Better to Beg Forgiveness Read online

  Then their grumbly peeled out of the convoy and drove into the palace grounds. There were security present; locals with rifles, in actual clothes. They all wore identical near-new boots. Those and jackets with a logo on the back were their "uniform." At first, that wasn't reassuring. Then it was, because it meant someone was trying to create a semblance of order and professionalism.

  Of course, the smoking, drinking, and lolling about with elbows on the wall, or lying unconscious on the grass, spread-eagled and snoring, didn't help that image. The entire team groaned.

  The female sergeant who'd looked jealous earlier now snickered and said, "Better you than us, contractors."

  "Thanks, troops," he said with a nod. He wanted to be on as good terms as possible, because they'd have to work together. He gathered his team by eye. Bart had the controller for the pallet and brought it forward on capacitor.

  "Thanks, Lieutenant," he added to the convoy commander as he walked forward. The rest apparently didn't feel like talking, at least not to their hosts.

  The troops were behind, as were the palace guards, and ahead was the palace itself with more troops waiting. Still, they moved cautiously from habit. Nothing around here registered as safe.

  As they approached, one of the real soldiers—not local—took a half step out.

  "ID, please," he said.

  Alex stepped up, showed his, flashed his orders on a chit to match those on the screen. In turn, the rest of them cleared themselves in.

  "We need to unload our gear," Alex said.

  "Yes, sir. Right through the arch and you can go through the double doors." The attitude here was a bit more professional. The guards were Marines, he noted with a tinge of pride. No, he was not a Marine anymore, dammit.

  "Thanks." He kept his thoughts to himself. This wasn't the place.

  The entrance was up a few steps. Bart negotiated the pallet over them with skill, and then through a massively armored entryway. The outside doors were for show. Inside that were vaultlike doors, a portcullis, a vehicle trap, fighting shields that could deploy from the walls . . .

  After a glance, Elke said, "The walls are armored against explosives, and have periodic breaks to let the pressure vent before it reaches inside."

  "So it would smear any attackers?" Jason asked.

  "And then spew them like stew, yes," she said, while pointing at a joint. "See here?"

  "I'll take your word," Jason said. He was technically trained, but that was pretty esoteric. Alex had no idea on the subject, other than the basic manuals for placing charges.

  Well inside now, surrounded by enough assets for a small town, some semblance of order was achieved. They each shouldered a ruck, a duffel, and weapons, leaving one of the NCOs to watch the rest, which he assured them would be delivered. The pallet would go through a cargo route upstairs that was less awkward than this route, but longer. Besides the Marines, there were a few support personnel passing by. They were probably honest, but it was a lot of gear the team were each and collectively signed and accountable for.

  Once they were a way down the hall, Jason asked, "What the fuck happened to my Army? It used to be professionals and they were competent." He glanced around in case he'd offended any lurkers. He didn't seem to really care, but there was this image to maintain.

  "Politics," Alex said. "The last SecGen drove out the good ones. Now we have a war with what's on hand, which isn't much."

  "It's scary. Depressing. Fuck." Jason apparently didn't feel like discussing it further.

  The first point of business was to coordinate the operation. A female Aerospace Force Tech 1 in spotless, almost unused battledress led them through cool, lit hallways. Her name tag said "White." With her was an AF security NCO named Buckley. White had a pistol, he had an abbreviated combat load: all weapons, no ruck.

  The team had memorized the floor plan, but this area had not been on those plans. They swapped guarded looks. Not in concern over the screwup. That was expected, inevitable. Their concern was about the potential threats that had not been uncovered yet. Glancing around, they determined these corridors were little used and rather old, with a hint of dust and must. Hopefully, that disuse meant they were not a well-known route.

  But they would be soon. There were other personnel walking around the maze, all potential leaks, and one such group fell in with them.

  A dusty officer with a ragged voice asked, "Agent Marlow?" His uniform was not spotless and unused. He wore a well-broken-in harness and carried a scratched submachine gun, commo helmet, and strapped gear. So did his men. They were all male, all serious business, and clearly professional.

