"Nice disclaimer," Vaughn murmured from his perch on the back of the couch, very close to the weapons locker.
She looked at him and ran a hand through her bobbed hair. "The way things are changing, I don't think anyone can promise anything, Agent Vaughn."
"Yeah, it's that kind of meat grinder," he agreed.
"What is Commerce's stake in this?" Shaman asked, looking from the President to deWitt.
"Same as always. Get a bunch of contracts for companies with connections to them or people they owe favors to," deWitt said. "They can't be too unhappy with factories getting bombed. More work for them."
"No one wants to stop the fighting here," Bishwanath said. "This isn't an Iraq or a China or an Indonesia. This is more like the American Civil War, where the British were happy to trade for cotton from the Confederacy and sell weapons to the North. The only question here is who is going to control the market to the factions. I'm in the way."
"You've got a lot of courage, sir," Anderson said, and meant it. He appeared to be grasping that not all bravery was physical.
"And BuState is the referee?" Elke asked.
DeWitt sighed. "BuState is charged with developing the civil affairs of this nation. So the military has to clear through us on how much damage they can do, which they don't like, and I don't blame them. Commerce has to clear through us on how much money they can throw and where, which they don't like, and I don't blame them. Mister Bishwanath has to deal with us to get off world support, which he doesn't like, and I don't blame him. Same for all the smaller factions, the larger corporations, everyone except the media, who are trying to gain leverage over everyone so they can blackmail us into doing the things their sponsors want—more trade, better weapons. The reason Ripple Creek is taking a beating is because you don't have trillion-dollar weapons contracts, multinational ad campaigns, or a factory to sell. You're the little guy in the corner of the bar."
"It's my experience that that little guy is the killer to avoid messing with," Bart said in warning. He handed his fliptop over to the tech without protest.
"Which makes you smarter than my boss." DeWitt grinned sickly. "Look, I'm a career civil servant," he said. "I've been working here for years, and other unsavory places before that. I have a masters degree in the field, hundreds of connections, and have written operational guidelines that have worked more often than not. People like leMieure come in instead by sucking up to whoever is SecGen, President, Premier, or Prime Minister at the time, and show up for a year or so grandstanding. They know they won't have the job long, because only competent people do ultimately last, 'competent' in this context meaning getting the job done so the next leader doesn't have a mess to clean up. LeMieure knows he's back to making fifth-rate crap no one will want to watch within an election or two. So he's grabbing all the credit and blackmail he can now. If I do something that works, he'll claim credit. If he does something that fails, he'll try to pin it on me. So that means I am also looking for someone to take the fall, and because I'm ethical, I only want to take down assholes.
"You guys are assholes," he finished, "but not that kind of asshole. So I have my work cut out trying to piss on fires and find someone who needs a good humiliation session."
"Obviously, leMieure has help from the media if he can fabricate presidential appearances," Anderson said.
Bart took his computer back. Nothing seemed changed but a program had been added, labeled only "Games." He suspected it actually did contain games, as well as other software.
"He has help from my branch, too," White said, and they stared at her.
"I looked at the images as they came out," she explained. "Those were background shots that we arranged for as a courtesy, since there isn't a good studio or hall that size in the palace," she said.
"Correct," Bishwanath said, looking surprised. "I talk against a chroma key in the conference room. Everything else is assembled electronically, including the audience, who are in the studios set up at the Civic Center."
"So someone is selling your tech?" Anderson asked, sounding on edge.
"I think rather that they've cracked one outer layer of encryption to stuff like that of no military significance," she said as she ran a hand through her hair again. "But it's of political significance. I've told my bosses, who are not going to file a suit for infringement yet, but can and will when it's appropriate. Meantime, I don't want to button up and let them know I know, and I have to secure what they don't yet have. When this asshole falls, it's going to take God to put him back together again, trust me." She sounded pissed.
"Does anyone have any evidence that Dhe was behind that shelling?" Marlow asked.
"Hard to say," White replied. "He might have been. His faction has the capability for it. I know the Army tried to interdict, but was hampered. No Air Defense close enough, because no one expected that and it's not really their lookout, and they couldn't counter fire. Not allowed."
"Can they at least tell us where?" Elke asked. "Knowing the weapons and range, if I can get a good location on origin we can look at images for camouflaged launch sites. Jason and I are trained for that."
"When I said 'not allowed to,' I mean the word came down from Army HQ not to turn the radar on. Officially so no one could track their location. Which, I admit, is a valid concern," she said with a nod.
"A convenient one, too," Bart observed.
"When I get a program of the players, parts, and staff, I'll let you know," she sighed. "I've never had this much hassle before. I had better see it reflected in my counseling and at promotion time."
"One way or another, I will see to it," Bishwanath promised. "All of you. Without you and Rahul, I would have nothing. My own staff are largely useless or ceremonial or both. Courtesy of Mister leMieure," he said bitterly.
