Better to Beg Forgiveness (25 page)

"Mister Marlow?" he heard through a fuzzy purple jelly that surrounded him.

"Agent," he said automatically. The goo cleared. It was all hallucinogenic.

"Are you recovering?"

A military medic was over him, and his vision was returning. His pulse hammered in his ears . . . no, he was aboard a lifter and that was the engine hum.

"I think so," he replied muzzily. He was lying in a puddle of something slimy . . . he wasn't going to think about that. Even though it was intentional and chemically induced, it was embarrassing.

"We'll be landing at the palace in a few moments."

He finally was able to focus on the helmeted face in front of him. "How's the President?" he asked.

"You don't need to worry about him," came the confident reply with a head shake. He waited a moment for further comment. Nothing.

It might have been the recovery drugs, the gas, or the cumulative stress, but he reached up, clutched the soldier's flight suit by the front, and yanked.

"Listen," he glanced at the collar, now in focus, "sergeant first class, I am the senior fucking Agent in Charge of the President's personal detail. He
is
something for me to worry about and you will goddamned well give me a sitrep or there will be worse shit than the puddle I'm sitting in to clean up!"

The sergeant's arms came up defensively but not violently. They ran strength against strength, and even sick and doped, Alex was stronger.

"Easy, sir," the man acquiesced. He was old enough under his helmet that he likely wouldn't make an issue of it, but Alex didn't care.

"The President is fine, recovering with the rest of you. He's over there," and the medic pointed with his half-free forearm. "We'll escort you all in on landing."

"That's all I wanted," Alex said, took a look to confirm it was the President, and sagged back, exhausted. The gas had taken a lot out of him. Literally. He snarled to himself.

An hour later, everyone had showered, after a humiliating trip through the palace dripping shit, sweat, and puke from their clothes. Bishwanath had his staff come and get the team's clothes and gear, and it was back, clean, scrubbed, sterilized, and folded.

"I swear," Aramis said, "I am so pissed." Everyone ignored the obvious pun.

"It's more than that," Alex said. "It's the assumption that they can play without consulting with me. If we take fire and you see it"—he pointed at Aramis—"you're low man around here . . ."

"But I take charge until it's under control and hand it back over," Aramis replied.

"Right. The guy on the spot stays in charge until properly relieved. No one smart jumps into the middle of a firefight and gives orders without a sitrep, unless things are a total balls-up. I thought we had things largely contained."

Jason wasn't as nearly as distraught at the others. "I got to try that shit in training for Grainne's forces," he said. "But it's still disgusting."

Elke came down the short passage from the shower with her hips wrapped in a towel. She was topless but clutching a support shirt.

"Especially dangerous if I have detonator controls in hand," she said with a raised eyebrow. "You might point that out to them."

Alex was at once taken by the scene. First of all, fantastic tits. Modestly sized, perfectly shaped. Push-ups did amazing things for the woman. Second, Bart had scarcely noticed, merely a glance. He was also from Europe with its casual attitudes, and had been security for several female celebrities and performers. He had to have seen a lot. Shaman was a doctor. Jason came from a socially relaxed culture with hot weather that encouraged little clothing. But Aramis was stunned. Only for a moment, and the kid got it under control fast, but he definitely wasn't used to the idea. Between the shave he needed and the tousled hair were a pair of eyes as big as saucers.

She had her shirt on in moments and wandered off to get pants. "If I'd had something live," she called from her room, door open, "I could have twitched. Mention that to them, please," she reiterated.

"Will do."

He wasn't going to snicker at Aramis for trying to sneak a peek past the door frame. He'd been without sex at least as long and would love a glimpse of the rest of her, but it wasn't professional and he had more control. Aramis would just have to learn.

There was a knock at the door, then Bishwanath walked in. Elke returned, dressed.

"I apologize for barging in. I am somewhat unhappy with the performance earlier."

"Yes, sir," Alex said. He was afraid of this. "It went bad after the convoy broke up, and . . ."

