Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  In short, a firefight started. He realized that at once.

  At the first burst, he took care of business, to wit: putting Bishwanath down. He and Jason and Bart formed a second perimeter, pushed some people aside, including Vienna's stunned form, skirt crawling up as she ran, and not at all sexy. Her own guards tackled her and dragged her aside.

  Bishwanath had learned and went limp as three EPs dragged him between a large potted fern and a pillar, Bart and Shaman behind him and backs to him, carbines coming out from cases and pistols going back under coats. The local variety of fern closed up as it was touched, whipping into a little ball as if even it wanted away from the shooting. Elke crouched in front of him, behind his umbrella, with her reinforced case up as additional cover. That case wasn't quite ballistic armor, but it was enough to stop fragments. Bishwanath had his extra armor on and hunkered down small. The Bodyguard crowded in around, flinching and shouting and uncoordinated, but brave. That set alarm bells off in Alex's mind. One of them could be an assassin with this as a diversion, and it might be done well enough no one could blame said killer.

  That first burst was followed with the unadulterated roar of a full machine gun in a real caliber, and some light explosions. Smoke started wafting.

  Then more explosions started on another side.

  Time to move the Bodyguards. "Grays, please secure a perimeter at ten meters!" he shouted and gestured, feeling very exposed standing up in just soft armor and no headgear in the midst of real combat.

  "All right, we're retreating," he said into radio. It was too loud and echoey for voice alone. "Call for any available transport up to the door. Captain Nugent, this is Playwright, I need these da— other VIPs pulled to safety without them blocking Dishwasher. Can you assist in routing, please, over." It wasn't a request. Recon were professional enough to know that he was the guy on the bubble.

  And it was the worst place possible for a fight. Civilians everywhere, lots of breakable stuff, reporters with cameras, like some farcical sensie. Someone was already trying to get close with a camera. Alex almost shot them, because doing a low crawl with a camera, monitor, and antennae made them look like a missile crew or such.

  "Is someone actually starting a fight in a mall?" Elke asked, mirroring his thoughts.

  "Behind the pillar," Aramis shouted and gestured. "Dishwasher against it, backs in."

  "Good enough," Alex shouted agreement. "Shitty, but good enough." Right now they needed any kind of cover before moving for one of the stores, most likely.

  "Roger, Playwright," Nugent agreed. "APC in three minutes, over."

  "Warn me at six zero seconds, over."

  "Roger. Be advised my unit is busy and cannot assist, over." Good man. Blast on the availability, but they were likely trying to secure the exit and cut off more incursions.

  The team maneuvered to get Bishwanath to the far side of the pillar, where they could run straight for the door. Still scanning, Alex ducked down himself. The screams were louder than some of the fire, and there was now outgoing fire doing damage to stores. Small fires were erupting from tracer and a few grenades. Damned Army. He didn't fault them. They were doing what soldiers should do . . . which was the wrong thing for this situation.

  Although, he conceded as another massive burst and the bang of a rocket shook the upper balcony of the atrium, it might be a good idea in this case.

  One of the Bodyguards prodded the camera crew with his toe and gestured. They argued until his weapon swung, and then skittered away. Well, they were local and not Alex's problem. He smiled a bit. If they needed documentation, Elke had been wearing her "glasses" the whole time. Intel quality only, not PR, but it would set the facts straight . . . if anyone cared.

  The massive number of civilians meant the good guys were very limited in their fields of fire, and the attackers knew it. Suppressing fire was trashing the place, which might have been the desired outcome of the attack, and not hitting anything of tactical importance.

  Still, he saw flitting figures now. Not as professional as Recon or EPD, but professional enough to stand and fight. That was rare around here.

  "I swear that one looks like one of Dhe's guards," Elke said.

  "I don't see it, but save it," Alex said.

  "Roger."

  The easiest way to spot the action was to look for screams of running civilians. Someone was definitely trying to pin down the exits, because the crowd kept running in toward the middle. That was a clanging bomb warning.

  "Captain Nugent, Playwright, we may need containment, over."

  "Understood. Ninety seconds on APC. Main doors are not secure, over."

  "Roger, over."

  Alex saw a bona fide squad of somebody across the atrium and down the hall. They were shooting, and the crowd was dispersing in a frenzied Brownian movement, bumping and colliding like some comedy, sprawling and then crawling. Their uniform was cobbled together, neither Army nor Bodyguard. There were still too many civilians, and four fucking camera crews pointed this way. The military solution was to attack. Alex couldn't do that. The Bodyguard were spread out, and he wanted them in the retreat, too.

  A grenade exploded in the fountain, creating a cloud of mist. With that added to the smoke and some kind of gas, likely tear gas, a substantial fog tickled the back of Alex's throat.

  "Get Dishwasher masked," he ordered. He wasn't going to gear up himself yet, but maybe soon. Certainly it was time to start retreating out the door, too. Out some door.

