Better to Beg Forgiveness (28 page)

"What can I do to help?" Aramis asked quietly.

"Ah, Grasshopper. I will show you the Force," Jason grinned. "Help me tear down and set the defaults on the Medusa."

"This thing is just outrageous, and would make the press wet their pants if they knew about it," he commented, grabbing a toolbox.

"That was the criterion in the promotional video that made me decide to get it."

The smile on his face was not a friendly one.

Alex looked over and said, "Dammit, why do we have more explosives?"

"We need more," Elke said as she dove in like a kid at Christmas.

"You know, Plan B doesn't have to automatically be twice as much explosive as Plan A."

"Of course not," she said. "Inverse cube law calls for eight times as much."

She smiled a sweet, cute smile that belied her deadly nature.

"Can I marry or adopt you?" Jason asked. Before she could respond with more than a slightly offended grin, he said, "Forget marriage. You'd have to be junior wife and that's not your style."

Everyone laughed at that image.

There was a small problem with the Medusa.

"I think this thing is designed for someone in a powered skeleton," Aramis said as it was laid out. The thing was
huge
.

"Yeah, fifty kilos loaded," Jason said, "and fairly bulky. I expect Bart can carry it for a while, and we only have it for emergencies, and," he admitted, "I wanted to play while we had some taxpayer money to experiment with."

"Is that backpack full of just ammo?" Bart asked as he came over, having heard his name. The others were gathering around, too.

"Don't scratch the flo— oh, to hell with it, we've already ruined things," Alex said.

"There are four carbine barrels." Jason pointed. "Actually long pistol barrels, on individually gimbaled necks, fed at three rounds per second. This is the grenade launcher firing one round per second. This protrusion is the sensor. You can adjust it for whitelist—everyone is friendly unless designated, blacklist—everyone defaults to enemy, or just pick targets by eye and build a database as you go. At full rate of fire it lasts about two minutes, but field tests show an average hit probability of ninety-two percent against targets in the open, even those taking evasive maneuvers. So that's fourteen hundred and thirty-five hits, plus any collateral damage from grenade frag. It's mostly an APERS weapon but does have fifteen antiarmor grenades and ten incendiaries." Everyone had gathered around before he was done talking. Even Rahul had come through.

"I want to have sex with it," Bart said. "And by 'sex' I mean 'kill lots of people.' "

"Just so you know how well designed it is," Jason added, grinning at the joke, "the capacitors last
ten
minutes at full rate."

That was good, Aramis thought. "Do we have a charger?" he asked.

"And a spare capacitor, too. Let's try a dry test. Bart, would you?"

Bart grinned a huge grin and hefted the backpack ensemble up with a flex of muscle.

Aramis helped fasten lateral straps and shift it as Jason plugged connections and adjusted sensors, then slipped on the headband with its visor.

"Now, with no ammo on board, press the Test button."

Bart nodded, took one joystick control in each hand, and turned carefully. Even with his mass and slightly lower than his normal G, the thing was a chore.

Jason referenced the user info on the included scrollpad. "Using the selector at left, designate Aramis as a threat."

"Why does it always have to be me?" Aramis laughed nervously.

"I have done so," Bart said.

"Now release, turn around, and freeze program."

"Check."

"Now, everyone stand over here," Jason said. The group nervously complied, standing in one rank across the floor. Jason looked things over, nodded, and read again. "Select All Weapons and then unfreeze."

There was a sudden snapping sound, and the necks snaked around like the mythical Medusa it was named after. Aramis looked straight into five barrels. He gulped. Each of them had a perfect point of aim, it seemed from here. No one else was targeted. There were sighs and shifting. Bart turned his back and the necks swiveled to keep Aramis bore-sighted.

"Now select All Threats."

The snapping sound repeated and each barrel sought a different target. A collective stiffening jerk swept across them.

"Deselect Elke by eye."

One barrel shifted and doubled up on Rahul, who was the largest present.

"Oh, thank you," he said looking shocked and amused behind his graying beard, as Bart turned around again and the barrels stayed oriented.

"We're done," Jason grinned.

