Better to Beg Forgiveness

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Oh, them." Aramis sounded disgusted.

  "Yeah, them," Jason said. "But even though they're not well paid and don't have high standards, we can hope the reality of this place makes them alert."

  "I doubt it," Alex said. "They're local hires." Aramis was right to sound annoyed.

  "Ohhh, shit." Jason sagged back on the couch. He kept switching from confident to cynical. His worldview was being challenged.

  "Yup. Both Weilhung and Corporate have complaints in about that. Maybe it will get somewhere. Hopefully we, meaning him, will get to vet them. Dunno. Just assume everything is a threat. Also remember, we're civil guards."

  "Meaning what in this case?" Aramis asked.

  Shaman grinned hugely, clapped him on the shoulder, and boomed, "Meaning we have to wear suits and look 'professional,' not helmets and hard clamshells."

  Aramis didn't say anything. He just shared a look with everyone else.

  "Yup," Alex said. "We look like suits. Soft impact armor underneath."

  "Issue with that," Elke said.

  "We all have issues with that, but go ahead," Alex said, looking at her.

  "Do we have armor tailored for females, so I don't look like I'm stuffed in a sack and obviously wearing? Or should I wear it oversized, chop my hair, put on my shades, and look like a young male?"

  "Good question. I'll find out. I'm not sure about tailoring it once it arrives."

  "That's my concern, yes," she said. One didn't just sew ballistic armor. Then, the cooling vest she wore underneath would have to be adjusted. Both modifications took special tools. Aerospace Force likely had some along. The Army was supposed to, but that was a long bet.

  "The other concern is that any female family members or guests of Bishwanath will have to have you as an escort everywhere, including the bathroom. You're also the only female. That means you'll be alone in threat zones."

  "I'll go in. Stick Anderson outside the door. He's young enough to pass as a girl."

  "Hey! I—"

  "Can it, both of you," Alex said. While the kid brought it on himself, they were all determined to throw it back at him, hard. He needed to perform well in his first few engagements and they'd leave him alone. Until then, the hazing would continue.

  There were nods, and they gathered around the maps. The holosheets showed buildings and terrain, as well as the flat features of roads. Controls allowed traffic flow to appear, approximating what had been last recorded. There were a lot of buildings and vehicles. Few of them were intact or operational.

  "This place is regressing fast," Jason said.

  "About like Liberia or Cameroon twenty years ago," Shaman said. "And it's an older story than that. War interrupts development, scavenging starts, it turns into a cycle. Only outside help can do anything at that point."

  "And then there's who wants Bishwanath dead," Bart said.

  "Everybody," Elke offered.

  "Pretty much. Everyone except the Bishwanath clan."

  "There's one other problem," Alex said. "Having to deal with the military. Regs aside, it's the bureaucracy. It can take weeks to get anything resolved. We'll have hours at best to deal with threats, possibly seconds.

  "We'll have him secure here and we're backup to them, we move him where he needs to go, military keeps the perimeter secure, we bring him back. Those exchanges from military control to us are going to be where he's got the most protection and the most exposure, and some idiot arguing about precedence or jurisdiction to screw the works. Then there's the cops . . ."

  "And BuState," Jason said.

  "Yes. They want everything done diplomatically. You can't use diplomacy on an illiterate peasant with a rifle, unless you define 'diplomacy' as 'shoot him.' "

  "I have my explosives," Elke offered. "If there's too much talk and not enough action, I can 'create a diversion' as they say, so we can snatch control again."

  Alex just stared at her.

  "Elke, that's outrageous, insane, and even the suggestion could get you charged with terrorism."

  "Sorry, sir," she said. She looked depressed. He still wasn't sure if that was an act or if she really liked explosives that much.

  "Don't be. It's brilliant. We're debating with the dips, there's a bang, we toss a 'fuck you' over the shoulder as we head for the car. I like it. But you have to be totally discreet or we'll get burned. Use it as a backup measure only."

  "I can have a charge ready to go and leave it somewhere on-site. We only need to detonate it if there's a problem."