Marlow said, "Tech White, when it's time to jump, will you give us a warning?"
"If I can," she replied. "And I may need a lift." Her eyes were wide and serious.
"Agreed," he said.
It felt like a wary retreat after a battlefield truce, as everyone split and departed.
CHAPTER 12
Jason sat in the parlor, actually out in public, but all alone, everyone else long since gone to bed. He was often awake and alone, but liked the solitude, though not the loneliness. It was an interesting dichotomy he pondered often without resolution.
In the background he heard muted mortar fire. There was also small arms fire, but that couldn't be heard through the mass of the palace and the soundproofing. There was a bona fide civil war going on now, and the Army was stuck trying to drive wedges between factions to stop it, while being "sensitive" to the risk of civilian casualties. Always the way.
Jason wrote home often. He doted on his kids, and loved his wife more than anything in the universe. Long-term relationships and single households might be old-fashioned, but they worked for him. He had stability. That stability did help ground him here in this shit hole. Not the spiritual "grounding" the priests spoke of, though maybe it was. He hadn't been to Circle or to any church of any kind in years. Decades. It gave him some stability to know something waited for him.
And he missed them. This wasn't that long of a tour, but it was long enough. Especially when adapting from the twenty-eight hours and twelve minutes of Grainne's day to the barely twenty-one hours here. He wasn't a very social animal anyway, so stayed in his room asleep, exercised in the gym down the hall on treadmill, rack, and heavy bag, and crawled out to eat and go on duty. A semihermit, but it suited his temperament, so he often had night shift guard post.
The letter would go out electronically to whichever ship was outbound, be packeted, transmitted once that ship reached Earth's side of the jump point, then caught and transmitted again by a ship reaching Grainne Colony's side of that jump point. It might take two days if all went well, though three to five was more common and two weeks possible. That delay was part of what caused the loneliness. Granted, everyone from outsystem had the same problem. But there
was regular traffic with Earth. Personally encrypted love letters zipped back and forth for hours at a time, several times a day as traffic came through. Grainne was another jump from there with more lag.
* * *
Dear Uberwensch,
Yes, I know I called you that last time. I'm busy here and having trouble being original. Forgive me?
I can't decide if you're being romantic or sadistic with the smut you send. I can't do much more than think about it. We don't have privacy to speak of in the palace, and while you said I can play, I don't have the time to work on seducing anyone. No locals I'd dare associate with, few military, and the one woman on our team is off-limits for that reason.
A shame. She's slim, healthy, has a darkly twisted sense of humor that helps keep me sane on operations, and she seems to think explosives are erotic. Heck of a woman. All EP women have to meet the same physical standards as men, so she can do 75 push-ups in 90 Earth seconds, at least 100 crunches, 15 pull-ups, and can run 3 kilometers in fifteen minutes with some light gear.
As to life, I can't complain. The pay is phenomenal, the colony doesn't tax external income because it's effectively an export (me exporting my skills), and the living conditions—the six of us have a suite, a private room each, and the run of a fucking PALACE that looks like the Bon Place hotel inside, only bigger. We have good gear.
We did get shot at today. Nothing serious. These savages have no concept of fire and maneuver, cover, advancing by team, taking objectives, and holding for reinforcements . . . it's more scream, shoot, thump chest bravely, get shot. They aren't even taking many casualties because it's not worth it to shoot them. Just let me say that everything you saw in the news about it, if you did, is complete and utter bullshit. Those cowardly, cocksucking pieces of shit will fabricate anything. When they got done, Julius Caesar would lose to Vercingetorix and Napoleon would just be a corporal.
But I won't lie to you. There are dangers here. The local guards of the Palace and elsewhere are drugged out, worthless, malnourished, and undeveloped scum. Crappy diet, poor social lives, no education. They can stop bullets, that's about it.
Then there's the Army . . . I am so glad I got out when I did, and I absolutely agree that the Colony needs to pull its troops out of the UN Joint Forces as soon as fucking possible. I know old-timers always bitch about how things are going downhill, but it's worse here.
The UN troops have good gear, and know technically how to use it, though they don't get much practice before arriving, apparently. No one wants to waste that valuable equipment for training, so they accept losses in combat. Equipment losses. That's the kind of leadership they have.
Worse . . . some commanders are following every order to the letter, including conflicting orders. BuState can give orders to MilBu. Yup, it's insane. So there are troops struggling with 70 kilos of gear, even in this gravity that's a bitch. Others are shrugging their shoulders and leaving it to the NCOs to deal with . . . but those NCOs come out of this same system. Some of them literally don't know how to request nonorganic transport. If it's not attached to them, they're helpless. They don't know how to use their assets.
