Do Unto Others-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Really? Let's take a look then." Jason wasn't convinced, but he wasn't going to call a man he had to work with a liar without checking things out, either.

  Crandall gestured for Jason to follow, climbed into a buggy, and drove over the hillcrest and down to the western end of the property. He pulled up along a matted wall of growth.

  Jason whistled as he got out. This "hedgerow" was pretty robust. They were what he'd call trash trees, planted perhaps three to a meter without a break, in three rows. About a half meter up, they were notched, bent and had grown into their neighbors, and a half meter above that, notched and bent back. The protruding limbs were trimmed, but the rear limbs grew into a tangled mess with the unmanaged middle row, along with those from the back half of the same growth. It was a near solid mass of wood and debris a meter thick, full of spikes, thorns, nettles, god knew what else, bugs, rot . . . a kilometers long dreadlock of plantlife. No one was going to cut through that without a power saw, a dozer or explosives, and it wasn't likely much that was man portable would shoot through it, with the shifting densities of dirt, damp timber, weeds and decay.

  "I'm convinced," he said. It must have taken decades to grow this wall, but it was completely eco friendly, required no building permits, was hard for anyone to complain about, and cost little. It didn't even really require maintenance. The less it was maintained, the better.

  "We've been doing this for a few years in Wales," Crandall said with a smile. "A few thousand."

  "You should be proud. That's an elegant and brilliant defense."

  "Thank you."

  The drove back to the house, and he admired the hedge until it was out of sight.

  Back at the house, he cornered Elke.

  "The hedgerows are very secure."

  "They are," she agreed.

  "Can you prepare something in case we need to cut out?"

  "Of course. I have."

  "Please don't install any devices unless you are specifically asked."

  "We will never become lovers with an attitude like that," she replied with a bit of a grin masking a hint of annoyance.

  "It's a sacrifice I'll have to make for the sensibilities of legions of bureaucrats who would otherwise suffer damage to their orderly worlds."

  "They don't care about you the way I do," she replied, with an almost convincing glint.

  "But you'll comply?"

  "I will," she said. "Consider my protests to be automatic on matters like this."

  If only all their disputes could be resolved so calmly, he thought.

  He was back out again a few hours later to show the facilities team around.

  Cady's team would normally have arrived first, but they'd first done Bryan's office and Caron's flat. Jason met her as she arrived, and her team spread out with more sensors and detection gear. He gave her a summary tour of their work so far.

  She said, "The hedges are very secure. We have a good clear field of fire, too."

  "I'm so glad they can't hear you say that."

  Cady giggled. He always found that a little creepy. Yes, her chromosomes had been mixed up at birth, and she was a good looking woman . . . but that just made knowing she'd been born male that much more awkward. Culturally and legally it wasn't a problem. Personally, though, it was still something unusual. More with various religions still making an issue of it.

  That aside, there were eighteen of them on this assignment, plus an open order for backup if they needed it. Eighteen operators on 24/7 was . . . a lot of money. More than some professionals made in a year, per day.

  Aramis was almost certainly correct. At some point, they were going to have to earn it.

  Chapter 3

  Horace woke to his alarm. That was good. It meant nothing untoward had happened that night. He stretched, worked out a few knots, and made use of a very nice bathroom. Then he performed his 80 pushups for the morning and, with slightly elevated pulse and respiration, made his way downstairs. Jason was on watch, as usual. The man liked late hours, and Grainne's long day made it easy for him to take rotating shifts. It was just 0500 and dawning as Horace walked in and nodded.

  "Nothing to report," Jason said. "It's quiet, it's a very nice house, and Elke is sulking because I wouldn't let her mine the stairs this time."

  "Understood," Horace agreed. They were a quirky team, but they were a very good team.

  Elke could be heard on the stairs right then. He recognized her tread. She hopped down the last few, lit lightly facing them, and spoke.

