Better to Beg Forgiveness

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Will we need to crash through a gate?" Bart asked.

  "We might," Jason admitted. "And this will do it. Our biggest problem will be that, while weapons are legal to carry, what we'll have will definitely be attention-getting. And when they try to stop us, we're going to be blatantly obvious."

  Alex asked, "What is our legal position with UN personnel, vis-à-vis armed force and the law?"

  "There is a cutout there," Jason admitted. "Unless they are paid residents, they have no standing to appear in court. The station and the broadcaster both count as Corporate Persons and could bring charges for damages, but that's a harder case to prove. They'll want to be paid for damaged equipment. If we don't actually kill anyone, we're not too bad off. But a lot of their help are locals under contract with standing to sue."

  "Elke, dial the blasts down."

  "I will," she said. "But I want my protest officially filed with Corporate." She'd comply, but so far she'd been able to use an amazing amount of stuff that went bang. She wanted to finish the race that way.

  "I'm serious," Alex said. "And you watch it, too, Aramis."

  "Yeah, I'm allergic to being indentured. Can I stun someone heavily?"

  "Good idea at this point," Alex nodded. "Nonlethal force preferred, try to limit armed force to attention getting and cheap accessories—couches, walls, not cameras or stages."

  Jason said, "Okay, we have a good vehicle, we have three general targets. Our time frame is limited by our funds. I'd say we have a week at most to make things march."

  "So let's go back inside and work things out," Alex said.

  ****

  "Okay," Aramis said from one computer, which was netted to Jason's, hardwired for security, cable snaking between the desks. "We have a choice of ABCNN, NBCBS or AIMSN. AIMSN has a reputation of being antigovernment."

  "Sure, about five percent of the time," Jason said. "They're pretty much indistinguishable from this end."

  "Right, but I'd say we hit one of the progovernment stations so it'll have more impact," Alex suggested. He was surprised at how much information his people had on this subject.

  "I concur," Jason said. "Who's the most suckup?"

  "NBCBS. Who are, coincidentally, also the biggest fuckups on accuracy and have been hacked several times." There was no love lost between Alex and them, it seemed.

  "Hmm . . . perhaps ABCNN then. Didn't they have that story about—"

  "Yes," Aramis cut in. "Complete inside info and they paid cash for it. Of course, they're also the most antimilitary. So fucking them would give me a warm fuzzy feeling."

  "Would you like some lube?" Shaman chuckled.

  "No, I want it to hurt." Aramis sounded vicious. He must have been caught in one of their stories.

  "When is a good time?"

  "I dunno," Jason said. "I don't watch much video, and a lot of it's cryptic. You pick out a title."

  As the production schedule scrolled past, Elke said, "That one." A few moments later, Aramis said, "That one." Shaman spotted two.

  "All four are talk shows where losers are exploited for humiliation factor," Alex observed. "What a comment on our species."

  "On your culture," Jason said. "I'm not American anymore, and they're producing those strictly for the Earth market. They won't get much slice here."

  "Nor am I part of it," Elke added.

  "It is popular in Germany, but I am not fond of such," Bart said.

  "And Africa is full of enough real tragedy," Shaman said.

  "Likewise," Bal finished. "I believe it's for you." He indicated Aramis and Alex with a grin.

  "Do we want busy time of day, or late night?" Aramis asked. "Slow traffic, or lots of concealment?"

  "I'd say late night," Jason replied. "Less fight, less bystanders, people slower generally. Get in fast and do it."

  "And we need to make sure they've started and are live," Alex said. "I also need an ephemeris or whatever it's called on ship departures so we know we're getting some transfer."

  They settled on the popular Lewis Spaniel show, out on tour. Spaniel had stopped on Grainne for a session entitled, "I Moved Here for the Drugs and Hookers and Now I Need Help."

  "I'd think that was obvious," Elke snickered. "And here's yesterday's title. 'Teenagers Who Declared Themselves Adults to Become More Attractive to Older Men.' "

  "Are you sure we can't shoot him, the guests, and the audience?" Shaman asked, stepping back slightly as if distancing himself from a toxin. "This is rather foul."