  "Here," Alex agreed.

  "I'm Major Weilhung." He paused a moment with a hint of challenge in his expression, that seemed to say, Yes, that is my name, can we dispense with stupid jokes and move on? "I'm commanding the palace and movement security."

  "Good, glad to meet you already," Alex said, offering his hand. They swapped firm grips. It was true, and diplomatic. The six of them were the immediate escort for Bishwanath. They alone couldn't stop a serious force. They could only get him out of line of fire, secure a room, and call for extraction. Weilhung was the officer in charge of said extraction. Good relations with him were necessary. Thank God he seemed competent.

  "Yeah, likewise. It's a bit disorganized out there," Weilhung said.

  Seeing the expression on his face, Alex said what Weilhung couldn't. "You mean it's a massive wringer and sledgehammer party and all of our balls are hanging out?"

  The AF escort choked and tried to stifle a grin. Unsuccessfully. She made no comment.

  "I would never put it that way," Weilhung said, then whispered, "where I could be heard and nailed for it." Their boots clattered on tiled floor and hid the comment from casual hearing. Raising his voice again, he said, "But that's an interesting comment. Yeah, it's a mess and going to get worse. You know the background here?" He waved a portable damper to show they were secure against surveillance. That was interesting, because on-site with the principal nearby was a very unusual place to hold a no-shit briefing. Apparently, Weilhung was short of time.

  They were approaching a pair of wood-façaded security doors that looked elegant when closed but like vault doors when opened and visible from the edges. They led into the palace proper; Alex recognized the room beyond from maps: it was the conference room in the third basement.

  "Weak government," Alex replied. "Largely symbolic, allowed massive tribal chaos and all kinds of off-planet piracy and terror. Got out of hand, Army came in and put in the boot, Bishwanath is a temp at least, maybe longer, because he's a known quantity with a background. Tribes are still fighting, crime syndicate is still operating, with the equivalent of national armies to protect them, several other factions all wanting their ideals to be the new order, and nuking the whole planet from orbit is not an option."

  Elke muttered, "I hate that last part. The mushroom clouds would be so pretty in a glowing honeycomb hex," as Alex bit down and said evenly, "Have I missed anything?"

  Weilhung nodded as he pointed to chairs. "That's a good synopsis. Things are coming apart fast, though. BuState keeps talking about a peaceful solution. General Ellis wants to use force, I want to use a lot more, and the locals are already doing so, even if not in a very effective manner."

  "That's why they pay us the big money," Alex quipped. He looked around. No damage down here. So the palace was decent cover, and the lower areas had not been breached in the fighting. The tunnels were an obvious bolt-hole, and might still be secure for now. He'd still want those mapped and any exits sealed.

  "Yeah, but you have to see the locals to believe it. They're more dangerous to themselves than each other, but there's a lot of stray fire, and twenty million of the twits. And the flipping media makes them out to be some kind of romantic heroes."

  "We saw some of that on the way in," Alex agreed. "Common morons with guns. Bad concept."

  He took a long drink from the straw on his ruck strap
. The water was cool but not cold. They were inside, facilities were nearby, and he was thirsty. There were good tactical reasons not to drink too much when convoying. There were good tactical reasons to stay well-hydrated the rest of the time.

  The gear was heavy, cut into shoulders, and caused his people to make occasional grunts from bumping each other or walls. No one said anything. That was part of the job. It was going to be like this for months, which is why they got paid as they did.

  Tech 1 White held doors for them, then hurried ahead. She was decorative, but she was also very practical, which Alex appreciated. He didn't like comments about support people. You lived or died depending on how support staff did their jobs or didn't. White was familiar with the surroundings, glad to help, didn't get in the way, and seemed discreet. He made note to make use of her if she was around. You thanked such people by giving them enough work to stay busy and letting them know they were useful and needed.

  "Right in here," she said, speaking for the first time. "This is the Private Parlor, where President Bishwanath will be working. Through there are his apartments. Through here"—she opened another door—"is the Front Parlor. These rooms to the side are yours. I'm at six-three-nine-one if you have any questions."