"It was spectacular, Agent Marlow. Right up until the Army tried to take control of a situation you had in hand and caused me to befoul myself. This is all over the news, and is a staggering blow in this culture. The public humiliation . . ." He stood there tight-lipped and irate.

"I came to apologize to you," he said, taking them all in with his gaze. "It is unconscionable that you should be treated this way. I will be speaking to the Army's people and making a few things clear."

"Sir, we are clean, glad of your hospitality in getting our stuff cleaned, and they did keep you alive. I am not unhappy with some minor trouble for us, though I do see how it's a severe problem in your position, but we're used to being grubby."

"You would like to be kept out of it," Bishwanath observed.

"If you need us, we're there. Feel free to use the leverage, but we don't need a claim on our behalf, though you're kind to offer."

"Very well, but on my behalf, I am about to flay someone." His expression made Alex wonder if he meant it literally. Considering some of the fighting that had taken place in the past, he just might.

"Need an escort, sir?" Aramis offered.

"It would be prudent?"

"Yeah. Sir," Alex said. Sure, the kid could go along and watch. So could someone who could report back. "Jason, go with him."

"At once."

Both men grabbed their clean gear and fell in behind the President as he left. The man almost left heat ripples in the air. He was
pissed
.

As soon as the door closed, Alex said, "Well, that fucks things up."

"Yes. For whom?" Shaman asked.

"Everyone," Alex said. "Everyone."

You'd think those morons would get the hint," leMieure bitched to Weygandt about the contractors. The colonel wondered why he'd been singled out for such attention. Maybe it was considered an honor.

"I don't know that they're paid to take hints, sir. They seem to value courage and teamwork above all else." He tried to make it obvious he was working, watching his screens, raising the audio a bit . . . 

"Yeah, yeah. And if I'd known that bitch might have had a bomb in her hands, I'd have timed it better, if you know what I mean."

Weygandt's neck hairs bristled. He was a soldier, a lawyer, and a human being, and that statement was pushing all professional, legal, and moral envelopes. He was glad he was secretly recording this. That couldn't be admitted as evidence in court, but it might save his ass if there was a court-martial or even just a Mission Effectiveness Inspection.

"Maybe they need orders directly," he suggested diplomatically.

The fat bastard leaned on a shelf and smeared it with sweat. Why did he always have to come here? Was it from his vid and sensie days, he required an audience?

"The 'President' is officially their employer, through his office. Officially, we can only advise. It has to be that way so it at least looks like he's in charge. The budget isn't through my office or I'd cut them. It's through MilBu with a rider and I can't touch it."

Weygandt pondered. How best to phrase this?

"That doesn't mean they can't be given orders," he said. "Just that we have to find a way to get those orders issued by their office, or the President. He might be, um, persuaded with the right leverage. I'm sure we can find a way to lean on Ripple Creek. When were they last audited?"

"For taxes? I have no idea." Of course the scumbucket didn't.

He checked off on his fingers. "Taxes, compliance with ISO, compliance with military standards they contract to, and to relevant military regulations . . . no one is ever perfectly in compliance."

"I could kiss you," the fat man said, grinning gleefully.

Good God, please don't even joke about that
, Weygandt shuddered. Instead, he said, "Let's just agree that we can resolve the contractor problem and have professional soldiers take over."

"Who will do as I order, yes."

Well, we'll see about that later. I may have some bad news for you
, Weygandt smiled inside. If he played this right, he could take care of both at the same time.

The door opened and Bishwanath came in, escorted by two of his goons.

Holy shit.

"Who works for who here?" the President asked.

"Um . . . sir?" Weygandt said when leMieure didn't. LeMieure was in shock and cowering back toward the wall.

"Who is in charge here?" he repeated, louder and more forcefully. His guards stayed behind him and didn't seem disposed to interfere. This had to be due to the events earlier, and they actually were in goon role, looking ready to shoot anyone he asked them to.

Weygandt had a pistol. He knew leMieure had nothing.