  "Is that workable?"

  "It means wasting explosive I don't get to blow." She pouted, looking put upon. "And if . . . when . . . anyone else finds them, they'll report it as a potential threat and terrorism."

  "That keeps us employed. Even better," Bart commented. "More threats."

  "As long as they don't trace it back to Elke . . . ?" He looked at her.

  "I will use locally obtained materials," she said.

  "Oh? What do you have?"

  "I will tell you that when I obtain some," she said with a confident smile.

  "Okay," he took a moment to digest that. Her wit was very dry. "What other diversions and arguments can we have ready for this crap?" Alex asked.

  ****

  Elsewhere, a parallel discussion about interacting was taking place. Lee Weilhung was forced to be an observer. He tried not to speak.

  Colonel Weygandt would have been a smoker in an earlier time. Instead, he fidgeted with a pen. Since this wasn't his desk, he couldn't shuffle ripsheets or fiddle with the computer.

  "The Army does fine, why do we need them?" he asked. Which "them" he meant was clear from inflection.

  In reply, Colonel Kieso tiredly said, "The Army relies on large numbers of people in organized but inefficient groups to accomplish big goals in a messy fashion. These people are precise and discreet and experts at close-in security. Unless you want to borrow some experts from General Kell's security detail?"

  " 'Discreet'?" Weygandt asked, voice raised. "We have four complaints already, including one weapons theft." He was pacing, too.

  "Which was returned." Kieso didn't leave his desk. He'd been at this too long to be surprised or bothered. "And should have been coded to avoid outside use." Weilhung heard the hint that too tight an adherence to regs would bite them in the ass. Weygandt didn't seem to get it.

  "I'd be inclined to forget that, sir," Weilhung advised, sticking his neck out. "If word gets out that our soldiers can't hang onto their grenade launchers, and that the coding has been disabled, and that a contractor took control of the weapon for combat operations, well . . . you'll have a lot more work, Colonel."

  "Yes, you make sense, but I've still got an incident report to write up even without that," Weygandt groused. It was his sorry lot to explain all the discrepancies in this operation, and hand them, as appropriate, to public affairs, the MPs, or the legal office.

  "Look," Kieso snapped, "we have contractors all over the place. Admin. Services. Construction. Rebuilding. Perimeter security. Executive protection. Deal with it."

  "Oh, I will."

  Yes, he'd deal with it, Weilhung could tell. The proper reports and evidence through the proper Assemblyperson's office would deal with it. Never piss off a lawyer, he thought.

  "And what do you think, Major Weilhung?"

  Weilhung had managed to get discreetly back in the corner again, and at mention of him, Weygandt twitched slightly. Weilhung smiled to himself. Lots of intel was gained just from watching and listening when nothing blatant was being discussed.

  "I think they seem professional, I know some of them by reputation, and I'll work with them as called for. There's always friction between military and BuState, contractors and soldiers."

  "Well, Major, I respect your professionalism. Do please keep an eye peeled. If any of them do anything we can call them on, I intend to pull the contract and have them off planet at once. Your people can take over. People in the chain of command."

  People you
think you can shove around, Weilhung thought. Not on my watch, asshole.

  "I advise against that, sir," he said. "They're on the same side. Tactics like that could make them not. Then we'd have trouble. Our goal here is to keep the President healthy to settle things down, not have jurisdictional disputes. It takes a thick skin at times." And you, you fucking bureaucrat in uniform, don't have what it takes.

  "I'm not talking about a jurisdictional dispute. Army and Marines have jurisdictional disputes. UN and national forces have jurisdictional disputes. I'm talking about fucking civilians taking orders from those BuState whining socialists stepping into a military venue." Weygandt was bent out of shape over an incident that in retrospect was quite minor. That said to Weilhung that he was unsuited for any command. Likely why he was handling legal issues.

  At the same time, the audacity of taking a loaded weapon from a troop, then handing it back was impressive and troublesome. Certainly, you did what you had to in a fight. Still, to even consider that method showed an extreme arrogance and lack of respect for the soldiers in question.