"Perhaps, but I want to do it again," Bart grinned. "When do we get to use it?"

"Only in a last-ditch scenario," Alex said. "Sorry."

"I will pray for you," Rahul offered.

"I will help set it up," Aramis said. Yes, this was going to be a fun day after all.

"We've had a number of attacks," deWitt said as the morning meeting started.

"We have," Alex agreed. "And I want to credit the Army and AF for providing good intel and good reactions. I'd also like the attacks to stop."

"There is a large amount of unrest in this sector," Weygandt said, looking slightly defiant. "Which is what a great many people predicted about the President. He's seen as weak, as a sellout, and as biased. Sorry, sir."

Bishwanath said, "I am aware of that perception. It is not helped by constant undermining of my position by certain elements."

"You mean leMieure," deWitt said, "and I agree. But I can't talk to him, you have to do it."

"I've tried. Not only is it unpleasant to breathe the same air as he, he acts as if I am ignorant and unschooled. The arrogance is appalling."

" 'Conceit,' please, sir," Weilhung said.

"Major?" Bishwanath looked puzzled.

"Conceit is bragging of traits one would like to possess. Arrogance is when you can back it up. Agent Marlow and I are arrogant, and brush each other over it. LeMieure is less than that."

"And that is all we can say on this," Weygandt said, looking uncomfortable.

"Indeed," said Bishwanath. "I will handle the politics. Tell me what I need to know of the military matters."

"I want to know why the escalation," Alex demanded. "We've gone from random fire to dedicated, then from attacking the President's political position through nearby infrastructure, to military attacks. It takes time to set these things up. It takes money and brains. It takes intel, and that means someone from off planet with access to our commo."

White said, "I agree, but there are no physical leaks to my commo. At all."

"Not my people," Weilhung said. "I guarantee it."

"Do you?" Alex asked. He didn't mean to sound confrontational, but there it was.

"I do," Weilhung said, eyes cold. "I have even made occasional checks with false intel, to set up ambushes where I had another team waiting to smash it. Nothing."

"Fair enough, I believe you." That was good thinking.

DeWitt shrugged as everyone looked at him. "You have my assurance, for what it's worth, but I only speak for me and three processors under me. There are a lot of people in BuState, and a lot of them have the schedules of events. That leaves only getting the intel of which route . . . and there aren't that many routes."

Weygandt said, "Of course, you know with my background I wouldn't dare." It sounded weaselly, but it was true. The man was a lawyer and knew exactly how bad it would be for his military and future civil careers. He'd be sacrificed in a second and burned.

Alex speculated the leak was leMieure . . . but even that wasn't sure. The man was disgusting, but no tactical thinker. He might be part of it, almost certainly was, and untouchable. He, however, was not smart enough to have any firsthand knowledge of anything going down. Beyond that was the seething morass of civilian management of Army, AF, BuState, Commerce, several local factions with off-planet interests . . . nothing anyone here could do anything about, and something that would take an independent auditor weeks or months to dig up.

"It's definitely making the news, being used against SecGen, against the Army, against you," he said, indicating Alex. "Hell, against everyone."

"Is the press doing it?" Alex asked, and conversation stopped.

Finally, Weygandt said, "No."

"No?"

The man sipped his coffee and shook his head. "No, the press are . . . not helpful. But their whole MO is to stand back and stir through people's images, then glean more ratings. If they had a leak, they'd be publicizing the fact and scooping each other. That's how they think. They're just not that subtle. But it might be a good idea for Major Weilhung to help me clear my own office," he said with some embarrassment.

"I'll arrange a scan, too," White said.

"I agree the press would not do so," Bishwanath said. "They are even friendly to me personally. I am, after all, ratings for them. They would not attempt to prevent or inform anyone of such an event, though."

"So we carry on as we have," Alex said. He felt tired. "If anyone has any ideas, can we agree to share them all around? We have our issues with each other, but it would be nice to get the job done. We can fight over credit later. It's safer than fighting over blame."

"I agree," Weilhung said with a nod.

"Yes." "Sure." "You know I have been." "Point."

They were all in agreement.