  "Grays, please fall back to our position plus five meters. Argonaut, move the Dishwasher out to the curb for pickup. Detour left."

  "Roger," Jason said, as the various units moved into their next positions. Gray-uniformed Bodyguards stood up too visibly, but moved with discipline, a few Recon around the edges sought position and targets, other EPDs moved screaming, panicked spoiled celebrities behind cover in stores, seeking emergency exits, and a unit in white shirts and peaked caps arrived on electric carts.

  Who the hell were they?

  The team shuffled out, moving faster, a porcupine of weapons with a masked man in the middle, now at a zigzag jog.

  The carts whined across between the belligerents. Five men in white shirts with shoulder patches rolled out and took positions behind the buggies with carbines and grenade launchers. In seconds, a cloud of smoke and retch gas was blowing from one cart toward the gang, propelled by a ducted fan. One of the arrivals turned and looked at the Ripple Creek team.

  "This is Lizard Forty-Five," he said into a shoulder mounted horn. "Continue your retreat and watch the emergency exits. I have one man in each for surveillance."

  Aramis shouted, "I do not fucking believe this!"

  Lizard 45 heard him and replied, "Hah! You laughed at me. Guess I called this one right, eh?" he shouted, then turned and duckwalked with his carbine at the ready. He pointed and gestured, and two of the mall guards dove low and slithered for cover behind another plant. He fired a burst, and the other two advanced. Overhead came the crack of a large bore rifle.

  "Marksman, two floors up," Shaman said.

  "Retreat," Alex said, pointing at a clothing store. "Elke, Bart on lead. Aramis left, Shaman with Dishwasher. Jason and me on right and rear. Move."

  "Sir," everyone chorused and rose as the firefight behind them shifted to a new front.

  They whipped through the store, nodded, and made polite noises at the manager ducked under the service counter, and Alex led the way out the back door into a service hallway in seconds. Then he was back on radio.

  "We could use that extraction, over."

  "Waiting, left of the road, over."

  "Right out this wall," he muttered, staring at the concrete. "And exits are fifty meters either way."

  "One exit," said Elke, as she moved forward and slapped a handful of something against the wall, followed by another one lower down.

  "Elke, I don't—" he said as he dove back into the store. She slipped in just as the heavy door closed, only to bounce
off its hinges as a SLAM announced an explosion.

  "We have an exit," she shouted and led the way through, slipping a remote back into her pocket.

  An exit indeed. The store's fireproof door fell off its frame with a muted bang, and there was a gaping hole of reinforcing rods and shredded polymer and concrete in the wall, big enough to walk through.

  * * *

  Aramis was having a ball. Shooting, explosions, the whackjob mall ninja, they were carrying the President to safety and generally doing what they'd been hired to do. It felt good. He eased around the fractured edge of the hole and looked for threats. It was clear, apart from a roiling cloud of dust and smoke from Elke's blast. No, she wasn't bad, he grudgingly admitted. Knew her stuff and kept cool. Behind them, the shooting in the mall was fading.

  Behind him, Bart said, "APC twenty meters. Move."

  He saw movement in the haze, and shifted into a stance for immediate threats. Whatever it was . . .

  "Whatthefuck?" he shouted. The smoke cleared. Giant ugly bird.

  "It's a goddammed ginmar thing," he said.

  The beast was obviously close kin to an ostrich. It looked at him with dull, stupid eyes. He tried to make a shooing motion, and it pecked his arm.

  "Goddam!" he yelled, and poked it with the barrel of his carbine.

  At that point it went berserk, squawking and batting with heavy wings and kicking wildly. It really was uncoordinated, and only got him one clipping smack with a wing. It turned in a circle, ruffled its posterior feathers, and let loose a wet rumble. A splash erupted that struck the ground and splattered halfway up his calves, as the stupid bird faded back into the dust of its passing.

  Furious, he fired a shot and was rewarded with another squawk, this one loud and indignant. He slipped backward, following the huddle toward the APC.

  Then the damned thing was back, farting and kicking and thrashing in the grit. It was fast enough he couldn't get a good shot, and annoying enough that wanted the thing dead, but it somehow never managed to connect to him with anything. He blocked with his weapon and kept moving, moving, then they were backing up the ramp.

  The thing flapped away and didn't return, but its presence had certainly been putrid. He took a seat at the rear of the bench and as Bart dialed the ramp up, he looked around to see if anyone was laughing.

  "Gross, eh?" Jason asked from across, panting for breath and caked with dust and sweat on his skin, powdered gray on his suit, which was shredded in several places. He bled from a couple, where he'd caught the rebar in the wall. Shaman was applying bandages and disinfectant.

  "Yeah, kinda." Kinda. He felt hugely embarrassed. What a contemptible fucking bird.

  "Kinda? Son, I'm halfway to puking from the smell of that disgusting fat chicken. If you're only kinda grossed, you're a better man than me." Jason didn't seem to notice the treatment of his shoulder.