  "Tempting, but no." Alex looked bothered by the titles. "He gets lower every time I'm forced to endure him."

  "But he has high ratings, likes doing live gigs for the 'rawness,' and there are five major ships in the pipe as he's on. They get the live feed, they record until they jump, and then dump it, and it's rebroadcast."

  "How many immediate viewers?" Bart asked. "Won't it be held for the slot and caught before then?"

  "In Sol space, definitely," Jason agreed. "But other colonies will have it on contract or syndication, and will find that one segment interesting. The point is to make enough noise to governments. The public viewers won't care, unless they see shooting on camera."

  "You keep encouraging me with talk like that," Aramis said. "I know, I know. Minimize collateral damage."

  "We need the vehicle," Alex said. "Cash. Body armor. Explosive. More ammo. Field medical kit needs updated. I want maps inside and out of the entire area, and maps for nearby buildings. Double-check on the ship departures and show schedule."

  "We should be fast, and pick a large audience," Bal said. "Popular shows, no matter how sordid, will give the visibility we need."

  "I still say we should wait," Shaman suggested.

  Alex shook his head. "No. Schlenker wants her money, her crew are going to drink and talk. She can't get back into UN space until we clear this up. Our departure has to have been noted. Another two days, tops, is all we have, and I don't think it's going to get any better. That show shoots in two days and we're on it. Jason, can your friend roll us and do it quietly?"

  "He can. I can access some funds too. I drew a new card at the bank."

  "Alex, that card is bound to be tagged," Elke said.

  "That card is tagged," he agreed. "Which is why I had my wife authorize a new one in the name of my backup ID, which I picked up at the Citizens' Building. I drew from her account, and I drew cash so as not to register any businesses they may catch."

  "Backup ID?" Aramis asked.

  "None of your business, kid," Jason grinned.

  "You didn't call your family, did you?" Aramis asked.

  That was a sore point, but a legitimate question.

  "As far as anyone knows, no," he replied. "We have signals set up for just such an emergency. Specifically, my first transaction was in an exact amount that tells her I'm alive and being discreet. So my family knows, but no overt contact was made." That was likely a good thing, as painful as it was. He was sure she'd be as ready to kill as he was, and that would have to wait.

  Chapter Thirty

  The plan, as always, started out well enough.

  "Two blocks, everyone stand ready," Alex said from the passenger seat. He felt really odd about doing a combat escort mission through the streets of a modern, prosperous city with no visible threats. Nevertheless, they had no idea what they were facing, and needed to be ready. Alex assumed all their preparation was overkill, and a few pointed pistols would acquire what they needed, or at least earn enough curiosity to get some support.

  He was also ready to use as much nonlethal force as necessary. If really necessary, they had two carbines, and Elke had a new shotgun and some explosives. She'd been joyous at finding the same model available, promised favors she couldn't be serious about to purchase it, and had taken it to bed with her to cuddle all night like a teddy bear. She might really need some therapy when this was over.

  Traffic was smooth. The streets were broad and well laid out in this city that had been designed from day on
e to be a national capital. That was advantageous. Alex reflected that if every city was like this, his business would be much easier. Of course, it would also be less profitable. Not that it was profitable at present, but he still had hopes.

  "We're blocked," Bart said. Alex looked to their left for the upcoming turn.

  "Shit."

  The ABCNN gate was closed, locked, and had guards posted. Behind them, the building stood as a long rectangular prism fitted against a large, low dome that held the studios and gear.

  "Someone knows we're coming," Jason said.

  "How?" Aramis shouted.

  "What do we do?" Bart asked.

  "We should abort and escape," Bishwanath said. "I am not worth this."

  "Shut up, Bal. Shut up, Aramis. We need a solution fast." Alex burst into sweat, pulse hammering.

  "What do I do?" Bart asked again. "I have seconds only."

  "Ram it," Elke said.

  "Concur," Jason agreed.