  "I'll keep an eye out, sir," he said. For my reasons, not yours.

  But, while he respected the professional capabilities of the EP team, he did not trust them completely. Regardless of contracts, they were not bound to the military system the way he was. They could always play BuState off against MilBu, and use Bishwanath for pull. Weilhung could do that, too, but he'd still be accountable to the military after he left here, and to the same officers. And he had less access to Bishwanath. So he could bend the rules a little and be okay. The contractors could just say "fuck you" and do as they wished, if enough money or power was at stake. Weilhung had no doubt they'd do so to save Bishwanath or themselves, and leave him out to hang.

  Weygandt and Keiso were hashing something out. He headed back to the palace as soon as he made eye contact with the colonel and received a nod of dismissal. He wanted those sensors in place now, so he could track those jerks, as well as potential threats.

  The military had problems. The civilians had problems. Put both together, and the advantages disappeared to leave just the problems.

  ****

  Doug deWitt didn't like his putative boss. He knew that was mutual. DeWitt had been here for two years, from when it was just a nowhere place, a colony that was failing into subsidized poverty. His suggestions had been ignored then. Now it was the center of a small war and a gross inconvenience to this sector of space, and he was still being ignored. LeMieure had rolled in here fresh from a SecGen appointment, with neither experience nor professional credentials in any related field. There were a number like that who were all either in BuState supervisory positions or diplomatic positions. Certainly there was always some of that, but it was getting out of hand.

  He also wasn't sure why the cretin was up this early. His reputation was for sleeping in late. He did know he didn't like sitting here blinking himself awake with coffee, wearing the same scratchy shirt as late last night, and having to explain information he'd already forwarded as text, video, and slide.

  Calm.

  "So, what do you think of the 'contractors'?" leMieure asked.

  DeWitt shrugged, trying to be noncommittal and relaxed. That's my favorite chair you're sweating into, you troll. LeMieure smelled even from here. He was sour, stale, and not generally pleasant. In lieu of a suit or sweater, he wore cheap slacks and a turtleneck. Comfortable, certainly, but not how a professional presented himself to other professionals.

  He finally replied, "They have excellent credentials on paper, and the company guarantees their work. They have teams here already under DA Massa. He gave me dossiers on them."

  "Dossiers? Why didn't I get dossiers?"

  As soon as leMieure said that, and started sounding petulant, deWitt knew it had been a mistake to mention it.

  "I'll see about getting them sent back so you can look at them, sir," he lied. They'd been destroyed, and were on a need-to-know basis. So far, BuState, the military, RC, and deWitt had not seen a need for leMieure to know. He wasn't career service, he hadn't been checked, and was a known loudmouth and liar. Even if deWitt didn't care about revealing data on the team, they wouldn't appreciate it, and he had to work with their liaison and various other contractors.

  "Good," leMieure said while rubbing his shaggy chin. "I need to know about these people. I don't understand how they think or why they do what they do." He looked agitated, almost scared.

  Likely, deWitt thought, because that was one of the few things this man had ever said that was true.

  Of course, not giving the man the information he wanted was going to continue that problem. DeWitt wouldn't trust him to properly blow the lid off a story he wanted publicized. Keeping secrets was out of the question, especially as he was already working on an "inside" docufantasy.

  DeWitt sighed. Nothing was making his job easier, and there were going to be more problems.

  Chapter Four

  That next morning, ready to start their nonroutine schedule, Alex entered the common room after his briefing by secure vid with the higher-ups. He was tired already.

  "Okay, we have another issue. . . ." He paused automatically, knowing there'd be groans. He waited while they tapered off. "BuState demands we make an attempt of nonlethal force."

  He paused again. They noticed the box under his arm, of course.

  "It's not that bad, guys. I spoke at length with a Mister Doug deWitt, and this is largely a public image issue. They want the appearance that we're ready to use nonlethal force, and if it turns out it's not possible, we can shoot the skinnies the way we should anyway."

  "Yeah, but that image can get us killed," Jason said. "What happens when we're busy putting on a show while someone uses real firepower?"