  "I will be printing a form protest I can datestamp and issue each time I am bound by such cuddly rules. I was hired for my expertise in explosives. Refusing permission to use them creates a hostile working environment."

  Jason grinned widely. "Good morning to you too, dear."

  Horace studied her. She wasn't actually offended, he was sure, but certainly disappointed. She really did love her explosives, and setting them. The problem came afterward. If Elke had a device, she expected to use it. She never seemed truly happy unless there was a rain of rubble, twisted girders and a sharp overpressure wave. Some shooters liked recoil. Some people liked hot food. Elke liked explosions.

  There was a knock at the door from the service area—kitchen, pantry, maintenance, and the morning chef pushed her way carefully in with a tray of pastries. Horace untensed and moved his hand from his holster. He could tell Jason did, too, though the man was very subtle. Elke was stonefaced as usual. She was wearing a casual shirt and slacks, with a baton readily visible on a shoulder sling under her left arm. He was positive she had a firearm somewhere. They all did, rules be damned. Jason's was a reliable, inexpensive little pocket piece. His own was a relic from the last war in Cameroon, with unknown pedigree and rather ugly, but the Serbians had made reliable stuff for centuries.

  Jason eyed the cart of food and nodded, "Thank you."

  "You're most welcome, gentlemen and lady," the chef said. Joanne? Yes, Joanne Malloy Crandall. She violated the rule of not trusting skinny cooks. She was lithe and well kept for her 50ish age, and an amazing cook, they'd found out in less than two days.

  A buzz on the commo indicated Bart on his way down, with Miss Prescot. That was early. Though Horace recalled she'd retired around 2100. He stepped over and took a china cup of coffee, and added real cream and a single spoon of raw sugar, and a cheese danish. He didn't care much for sweets, and these pastries were mild enough to suit him. Jason took nothing; he never ate early, and not before sleeping, which he was about to do. He handed the logscreen over to Horace and politely excused himself.

  Bart and Caron came down, and she immediately focused on the cart.

  "Oh, thank you, Chris. Your timing is perfect."

  "I try, miss," the chef smiled. "There are scones in the warmer."

  "Excellent."

  "These beignets are really good," Elke said around a polite mouthful. She'd already conducted a tactical raid on the cart. "They're made here?"

  "Oh, we have those expressed in from a bakery in the French Quarter in New Orleans. I can find the name for you if you like."

  Horace choked on his coffee. Her casual comment defined the gulf between them.

  Elke said, "That's fine. I'll just enjoy them here."

  Horace wondered if his coffee had been handpicked the day before by Indonesian virgins, before being roasted over mesquite grown in the Sierra Nevadas, then flown in and prepared by Irish monks. In some ways, the Prescots were very down to earth. In others, so far beyond anyone he'd ever guarded.

  Horace waited with Bart and Aramis for Miss Caron to come down to the carriage house, as it was called. "Garage" was more accurate, but didn't do it justice.

  They stood next to one of the family's limos, a brand new one from Bentley, in a rich, subtle cognac metallic finish.

  Bart looked it over and said, "I have not driven this model in three years. It is much nicer now."

  Elke and Jason were with her. Alex was already at her apartment giving it another once over. That
made several once overs.

  Caron came in followed by the two others, her bags ready for school. She had one long garment bag and two smaller ones, which seemed quite reasonable, really. Of course, she had other stuff waiting for her.

  Bart climbed in the driver's compartment. Horace held the door as Jason entered first, then Miss Caron, then Elke, then Aramis, then himself.

  He'd only seen the vehicles from outside. Inside was surreal.

  Caron sat at a desk, and opened a slate and a comm both, to work on her classes. There were directional lamps everywhere. The upholstery was a velvet that was almost fleece, accentuated with leather.

  There was a refrigerator with cold cuts and fruit that rolled out from under the coffee table, that had recesses for cups and glasses. A glass rack was along one side. The other side was a low temperature oven, not in use, but that could hold a rack of lamb or a roast.

