join them.
“Good morning, gentlemen, lady,” she said, also polite. They all pretended.
Hendry walked into the room to keep it occupied and secure, and coincidentally to sweep for bugs other than theirs. Jason had no idea if he planted more, or even knew about their own. He didn’t need to know.
Minutes later they were in the ARPAC and rolling.
It was likely an easy mission. She wanted to meet with some factory workers, have lunch, ask their opinions on climate, as if they were likely to have useful input, or she cared, or any other politician cared, or would do anything about it if they did. Or if they could. It was a camouflaged campaign stop.
For Highland, the ARPAC was so she could play the hero. For the team, it was an easy security improvement. It was a harder barrier. It also now had a honey pot next to the rear ramp, with a rudimentary curtain.
If it were up to them, they’d use the ARPAC for every mission. The limo looked political, but even its armored bulk wasn’t close to this beast. Politicians lived by image, though, and Highland was a slave to that unless and until she won SecGen, and probably after that.
Elke was glad to have actual weapons and not just nonlethal. More and more, society sank into decadence and avoided the practicality of just killing people who caused problems. Nonlethal force took repeated applications, and often failed to sufficiently terrify those who needed kept in place.
Highland was annoying. It was obvious to Elke she was the kind of woman who actually would like to use force when needed, but was afraid of the political repercussions. Still, she might be a better option than the effete soft-skin now occupying the Earth Mansion. On the other hand, Cruk certainly liked throwing troops around, and had at least signed off on the team’s presence, at least by proxy.
In the meantime, she had a job to do, and hopefully to enjoy.
As tough as an ARPAC was, rolling around the city in it made them a slow target. The two Grumblies on detail made it obvious it was a VIP mission, not a combat mission. That changed the profile of the threats. There were always threats.
The trip was short enough, since most of the industry was near the ports. The airport, river port and railhead all ran together on the west side, connecting to the rest of the continent. It scared her, because she knew what she could do to that infrastructure with a carful of explosive. They really needed better security, given the factional disputes. It was certain every group had a blaster good enough to accomplish that task.
They pulled up streetside, where local cops had marked a clear zone. She watched Alex for cues, nodded to his point, and dropped the hatch just slow enough not to slam it on the road. Bart led the entourage, she took tail end after the rest, as the troops and local police formed a cordon around the vehicle. That didn’t thrill her, but she’d planned accordingly. The device she left on the bench would be harmless unless someone entered the cabin, and the rear-facing camera she’d mounted up front would give her notice.
The engagement was well familiar to Bart. He led the way down the ramp, through the pathway left by police, and into the building. One of the BuState protocol people was just inside, next to the president of Wataniya Engines, Arul al-Harun Bawani, which didn’t sound like an Earth Arabic name. They fought over silly things here, and that was after leaving Earth because they couldn’t get along there.
Bawani had one assistant and one guard, both male, in Western suits but with keffiyeh. The atrium was mostly clear. Building security, and three of the military detail, plus two of Cady’s people, strode around the upper balcony. Everything was near-transparent crystal, supported by black stone a bit like marble. The floor tiles were pale gray of similar material, with gold veining. Yet if he remembered Aramis’ map correctly, a kilometer away were slum shacks of leftover wheels and packing materials.
Highland stepped forward, and he noticed she was wearing a glove. She wasn’t going to actually touch his hand.
“Mister Bawani, thank you for meeting me,” she said as she offered her hand.
He reached out and shook it long enough for the photographer to get a grip and grin shot, then said, “Madam Minister, you honor us with your presence.”
“I’m glad to be able to visit such a forward-looking facility.. ” she said, and Bart tuned it out. He would listen for keywords relevant to her safety. The political talking was not of interest.
An honest assessment of the factory was that it was decades out of date. Colony worlds either had substantial investment backing, or lacked. This one lacked. There were still advantages to being off Earth, but they faded against the negatives.
In this case, JessieM’s constant feed of content probably helped. Highland’s supporters and fans, for she had both, could see the equipment, see her interaction, and the small scatterers they all wore now should prevent anyone seeing them clearly. The major risk would be a disgruntled employee, probably easy to stop, since the details of this event had not been promoted. It was unlikely anyone would blow up others to get her, though anything was possible.
“If you will all come this way,” the production manager said in reasonable English, “We can show Minister Highland the production floor. You will all need protective wear.”
Jason tapped his ear and said, “That’s covered, but we would appreciate head protection.”
“Of course.”