  "Gotcha covered," Alex nodded and grinned. They were going to love this.

  He popped open the box and pulled out the baton.

  "This comes from a company that specializes in police 'tactical' products. Corporate told them what our requirements were, and they came up with this, and I, personally, like it."

  He raised the device, pointed it at Aramis, and gave him a moment to prepare, then pressed the button. The resulting flash was bright enough to overbear the daylight for a moment, and Aramis recoiled.

  "Goddam!" he shouted.

  "Yup," Alex agreed. "Two thousand lumens. In less than full daylight it'll stun someone to the ground. It's also a solid chunk of high-density polymer that can crush pipe," he said as he leaned into the kitchenette and cracked it hard against the worktable. Pieces flew. Not from the baton. "In case you need to hit someone. You'll notice the bulb end is serrated, so if someone tries to grab it they'll slice their hand up. You can also jab with that and then press again." He did so and an arc crackled between the crenellations. "If you have to, you can aim it—" He chose Elke this time, who stiffened slightly but nodded as he continued. "—and press." The stun function zapped and made her twitch in her chair, eyes rolling back for a moment before she shook her head woozily and recovered.

  Into the appreciative silence he said, "And that's as nonlethal as I plan to get, thank you." He took another swing at the bench and left a depression in the slick polymer.

  "So after we light them up and zap them, can we juice 'em a second time and then crush their skull?" Aramis asked. He seemed eager to try the concept.

  "I believe that would constitute excessive force," Alex said. "We just want to be able to say we tried. Just be glad we have Mister deWitt at BuState. He's slightly to the right of Genghis Khan. How he got a job with those fluffy bunnies I don't know, but we'll take it."

  "We have a schedule yet?" Aramis asked.

  "Yes, we're escorting the President to make his introductory speech in four hours. Both the military and I suggested he do so from his office by camera. No go. He has to be in public." He didn't mention the argument he'd had over their weapons.

  "Is the military coming along?" Elke asked.

  "Yes, Elke. Th
ey have outer perimeter, we have up close. So our lives depend on them doing their job right." There were groans.

  "At least they're Recon and not just maggots," Jason said.

  Aramis was clearly getting ticked at the comments thrown back at him. "Jason, just what the fuck did you do in the military?" he asked with a stare.

  "Knuckle dragging engineer, son. I dug the holes for us to die in." His own stare was confident and arrogant without being cocky. He was too experienced to be twitted, and seemed to like the sparring. "I knew my job and yours."

  Aramis didn't respond. Any response would escalate things and get nowhere.

  Alex did nothing, but waited to see if it would die there. It did.

  "Recon is good, has a mission, and is keen on doing it. That's the best we can hope for. We're taking two vehicles for us, and will be together. I plan on fifth and sixth position on the way there; we'll randomize on the way back. First two cars will look like the official ones and have goons. Next two are Recon. Then us. Then more Recon.

  "Any armor or real military vehicles in there?" Bart asked.

  "Nope, this is a civilian mission. We'll all be in civvies. Body armor underneath, no helmets once we arrive."

  "What is with helmets anyway?" Bart asked. "If we are being discreet, we can't wear them. If we are in public, we can't wear them. Needless weight."

  "Well, just in case we do find a need, we have them," Alex said. "I won't require anyone to wear them, but do have them here. Elke, does that modified armor fit?"

  "I'm wearing it now," she said. "And I still look like a girl. Though I would like a higher neckline, even under a suit."

  "Is it a problem?"

  "No, just personal choice in coverage. This will work. I have three small distractions in my pockets," she said, and slipped one out. It was a flat packet in the palm of her hand.

  "A candy bar?" Jason asked.

  "It was at one time, and it was delicious. Now it will give you heartburn," she smiled.

  "That tiny thing?" Aramis asked, incredulous.

  "This tiny thing," she confirmed, "will remove a limb within a meter. Bright flash. Loud bang. Much smoke. I have another that will bounce across the floor and make four small detonations mimicking mortar fire, and one other that is just a tremendous flash. We will take suntan from it."