"That would depend on the situation, sir," he replied. "If you can tell me what—"

He was cut off as Bishwanath shouted, "
I am in charge here!
This is my nation, my palace, my plan. Those of you advising me are speaking for me in ways and places you should not, and making the situation worse. And you—" He turned to leMieure, who tried to brace against the onslaught but failed. "—are a fat, meddlesome
idiot
! You do not speak for me, and from now on I will contradict and denounce the statements you make on my behalf. If the press wants conflict, I will by God give it to them, and I will have you arrested and shot!"

Weygandt silently begged leMieure not to be stupid enough to admit any of the things he'd discussed in front of this man. Weygandt had already witnessed too many discussions he'd rather be able to deny. He also didn't want leMieure to raise the issue that the President wasn't really in charge. He wasn't, of course, but if he thought he was being pressed he might just have people shot. That wouldn't be legal, but wouldn't matter to corpses.

Luckily, Bishwanath stormed back out with a door slam that shook the air.

After a moment Weygandt said, "I think we need to increase the Recon presence down here."

"Yes," leMieure agreed, trying not to blubber, the coward. "I will feel safer with that madman at a distance."

Weygandt hadn't been thinking of leMieure's safety at all. The man fit perfectly the snide definition of a buddy: someone larger and slower who could soak up a lot of fire.

We are definitely earning our pay
, Alex thought.

It had been someone's bright idea to build a shopping mall. He couldn't imagine Simoncorp thought it was a smart idea; maybe they needed a tax write-off. Finance was beyond him. In any case, a hotel, a mall, a small park, and some other trappings were built, and there was an attempt at creating tourism in the works. So far, it was only high-level execs of the companies in question taking advantage of the tourism opportunities in this wasteland, as well as a few politicians with their entourages, and annoying clueless celebrities.

Ironically, most of them were guarded by Ripple Creek or other contractors. Alex had already recognized a couple, and Jason and Shaman pointed out a few more.

There wasn't much time, though. The mall was atrociously designed as far as security, with a huge patio between vehicle apron and front door, under a huge, vaulting concrete archway that almost begged for explosives to knock it down on hapless victims. Elke concurred and said so.

"Boom and crash. What were they thinking?"

It was a broad, open area. This entrance was VIPs and their guards only, and all guards had to be from a select list of contractors, to maintain the President's safety. General public entrances were guarded by Bodyguards backed up by soldiers. That also presented a possible hazard.

Besides that, the celebrities and press made it hard to do anything. Despite jokes about "expendable cover," which were not going to be made over the radio, the PR damage of hurting any of them was an EP nightmare.

With the team in close and handpicked Bodyguards out from there, handpicked by Major Weilhung, whom Alex did trust for that, they moved across the decorative bricks and to the reserved entrance of tall, crystal polymer that looked like glass but was stronger and less likely to shatter.

Inside wasn't a receiving line, but rather a choreographed group of little gaggles for the benefit of the roving cameras. Tables and chairs sat in a garden type arrangement with a small fountain and potted plants.

"Lots of stuff for us to use as cover," Aramis said softly.

"Doesn't look much like the 'video mapping simulation' we were shown," Jason said. He didn't sound surprised.

"I can't offer any explosive," Elke said. "Too much fragile clutter." She'd also expressed a very vocal and Czech objection to not having her shotgun.

Shaman said, "But if anyone else does, the fragmentation effects will be brutal."

"We throw ourselves on the Dishwasher and pray," Bart offered snidely. "Not much else will work."

A number of annoying airhead celebrities who wanted to be socially relevant—and keep their names visible for future contracts—were here. Seamus Plume, who could be counted on to appear anywhere there was "trouble." His current and previous and likely again girlfriend Messalina. Francia Pikes, allegedly a virgin teenager wearing
that
outfit . . . she was a virgin if there was money in it. Rumor and photos said the three of them as a trio and here they were side by side. There was that obnoxious and hideous Vienna Marriott, wearing troweled-on makeup and looking like a hooker. She used her family's fortune to try to make herself a star. She was, in the sense that you could download her escapades with everything but the mule for a few cents.