The hats were bump caps only, and Bart had to completely unfasten the tensioner to fit it on his head. He suspected most of the safety, and likely the security, was similar. Visible, but not substantive. That was notable.
As they walked along the floor, the workers paused and looked to see who the VIP was. Most of them wore basic coveralls, a few supervisors wore robes. It was probably as caste-ridden here as anywhere else they’d been, but it was harder to tell, except for the management in suits.
Most line workers seemed happy enough for either the distraction of the visit or the presence of the Minister. He didn’t foresee any serious threat.
A tiny window opened on his glasses. He reached up and made the slight adjustment that broadened it. It was a note from Jason and a news load, that showed a crowd gathering outside. It probably wasn’t JessieM’
s fault. The word would have gotten out anyway. Still, crowds were problematic at best. He wondered what their instructions would be, when Highland said to the work group, “It’s been very nice to talk to you, and I welcome your inputs. But I must reluctantly beg your indulgence for another meeting.”
Some of them understood the English, others waited for the interpreter.
They formed back around her, as much to protect her from adoration and delay as potential threats. He and Aramis took point, both as meat shields, and because Aramis had his own map, in case of any issues.
Roger Edge and the NCOIC of the military detail stood near the front door.
Edge said, “There’s a sizeable crowd out there. A hundred or more. Some are friendly, some antagonistic.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Highland said.
Bart thought that completely stupid. He glanced back at Alex.
Alex said, “Ma’am, that isn’t necessarily going to be positive. It depends on-”
“-on demographics,” she cut in. “I have some experience with this, Agent Marlow.”
“‘-so we’ll give you some space and be prepared if you need us,’ I was going to say,” he said.
“Very well.”
That established, Bart waited for the door, then led the entourage outside.
The exit was greeted with cheers and calls. The banners were mostly Arabic, though a couple looked Turkish, and one in English read, “Back to Earth with the Harlot of Babylon.” He had no idea what that was about. The crowd didn’t seem violent, but there were surges and ripples, and clutching hands from those closest to the police line. Three press people had cameras in a prime location, clearly having prepared for this eventuality, and Highland approached them. It might be okay. It certainly seemed routine to her and them.
“Thank you for coming out today,” she said into an offered mic, which was wired into a PA. “I’m glad to see my supporters, but I am also glad to see those with concerns and issues. This is the type of interest and activism we need, if we are to progress…”
This speech sounded much more earnest and productive than the canned platitudes inside. She might pull this off. He waited and watched his sector, though the police seemed to have most of the eager crowd controlled and restrained. Some of these people were aggravated, but none of them seemed violent enough for an immediate threat.
Then he heard a pistol shot.
Yes, one never could predict.
Elke heard the report. This time it was real gunfire. She identified it as a pistol, and swung her shotgun up as Shaman and Alex shoved a gawking Highland down the sidewalk and under the vehicle skirt. The principal was covered, so she dialed for recon, shot a round over the crowd, and ducked and rolled.
Three rounds had been fired so far. Bart was in the vehicle and sparking it. Aramis and Jason flanked her behind the shield, close together and spilling out. She drew back a bit so they could get friendlier, trusting on her earbuds to have correctly reported direction.
The crowd was in chaos, running in all directions. That was mostly good. They’d disrupt a gunman. However, they would also conceal him if he ran, as he probably was.
The image flashed up on her glasses and showed nothing useful in that small format. It did, however, show the local police well-mixed with the crowd and subduing apparently at random. Clicking off the image, she could see it live. They had stunners, obviously scaled up to maximum, old-fashioned batons, and boots. There were a lot of them.
A faint smile crossed her face while she scanned for active threats. This wouldn’t do Highland’s image any good at all. She wondered, in fact, if it were deliberate.
It had been an entire nine seconds since the shooting started, and Alex’s voice said, “Withdraw.”
She replied, “Babs moving,” and skittered back, with the shield between her and the last known threat direction.
She reached the skirt, swung behind the ladder’s plate and said, “Babs covering.” Jason acknowledged, rose to a crouch without using his hands, then did that silly-looking dance step to slip back, feet never leaving contact with the ground. Silly looking, but very effective.
“Argo covering.”
“Musketeer moving,” Aramis said, and bounded back holding the shield. They scurried up the ramp in turn, though Elke found herself very clumsy moving backward. The steps were serrated for traction, and caught on her boot sole pattern. She noted that for followup.