  Two seats rolled out to beds . . .

  The air expressed beignets were probably in here somewhere, too, he assumed.

  Still, Bentleys had real armor plating, and it seemed to have a good, low center of gravity. It was electric only, but had plenty of capacity. And really, what was wrong with traveling in style?

  As they rolled out, two other vehicles went with them, and parted ways within a few kilometers. Garrick Crandall and Ewan Hale were in one, one of Cady's team in the other. Straightforward distraction against anyone observing departure.

  "I have two stops on the way," Caron announced.

  "Very well, yes?" Alex replied.

  "Just a couple of items to check at shops. Is that okay?"

  Horace thought it probably wasn't. However, the risk was likely minimal and she'd need time to get used to detailed security. Alex would agree.

  He did, though he looked slightly put upon.

  Both stores were in a small town not far from, and en route, to the university.

  The locals probably knew something was up, with a flashy car and a block of people moving en masse. Caron picked up some specialty food at a shop, then walked two doors down for a Syrian handbag she liked.

  It was slightly inconvenient, but they were paid to help her keep some semblance of normality. Aramis wasn't one for shops, but he knew a lot of people, women especially, preferred hands on. Well, he did too at times. He did that at industry shows where he could test fire stuff. Clothes, he measured and ordered, except his dress suits. Then there was . . .

  Okay, it made sense in a lot of ways, and these were personal items. Not that it mattered. Their job was to escort her.

  She paid, thanked the storekeeper, an elderly Welsh woman who looked a bit confused at the five "friends" escorting the young lady, and they headed back out into the street in a block.

  A young man shouted, "Hey, miss!" and sprinted toward them. A loud bang echoed off the walls.

  It might be completely innocent, and it might be an attack in progress.

  Elke shoved Caron sideways toward the car. Shaman moved in toward the rear, Jason toward the front. Aramis already had the door open, and Elke shoved her principal down and in. Caron sat heavily and the team tumbled in around her.

  In seconds, the two men ran hands over torso, limbs and up to her head.

  "Ayyahh!" she yelped.

  Jason said, "Sorry. Got to check for injuries. It's strictly professional. You're fine as far as I can tell."

  "Well, warn a girl in future," she grinned in relief. "It was almost a good time. And of course I'm fine."

  Then she got serious. "Was there actually a threat?"

  "Unknown," Elke said. She had her phone live and her fliptop open, scanning something. "Probably not, but we're not paid to take risks, only to protect you."

  Jason was scanning his own gear. He said, "I show nothing. If it was a snatch, there's no commo."

  "No readings here, either," Elke said. "Likely just an admirer. I've dumped the data to the police for archive. I doubt they'll follow this, but if another event happens we can document a pattern."

  Bart asked "Where to, then?"

  "Move us to a different route and come in from the side."

  "I can do that," he agreed.

  Elke ran through her system. "Audio analysis is the bang was a turbine intake catching a spark. It seems to be that older truck two spaces back. I'm amazed it hasn't been converted to the new electric yet."

  Alex said, "So no apparent actual threat. Cady confirms alert, no obvious hostiles in area. They'll be watching the garage entrance."

  Horace said, "Miss Caron, we'll pat you down any time there's a possibility of injury. Damage often doesn't show, and isn't felt. You did well. You relaxed, we moved you to safety, and vacated the area. That's our standard response."

  She blushed. "I didn't even have time to respond. I saw the bloke running, and then you shoved me into the car. Sorry."

  Jason said, "Don't apologize. That was fine, and what you should do. I'm guessing he recognized you and wanted to talk. The explosion was coincidental, it seems. However, we'd still have stopped him, and hurried you into the car, in case he was a distraction. Anyone wanting to see you needs an appointment from now on, I'm afraid."

  She nodded.

  "I have had random strangers try to socialize. Most mean well. Some want a favor or money. It's embarrassing at times and a bit awkward."