  "No time to reschedule. Blow the gate," Alex said, stomach churning. They were all going to die. "Aramis, you'll take the vehicle for your position."

  "Got it."

  "Yes, sir," Bart said.

  Bart drove almost past the gate before he suddenly swung across traffic and nailed the throttle. The Goliaphant used two very small turbines that, with lots of tweaks, spooled up quickly. He used one hand to lock the waste gate manually then powered in the start fluid in a steady flow. The vehicle was traveling close to a hundred kilometers per hour when it hit the gate.

  The bars burst, followed by the car's tires as the antientry spikes in the road deployed. Both guards dove aside but turned stunners on the vehicle as it passed. Most of the effect was grounded by the Goliaphant's cage, but Alex felt a tingle at least.

  "Straight for the door!" he shouted.

  "Ja," Bart replied. They bounced jarringly over a curb, threw dirt out of a flower bed, smacked a glancing blow off a tree, and bumped back down onto paved surface, shedding bits of tire and throwing sparks from the scandium alloy rims.

  Bart drove right through the entrance, window plastic shattering and flying in a cloud.

  "An antique drive-in theater!" Aramis shouted.

  "Move!" Alex shouted and kicked the door.

  Six people in suits jumped out feet first and advanced as a block. Aramis, still partially disabled, stayed back with the vehicle. His job was to be a distraction.

  Alex led the rest. They needed to get further inside fast. They wore typical Earth-style suits. They carried large bags. No one watching by camera or from a security box should trigger on any of it. Once inside, they were just suits in a studio, the ultimate in camouflage.

  "Spread out slightly," Alex muttered, glancing toward Jason and grinning, as if holding a normal conversation. It wouldn't do to look like a pack of goons. He pushed open the door to the main office hallway, which was directly in line with the actual studios at the rear. Those were the doors ahead, at the far end. It was working!

  "So, there we were, and I had to wonder what the heck he was talking about, I mean . . ." the meaningless fake conversation was easy. Just pick some event and start jabbering. Thirty meters to the door. Keep walking. So far, so good. Once through that door, they would use persuasion or guns to make people listen to Bal on camera, with ships recording it at light-speed before they jumped system and spread the word.

  Jason's reply to his conversation, however, threw a wrench in the works.

  "That can't be . . ."

  Alex looked toward the door casually and let his gaze linger. Oh, shit. "It is."

  One of the rent-a-cops at the door was familiar. He was a Recon sergeant from Celadon.

  And the supervisor behind him was another one.

  "Aw, shit," Jason muttered.

  "Cover Bal, Bart, go," Alex said.

  The man didn't have to be told twice. He and Shaman were both off at a sprint, literal cannon fodder to attempt to ground any stun charges thrown Bal's way.

  "We'll abort if we have to. Going through hard," Alex decided aloud. "Elke, would you be a dear?"

  Her only reply was to flick her hands forward, which was followed by cracks and poppling sounds behind the two running mercs that escalated with each move until serious bangs were shaking the air and side doors.

  And Bart pulled out a carbine.

  "Goddamit, no!" Alex said, as Shaman followed Bart's lead.

  The two Recon troops were reaching for their own weapons, but jerked when hit, their armor going hard. Then they started moving again, stiffly, as it started to relax.

  And the two contractors shot again and again as the others ran up behind in a hurry.

  "Gun," Bart demanded, holding out a hand. Elke shifted just enough, the cacophony of explosions slackening as she drew her pistol and flipped it over. Jason pulled his out and tossed it to Shaman.

  Balls out, Alex decided, sighing but also relieved. Shooting he understood. He put a burst toward the nearest local guard, who was rapidly moving and would certainly be calling for backup. The burst was toward, not at. He couldn't kill the man. Legality aside, the guy had been decent.

  Then they were through, as Bart and Shaman kept the two soldiers pinned in place, able to make only slow, jerky movements as their knee-to-neck armor seized up with every impact. Of course, the practical limit on that was ammo. While they were partially immobilized, Elke and Jason were able to get close enough to stun them with batons, and then Shaman whipped out an injector. In the moment before he passed by, Alex could see a very disgusted look frozen on one soldier's face.