And the troops . . . yeah, they have great technical training, but most of them are rebellious teenage punks from game clubs, or gangs. They weren't given any real discipline in basic. I watched a formation yesterday—they have formations constantly, in case anyone deserts in this dump? Maybe worried about AWOL and sex, which is forbidden. I don't know. All I know is, they don't trust the troops because they can't. As a senior sergeant, I wielded more authority than most CAPTAINS do in the UNJF. So they had a formation, and while calling roll, these kids were playing with game sets, computers, jawing, milling about. They can't stand still in formation and no one bothers to discipline them.
If the locals weren't the worst shit in space, these kids would be dying in job lots.
Sorry, I didn't mean to delve into politics. I know you never liked international relations in service, and don't as a civilian either. But that's what I'm dealing with. The "elite" forces are about as good as I and my buddies. Yeah, we're good. I don't feel we're abnormal. Certainly I wasn't in service. But now . . .
Hey, I'm fine and should be. Got good people around me, low threats, and lots of support. And the Army can always act as bullet traps.
Tell the kids I love them. I got the pictures and they're just still so cute. I sleep with that picture in my pocket to keep me warm.
Love you,
* * *
Jason finished, and looked up from his fliptop as Bishwanath entered the room.
"May I help you, sir?" he asked at once. Bishwanath's presence was probably unofficial but he kept a hand on his pistol and checked the location of his carbine. That was automatic, even though it was clear at once there was no threat. He wasn't keen on being a part-time servant. On the other hand, it was far safer than EP and he was getting paid the same either way. There was no harm in being nice, he figured. The man was decent.
"No trouble, Agent Vaughn," Bishwanath said as he closed the door quietly. "Forgive me. I can't sleep and I hate being by myself. Do you mind if I watch viddy in here?" He was dressed in a robe and silk pajamas with elaborate embroidery, and wore leather slippers that could serve as shoes.
"Not at all," Jason said. He couldn't expect any privacy in here anyway, and it was easier to guard the President up close. He jotted down the time in the incident log on the now scarred coffee table. "Principal entered common room. Unofficial." He saved and minimized.
"Is there actually anything worth watching on?" he asked. The President hadn't spoken any commands to the unit.
Bishwanath replied, "It's not so much watching anything I have in mind. It's watching . . . anything. Is that clear in English?" He was pacing slowly.
"I think so, sir," Jason said. Yeah, the man was lonely. He'd cut himself off from his own clan to maintain the perception of distance and neutrality. He couldn't trust any other clan. There were no other parties in politics awake at this hour . . . what could the man do after work? And he hadn't ever intended to have this much power.
"Sir, if you want to talk or run a net sim, just say so."
"Thank you, Agent Vaughn. I appreciate the offer. Though right now, I was thinking of a more cerebral pursuit which is hard to find."
"Reading a paper book? Logic problems?" Sometimes the man was too polite. That was better than the rude bastards they got at times, but still aggravating in its way.
"No, not quite like that. I wonder, Agent Vaughn," Bishwanath said, squinting slightly, "if you know how to play chess?"
Jason squinted and leaned back in his seat. "I doubt I'm in your ranking, sir, but I'll give it a try."
Bishwanath smiled, nodded, and walked over to a cabinet. That one had been filled on their arrival. Only a few items, but one of them . . .
The chess set he brought over was very elegant and simple. Inlaid dark wood, possibly ebony, and light, burnished material, probably bone, were surrounded by a laminate of light and dark woods and set on a plain wooden base. He set it down, lifted it off a latched insert, and placed it in the exact middle of the table.
The pieces underneath were hand carved and had gold and silver wire pressed in. There were extra pieces, and it looked as if one could play several different variations with the same set. Jason lifted a king. It was near ten centimeters tall, a handful.
"Nice set," he commented.
"My grandfather's," Bishwanath replied. "He also like Persian chess and chaturanga."
"I can see."
"I try not to think about my family," the President said shyly.
"I'm writing a letter to mine," Jason said, tapping his computer. "Words on a page as well as the audio messages I send seem to add a level."
"Yes," Bishwanath agreed. "I write as I can. I did just now, in fact. I generally have little time, and my wife is not enjoying Earth. My children are grown and north of here."
Conversation tapered off to chess. Bishwanath wa
s good, but clearly had his mind elsewhere. He built elaborate strategies but lost pieces from oversight, a forest for the trees issue, if Jason had to guess. Not being able to plan so far ahead, Jason used a strategy of clustering all his capital pieces and tromping across the board like a Roman legion, letting them support each other in a tight knot.
Meantime, Bishwanath muttered, occasionally talking.
"It's aggravating dealing with masses of people, all of whom expect that I will cut them some kind of favor. We had a deal once before. Their side supported some petty squabble. They have spongewood, which may be the only useful material export. They have an agreement with a chief of my clan." He sighed.
"I suppose the last one comes close to legit," Jason observed. He needed to open up his formation a little. They were crowding each other's lines of attack.
Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC Page 17