  "I can see why no one likes them," Elke said.

  Attention moved back to Bishwanath, who looked fairly clean and just a bit ruffled.

  "I thank you," he said. "I am not sure what that was all about, but I am in your debt again. I am unharmed and somewhat invigorated, if annoyed at why the infrastructure of my country keeps getting torn down by these bastards!"

  "I wish we could offer help on that, sir," Alex said. "But I don't know who to ask, unless Mister deWitt knows."

  "I know," Bishwanath replied, head in hands, looking tired. "We shall just carry on."

  There was an awkward silence for a moment, while everyone tried to find another subject.

  Alex finally asked, "Aramis, who was that back there in the mall? You seemed to recognize him."

  "Uh, it's hard to explain, Alex. I'd rather not, in fact." He was flushing crimson, possibly from exertion, but it was definitely at least partly embarrassment. This was not a great day after all.

  Bart added, "Let us just say it's a mall world after all."

  Aramis cackled at the joke. Bart had done it in English, too.

  "What?" Alex was really confused now.

  Bart said, "That was about our response, ja. You don't want to know. Trust me."

  "Okay. I'm guessing you met up with some other contractors."

  "Close enough."

  That was all they would say. Aramis was grateful for that fact. He was going to need to burn these pants when he got to the palace, and shower in bleach. Explaining about a mall tactical team didn't appeal.

  CHAPTER 15

  "Well, the news is full of it this evening," Bart said.

  "It's my experience the news is always full of it," Jason said. It took Bart a moment to get the joke, but yes, that was true.

  "On the positive side," Jason said, "the worst they are saying about us is that we 'gracelessly dragged the President to safety while doing substantial damage to a store and the outside of the mall, see attached picture.' "

  "Who's taking the flak?" Alex asked, pulling the channel up on his fliptop.

  "Factions," Bart said. "They do not attempt to say which faction or why. I believe they just want the banners and like the word."

  "That's their audience," Jason said. "Anything beyond a sound bite is too tough to figure out. Recall that this war started because 'the SecGen has shipping interests.' Yes, rather than start a trade route or embezzle some funds, he started a war no one likes against people who blow up ships, threaten starports, and offer to toss KE weapons at cities, just to get rich."

  "Eh, that's why I don't bother," Aramis said.

  "That is how we stay aware of our jobs and possible next contracts," Shaman said.

  "I'm going to take a nap," Jason said. "I'll cover tonight. If you need any help with weapons, leave them tagged on the rack. Later." He limped slightly from the dings he'd taken.

  Bart was experienced enough to have some grasp of politics. There was no money on this planet for itself, only for its use as a transshipment point. There were bound to be lots of people who liked it as such, and didn't want it to change.

  Aramis came through from the bathroom, cleaned up and in casual clothes. He still looked angry.

  "I had to toss the pants. Couldn't get them clean of the stain."

  "We'll want to avoid those things," Elke said. "But the locals get upset if you shoot them."

  "They don't seem to do anything with them," Bart said, wondering.

  "No, they're useless and annoying, but are seen as a sort of disgusting entertainment, and people pity them."

  "Strange."

  They'd eaten a snack before the event, but since it had been brought to a halt, none of them had had dinner. That was just as well. The team's dinner would have been field rations eaten cold in rotation, hiding in a back room out of sight. This way, they got a proper meal Bishwanath had brought up from the kitchen, with salad, sandwiches, soup, and some stew and light desserts.

  Bart was glad he was not in charge. Every one of these events caused Alex to sit in the corner grumbling as he typed and dictated an after-action review. One at a time they reported their findings, and Elke downloaded her photos and vid.

  When it was Bart's turn, he gave a terse rundown of hearing the fire, watching the crowd's reaction while moving the President to safety, and the disengagement and withdrawal.

  Alex asked, "Okay, so who were those mall ninjas?"

  "Mall ninjas?" he asked back.

  "You know who I mean."

  "Honestly, boss, we spoke to them, they wanted hardware, we said no. We thought they were some kind of nuts. They seemed to be well armed."

  "Better than some of the alleged pros. I wonder how Simoncorp arranged that," Alex mused. "Well, not my problem." He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. "But I'm certainly tired of the bookkeeping."

  "You should clean up and rest," Bart said. "You started early this morning. I'm awake now, Jason will be up later, we'll call Aramis if we need relief."

  "Yeah. Good idea."

  * * *

  Bishwanath stayed up late quite often. He also found himself spending
more time with his real security detail. They were all very bright people who took a sincere interest in him as their charge. Not at all the mercenaries they were made out to be. And apart from some comments by young Mister Anderson, they were quite reticent about the scorn heaped on them.

  Although, he'd noticed, if you watched carefully, you could see the tension. That reached a crescendo when the news came on. While it was easy to be secure in oneself, a little professional recognition was nice once in a while, and like he, they were not getting it. That also might explain why he found their company pleasant—shared misery.