  Jason said, "You're probably going to get more of that, money being what it is. There's really no good way to avoid it without looking unkind."

  A few minutes later they drove into the dark, guarded cave of the garage. The fell out in formation, Caron seemed a bit more relaxed and took her position, and they walked her upstairs.

  Caron found it embarrassing to have this much attention. She understood the possibility of trouble, but the money tied up in protecting her was more than her apartment several times over, and the apartment was decadent.

  As she stepped out of the car, the four main goons fell in around her with Horace and Alex out front. She had to admit that Aramis was quite the toned raff. Bart wasn't unattractive, though a bit too rugged, but that body . . . Jason and Horace and Alex were all quite distinguished and interesting. Even Elke was an attractive and well-toned woman. The fitness obviously came with the job. So here they were, a wall of flesh around her, keeping her safe from the world.

  Alex walked ahead into the lobby, exchanged words with someone in a work coverall, and nodded. They swept past, while a few passersby looked quizzical. She blushed.

  Another in the same coverall held the elevator door. They crowded in, her in the middle of a square, and went up, silently. Yet another uniform them on her floor, and two more were at her door. They looked like janitors, except they were too fit, alert, clean cut and intelligent looking for typical janitors. Then she was inside and the door closed.

  "You are secure, Miss," Alex said. "We've swept for bugs, threats, anything out of the ordinary."

  She sighed. Her last semester, which should be a fun time when not buried in studies. Instead, it was going to be an emotional chore.

  "What is our schedule, how will we move?" she asked, avoiding looking at her flat.

  Alex said, "Much of that will be held close until the last moment. We'll vary your departure time by several minutes, it's all we can really manage. Two of us will go with you. Spontaneous trips are fine; they're harder to predict. We have the adjoining apartment and those doors connect to it."

  She'd seen the doors and figured that was what they were for. Dammit, an apartment like this deserved guests, parties, luxury. Instead it was a highly decorated hermitage and prison, every luxury driving home that it was a substitute for reality and human contact.

  Worse, how was she to have such contact, a date? Would she be left alone with a lover? Or would it require a background check and a guard next to the bed? She had no idea of the etiquette for this, and could not bring herself to ask. She'd have to play it by ear.

  The changes to it were awful. The windows had bars, charged to resist projectiles
, and the latest ballistic glass behind that. They didn't open. The balcony had several layers of protection and was no longer useful nor even decorative.

  So far, the flat didn't seem to indicate there was any possibility of social interaction other than through electronic network.

  Well, her registration was all taken care of, by remote and by barrister. She had nothing to do until her first class in the morning.

  She did make a tour of the place. Her wardrobe had plenty of variety, hung and racked and neatly folded and ready. It was still the nice place it had been, but every door was composite armor now. The wardrobe was new, because the former one was now a vault that could protect her. It had space for two people. She wondered how her guards would decide which one of them got to be inside with her while the others stopped bullets. That was a little sobering in concept. In reality, of course, she didn't expect that to have the slightest utility. It was just that extreme professional paranoia Garrett had warned her about.

  She already knew they couldn't be manipulated the way tad could. A lot of this she'd just have to put up with. However, there must be some ways to counter at least some of the excess.

  Elke was ready for Caron the next morning, along with Aramis. They both sat at the dinette table, geared up and ready. Aramis finished a worthy breakfast that was apparently most of a pig prepared five different ways. Elke had eaten lightly. She preferred to snack on fruits, vegetables, meat and cheese throughout the day rather than demolish calories in blocks.

  She felt a little nervous about her upcoming plan. It should work, but it required things she found a little uncomfortable.

  Caron seemed emotionally okay, if a little cool. That was expected. She came through in a jacket and slacks that were semi-professional. She had good taste. That likely had to do with the occasional but permanent risk of cameras. Nothing Elke had ever heard about the family sunk to the depths so many did, even though most such depths were completely average. The very wealthy were culturally prohibited from being average.

  "What do I need to do this morning, then?" she asked.