They boxed around Highland and coaxed her into the vehicle. As soon as they were inside, Bart engaged the drive and they rolled away, as another platoon of police arrived to break heads.
Elke shrugged to herself. She’d seen it in so many places she couldn’t keep track. The only difference was how the power was applied. In some places they used hands, fists, sticks and stunners. Some used incapacitance gas and blinding lights. If need be, they had stun fields and pain stimulators. In the nicest societies, it was all done with money and political power without the need for violence.
But the peasants were always kept in line.
As hirelings, they had many of the advantages of the upper castes, without most of the ties. It was a system that worked for her.
The cops here popped some kind of clear gas that emanated in shimmery waves. Ahead of it, people clutched at their faces. It seemed to be some kind of sulfide thiol that carried a tremendous stench, similar though less potent than their own variety. Then the cops waded in swinging sjambok style whips, using the stinging, flicking tips to herd people, slowly at first, but faster. A second echelon had stunners set to a strong tingle. They did seem trying to avoid actual injury.
Highland looked amused for just a moment, then started to protest, accompanied by mild histrionics. She obviously had no concern about troublemakers getting smacked. She only cared that she be seen as compassionate. There were truly two complete sides to her, and one was a pure facade.
Still, so far Ripple Creek wasn’t taking the blame, and Elke didn’t see a need to use any significant force.
Once seated, the woman took a breath and said, “Well, that was positive.”
Jessie said, “They weren’t a friendly crowd.”
“Not at all, but the imagery is good.”
That confirmed it for Elke. The woman craved headlines, and would manufacture them if there weren’t enough. However, that suggested a possibility.
“Ma’am, regarding the harassment incidents.”
Highland looked up, and looked curious. “Yes?”
“If we are able to completely destroy incoming devices, then there’s no way for the press to scale them. They will be reported only as potential explosive devices in our log.”
Alex was paying attention, but letting her take the discussion.
“That’s true,” Highland said. “Would you be able to report for my releases as to the level of danger?”
Yes, she would want to claim the points. “I can report the range of possibilities to your staff,” she said, indicating JessieM. “Our own files are kept secure unless officially requested.”
Highland twisted her brow and thought. Elke was offering the opportunity for them to exaggerate to the limits of feasibility, unhindered.
“That sounds worthwhile. If we only report the information, it’s up to the media how they interpret it. I know one or two who’d enjoy having their own experts comment.”
She looked over at Alex, who nodded.
“We can give you a properly phrased release after each mission. Please understand we will not be confirming it officially. It will be ‘based on information provided by her detail.’”
“That’s fair enough,” she said.
Alex gritted his teeth and Elke knew he was angry. To protect themselves, they were assisting this woman in her campaign, by fabricating a myth of her being heroic in stature, and an underdog in a power struggle. Somewhere between professionalism and duty to the team, detachment had gone for a raft trip down the rapids. Still, the compromise helped them do their jobs
with less hindrance. And all politicians lied.
Jason was frazzled when they delivered Highland back to the compound. It had been a long, bathroom-short day with little food, some borderline combat, and the media circus was in full swing. “Shots fired” had turned into “major battle around the Minister’s investigation,” though it was hard to tell if she’d exaggerated or the press had, and if the latter, from incompetence or bias. She certainly wasn’t going to dial them down, though, when she derived benefit.
To be fair, the team wasn’t going to issue any corrections either. They had no intention of giving intel to the enemy, and if it was perceived as a more dangerous event, that was good for their PR. Two could play that game.
In the armory, everyone cleared weapons, ran basic cleaning, and parked them. They slid off their file cards and Jason logged them into their secure archive. It was as uncrackable as they could make it, shielded, and never connected outside. Those records were for intel, legal protection, and, hypothetically, counter for anyone trying to blackmail them.
He counted weapons easily enough, accepted the tallies on rounds fired-recon and smoke for Elke, none for the rest. That was something else they had different from the troops. While their rules of engagement allowed looser fire, their discipline kept them down. Even the six of them were out-heavied by a mob. Never outclassed, though.
“When this is done we should hit the rec center. Fresh air without armor, and hot food among people will be good for us.”
“Concur,” Alex said.
Aramis said, “Yeah, as crappy as those pocket pastries are, I could use one right now.”
“There is no beer,” Bart lamented.
“Yeah, we’ll take the bad with the worse.”
Elke asked, “Casual uniform?” She had her blouse halfway off. She didn’t like being touched, but she was perfectly comfortable disrobing among her teammates. She had not a bad figure at all, too.
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