  "Thanks, Tech White," Alex said. This time, the others chimed in. That they felt more gratitude to a functionary than the grunts was telling, Alex thought. He frowned. That would have to be fixed somehow. They couldn't resent the people they worked with.

  White and Buckley left, they started unpacking gear, starting with weapons, and looked around. Paneled wood, rugs on polished floors, minimal artwork, comfortable furnishings. They each had a private room with a shower. That was all they had time for, but it was certainly much choicer facilities than the holding barracks Corporate had kept them in on arrival the night before in Kaporta. The Front Parlor did connect directly to the President's quarters, so they could guard both entrances. Both entrances were on the same end of the hallway. There was no real alternate way out. That would have to be fixed.

  "Cover those damned windows and get some shutters," Bart muttered. Past him, Alex could see a lizardlike bird analog, tiny and cute and with feathers that were almost scales.

  "Indeed," Jason agreed. "Cover and concealment. I don't care if it's a courtyard, I don't want to be a target."

  "I already was apprised of that and put in a work order with the engineers," Alex said, trying to soothe nerves. "It may be a week."

  "So everyone watch your profile," Aramis said. "Shaman doesn't need the work."

  "I can always operate on the coffee table," Shaman joked. "It is broad, flat, and a good height if I am sitting." Or was he serious?

  "Everyone got local time?" Alex asked.

  "Yes," Jason said. "Twenty-one hours, twenty minutes, and some odd seconds, Earth time, divided into twenty sixty-four minute hours, with a second very slightly shorter than Earth's to account for the difference. I've got Zulu Time on one screen and Local Meridian time here on the other."

  "Good," Alex nodded. "Everyone else?" There was agreement.

  "Going to take a bit to get used to a short day," Aramis commented.

  "Eh, I just sleep when not working, read when I happen to be awake, and work out before breakfast," Bart said. "That is left over from idiot synthmod stars who perform until oh two hundred and party until oh nine hundred, then sleep before traveling."

  "You're not coming from the ten div or twenty-eight-hour day I'm coming from," Jason groused. "Try that."

  The second bundle of gear came up on the cargo elevator and was delivered, which was far better than having to go back down for it. While unsorting that, Alex's phone beeped. He used no music, colorful auras, or other expressiveness because it was strictly a tool, and encrypted in several layers to keep it secure. He had his set to beep and tingle, so he'd be aware of it.

  "Marlow," he answered.

  "Alex, Massa here. How goes it?" a deep voice asked. Agent Massa was the District Agent for all RC contractors in the capital and surrounding areas, which pretty much meant this continent.

  "Good, sir. We just rolled in, got our basic gear. I'm going to ask again about more weapons."

  "Yeah, and then you'll ask again until I buy some out of pocket to shut you up. Feel free to acquire some. My hands are tied by the BuState assholes."

  "Understood, sir. Local purchase."

  "Yup. For cash. We'll cover you but don't know about it." At least with the Company, when they said, "we'll cover you," they actually meant it. That still meant the hassle of acquiring weapons they should have been able to bring. BuState was bent on this being a "low-key" operation.

  Bishwanath was a president. There would be nothing low key about guarding him, Alex feared.

  "Got it. I'm on-site and you can log me in. I'll send my updates when you ask."

  "Weekly will be fine unless I call. Good luck, Alex. Massa out."

  "Thank you, sir. Out."

  He had no sooner disconnected than it buzzed again. He answered.

  "Agent Marlow, this is Tech White," she said with a clear, perfectly modulated voice. "President Bishwanath is on his way up, and would like to meet all of you."

  "Of course," Alex said. "We're a bit grubby, though." Sooner or later, they had to find out if the President was a straight shooter, or a stick in the ass. Now was as good as any.

  "I'll forward that information. White out."

  "Marlow out."

  He turned to the others. "Head's up. The VIP is on his wa—" he was saying as there was a knock at the door frame, followed by it opening.

  Bishwanath came in.