  Smooth. Very smooth. Nothing could go this smooth without a serious problem just waiting to crash down on them. Just how big a force was inside? Would it be wise to abort? But it was obvious their cover was blown . . . how thoroughly?

  No, if this message were to work, it was now or not at all.

  The Recon squad, assuming it was one squad, was twelve. Two were down. Likely, each entrance would have a couple inside behind the locals, so they would either be arriving in pairs or waiting to attack en masse. The longer it took for a response, the bigger and more effective that response would be. Nor was there any way to intercept it. This had to go fast. The main doors had to be guarded, so going through them would create a brief disturbance ended by stunners, on a show famous for such events. They'd put the team down and fix it in the mix.

  "Jason, keep me warned on threats. Escalate if you have to, but we're still trying to pull this off. Bal, down this hall."

  Elke and Bart came past at a sprint. Elke had doffed her jacket and looked very female in a suit shirt, even with body armor underneath. Her bag was empty on the floor and she carried her shotgun slung right, demo bag left. Bart had ditched his and the tie, and he was wearing his bag on his back now. That made sense. With cover blown, there was less reason not to look military. Behind them were more explosions, seconds apart, designed to slow any pursuit; professionals would quickly deduce they weren't a serious threat. And the prohibition against bullets, Alex remembered, was one way. They were the armed intruders.

  Gas started billowing. It was normal tear gas with a smoke screen, not a nasty incapacitance agent. Still, they'd expected a few civilian guards with minimal gear, not a couple of squads of professionals. Everyone was on to them.

  Elke turned to the left and blew a locked door open with a shotgun blast straight through the bolt. Bart and Shaman took up position as Jason and Alex urged Bal through with Alex leading. He went cross-eyed looking for threats, but this was a detour and thus should be less well defended. Of course, they had to get back en route . . .

  Bart kicked in another door which revealed an office of some sort. Two occupants, male and female. He stunned them both and then swung around to use a wrecking bar from his bag to shatter the polymer panel that was the opposite wall so he could kick through it. It splintered and left jagged edges to be avoided.

  Luckily, no one had been in the hallway behind it.

  "Up the stairs," Ba
rt said and led the way up and to the right.

  "Dammit, no, we need to stay . . ." Too late. The only thing worse than going the wrong way would be to split up, so Alex followed. This was not getting any easier. They were truly fucked. Oh, well, at least if they pushed for trial here, they could serve out sentences doing labor on a frontier world instead of in a UN jail in France.

  There were definite sounds of pursuit behind them now. Though the level of shouting seemed to indicate local hires, not military professionals. Jason seemed to have been correct. No respectable Grainnean veteran took a security job that didn't allow him to be armed. The response was slow and not very coordinated, so far. That would change with Weilhung's unit in the mix.

  Bal was just about being carried. While not in bad shape for his age, he was worn a bit ragged from the ordeal of the last few weeks, and not nearly in the shape of the younger troops. His feet banged over steps, but he never quite tripped. Bart and Elke lugged him, with Jason switching off as they were needed for specialty tasks.

  Then they were up, with people pouring out of executive offices to see what the disturbance was. It was getting crowded, even though anyone with any brains should be running away.

  There was some hesitation about the armed intruders, but locals were used to armed guards in suits and weren't instinctively flinching. The Earthies were following that cultural lead. If the locals weren't scared, there wasn't a problem, was there?

  The sounds of pursuit increased, and there was a tinge of tear gas to the air, drifting up. The good news was that that reaction served to create more panic behind. But this crowd was parting out of courtesy, not from fear.

  Jason shouted, "Folks, this is a fire drill. Please vacate the building. This is a fire drill."

  One intern type in a suit with his hair cut in a skunk mohawk and his forehead tattooed in knotwork gave a typical sarcastic, you-want-me-to-do-what? look.

  "Fire drill? Right," he said.

  Elke tossed something at his feet that whoofed into a ball of burning liquid and spread into a half-meter circle on the carpet, almost engulfing his feet.