But I'm still not telling you where the explosives are hidden
, Alex thought. Not until this was over.

Another day, another escort, Horace thought. The routine ones were not troublesome, merely work with a low-level threat all around. That was the justification for half their pay, he figured. The other half of the pay was for the ninety seconds here and there where the entire world was trying to kill them.

He hoped this return trip would avoid one of those sessions, but it wasn't guaranteed at this point. The loitering crowds were increasing, and there'd been a few tossed rocks as they left in the morning.

"The plaza is bad," Alex said.

"Yes, they really don't look happy out there," Horace replied, squinting. He wasn't looking out a window. He had a camera view from the palace relayed through to Alex's computer.

"Increasing riots and protests," Elke said. "And all of it focused here."

"The President has offered them a scapegoat," Bart said.

"I really recommend finding another way back," Aramis said. He looked nervous, and wasn't joking around. In fact, he was carefully checking over some of the weapons.

"Nope, it's on," Alex said. "Just have to drive through the crowd without killing anyone. The press will be watching. They love crowd scenes."

"Can we use tear gas to clear a route?" Jason asked.

"I agree with that," Horace said. "Better to make them cry than run over them."

"I'll ask," Alex said. He didn't look happy. He might need some stress medication, since drink and sex were not options.

"Can we divert and air evac?" Jason asked.

"Trying," Alex said with a bit more strain evident. He had a lot of people demanding answers, including someone on the phone. "Yes. Thank you, sir, and fuck them very much." He clicked his phone off and sighed. "BuState refuses to cough up for air support. The military won't do it
unless
we are in a fight. I had Massa check with our people and other contractors. Nothing. There isn't enough air support on this planet, because the government doesn't want to 'escalate the intensity' of the conflict."

"So we have to drive in?" Aramis asked, sounding disgusted.

"Yup. I did ask for tear gas. Weilhung agrees with me," he said. "DeWitt does not, for perception reasons, but agrees it's a logical choice on our part. Higher up, leMieure has accused us of germ warfare and terrorism, without seeming clear on what those words mean."

"So we aren't doing it?" Aramis asked.

"We are doing it," Alex nodded. "It took a call to a general, but we're doing it."

"Excellent."

"I, too, wonder at the repercussions," Horace sighed. "Mobs don't react well to much of anything, and we can't shoot them all."

"I believe that is the fundamental issue we face," Elke said. Though she didn't seem to have her usual wit about the statement. She was stroking her riot gun. She seemed to expect to use it.

All convoy drivers called and cleared, and the vehicles moved out in close order, a bare two meters apart. Once in the plaza proper, they closed up to a meter. Progress was slow.

People crowded in close as they drove by. Ahead, the relayed camera images showed the Marines, Norwegians, and Indian troops at the gate having a hard time keeping control.

There were definitely cameras on them, and the crowd was not nice. Nor was it organized, but it seemed to be an entity of its own. As people crushed up against the cars, others moved in front until the convoy slowed to a stop. Rioters beat and rocked the massively armored limos, spray painted them, which would just hose off the molecular-painted surface, tossed rocks, screamed epithets, and raised misspelled banners. Everyone clutched at weapons and prepared to fight if the vehicles were breached. Nothing seen so far was even close to a serious threat, but it wasn't impossible that there was a rocket launcher out there . . . and a limo was not a tank.

They crept forward a bit more, almost touching bumpers, while the crowd milled about in a psychologically driven Brownian motion, depending on anger, ego, or machismo.

Then a loud hiss and a roiling transparent mist of gas caused screams of panic. A large bubble opened in the crowd and they tried to advance.

And stopped.

"Mama, this is Playwright, what's the problem, over?" Alex asked.

"Bodies in the road," Weilhung replied. "Got to wait for them to move. We can't run them over . . . over."

"Understood, over. Shit."

It wasn't unpredictable. People on foot could be pushed aside by slow pressure. Even a moderate speed would cause injury, but they'd clear the route. Once the vehicles stopped, there was no practical or moral way to drive over the gasping gas victims. The convoy was effectively stopped a mere five hundred meters from the palace. No one had anticipated the crowd being that tight.