  It was obvious who he was. No one else would be traipsing around the palace in a suit, surrounded by Recon soldiers with carbines and other lethal hardware.

  Without hesitation, they stood to attention.

  "Sir!" Alex said crisply. "A pleasure to meet you at last."

  "I rather think we are meeting at first," Bishwanath said, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. Glasses, not contacts, not surgically corrected. That's how far back this place was. "You would be Agent Marlow, and this would by Sykora, Weil, Vaughn, Anderson, and Mbuto?"

  Alex didn't raise his eyebrow, but was impressed. He'd taken the time to learn about his contract underlings. That spoke well of him and was definitely a hint as to why he'd been chosen for this. His English was English. Where had he gone to school? One of the Oxford colleges?

  "Correct, sir," he said, and shook the offered hand, then moved aside to allow the rest access.

  Over his shoulder, Bishwanath said, "Thank you, Captain Nugent, I appreciate your escort."

  "No problem, sir. We'll be around for backup whenever you travel, and on patrol in the palace at all times." The captain was in armor and field gear but with short sleeves. Still, full gear in the palace showed that the President wasn't a wimp, understood practicality, and was a gentleman who could handle any function.

  It also meant that large numbers of professionals felt that such garb was needed, despite large numbers of professionals. So the local security had to be just the shit.

  "Excellent."

  Ugly, Alex thought to a completely different conversation than the audible one.

  Nugent saluted Bishwanath, nodded to Alex, and left with his troops.

  "Agent Marlow," Bishwanath said as he turned back.

  "Mister President. How may I help you?"

  "Please sit, and get on with whatever tasks you have. Can I have some drinks brought? Ades? Fizzes?" He produced a small pod and flipped it open.

  "Could we get some tart lemonade and a sport ade, sir? That's very thoughtful, thank you." Alex wasn't going to serve his troops sweetened goo. That was on their own dime.

  "Absolutely." Bishwanath tapped an order into the handheld while Alex studied him. The man came from the local warring tribes, but knew several languages and was quite at home with modern technology. He seemed to understand the accepted courtesies of space-based society, as it was called, thoug
h it was hardly an accurate term. They were here in space on a rock that was a desolate hellhole.

  But Bishwanath was well above that. Dapper, even elegant in appearance, dark olive skin with graying hair, on a slim but healthy build, though shorter than Alex by several centimeters. The man was cultured, urbane, and sophisticated.

  "All I want to do," Bishwanath said, "is learn a little about you, find out what I can do to make your job easier, and if there's any support you need." He met Alex's eyes and seemed casually relaxed for any input. Diplomatic.

  "Well, sir, we have issues of travel, palace security, communication, support, and then our personal issues," Alex itemized as he thought on the fly. "Travel we'll be examining as soon as we can, both the vehicles and routes to be used, and our tactics will be predicated on whether the trip is for appearance, or if a discreet approach can be used. That's the realm of myself and Mister Vaughn."

  Vaughn stood from his gear and nodded at the introduction. He'd been stowing rifles and ammunition in a rack, after function-checking them and loading them.

  He said, "Yes, sir. I'll look over the vehicles and routes, and I'll assign our personnel where needed. I'll coordinate with the military convoys, and with your personal guards as needed."

  "Yes, my personal guards," Bishwanath said with a frown. "How do I say this diplomatically? You are far better trained than my palace guards, and I place more faith in your contractual detachment than their loyalty, if you take my meaning." At that moment, a servant brought in a broad tray with pitchers of lemonade, and electrolytic drinks, glasses, ice, and a plate of cookies.

  "Thank you, Rahul." He turned back and said, "And you may confide as you need to in Rahul. He's been my right hand for decades, even if he looks domestic. In fact, that is his greatest cover."

  "Ah, yes, sir," Alex said. "Make note of anything you need that the guards can't handle and I'll see it's taken care of without mention. A pleasure to meet you, Rahul."

  "And you, sir," the man said. He was fairly robust and broad but looked meek, until you saw his eyes. The man had been in some action. His voice was deep and a little gravelly.