Better to Beg Forgiveness (42 page)

"How do we do that?" Horace asked. "Get aboard?" He was leery of this, not having worked in space much.

Jason answered. "There are gigs, floats, loaders, sleds, and such around tramps to load them. No one expects stowaways, and nothing armed can get up there from this hellhole, sorry, sir"—he nodded to Bal—"so we'll be assumed to be loading. It's common to go inside to unsuit and get relief. We just stow away until they're ready to button up. Then we do whatever we're going to do."

"Carrot and stick," Alex said when attention came back to him. "We'll need someone on the hatch, someone in the bridge, and the rest ready to provide force. From here out, Bal, you're a mercenary. If they don't know there's a VIP, they can't ask any questions."

Bishwanath nodded and said, "I still know how to use a weapon well enough. I could use more of your tactics to blend in better."

"Absolutely. Bart, teach him more."

"Of course. Whenever we have spare time."

"What's the end plan, then?" Aramis asked.

"I must make it clear I am still alive," Bal said while Horace watched carefully. He seemed much more present now that things were moving and they had distance from the palace. Horace had checked him over. The stress was not good on a man his age, but seemed to be under control. After coaxing, he'd agreed to a quarter dose of tranquilizer.

Bal continued, "If I can get that word out, it gives lie to everything going on here. Then we can negotiate."

Aramis said, "Any broadcast in this system would be squelched. We'd have to try to time it for a departing ship to carry it through." He was fidgeting, which was normal for him.

"And to a system other than Earth. They'll squelch it at their end."

"Any ship leaving here goes through Sol System," Shaman said.

"Yeah, I hadn't missed that point," Alex said. "So we have to go through Sol System and find somewhere else to put the word out, making it common enough knowledge that BuState can't deny it. That's why we decided on Grainne."

"It would be better if they try to," Horace said.

"Oh? How do you figure?" Alex asked.

"If it's increasingly public knowledge, with Bal making releases and statements, if they lie about it, it improves the response when they're caught because it's an obvious conspiracy to commit murder, stage a coup, control the smaller nations. The entire Colonial Alliance would be outraged, and smaller Earth nations."

"Right."

"But I fear it will be a hard task to get him out."

"Yes, yes it will. Worth the money?"

"No, but it is very much worth the man." Horace had dealt with several principals. They varied from annoying to a pleasure, incompetent to genius. Bal was tops in both categories. He might not be the right politician for the job, but he was very much the right
man
for the job. That BuState didn't see that was a scathing condemnation of this administration.

"So we just steal a ship?" he asked, hazy on this and wanting background.

" 'Charter' is the term," Jason said.

"Charters take money," Bart said, "something we are short of."

"There is always barter," Bal put in.

"Barter for charter," Aramis laughed. "Accept my charter or I'll shoot."

"If we have to, yes," Jason said. "But I think I can be persuasive, if you all give me some room when I ask for it."

"Not a problem," Aramis said, sounding confident. "You lead, I'll provide the goon factor."

"I am the goon factor," Bart said, smiling. He was easily twice the mass of most men on this planet.

"Getting a ship means getting to the port first," Elke said from her perch. She was now using her bag as an armrest and cradling her shotgun while watching the melting explosive. The brief detour without it had clearly bothered her. "It is well guarded, as we discussed."

"We're not going to this port," Jason said.

Aramis looked interested now. "Are you serious that we
drive
to Bahane?"

"Who'd expect it?"

"No one," Horace said, "because there is the small matter of an ocean in the way, or a long detour on dirt roads through the subarctic."

"I don't anticipate any real problems until the sea," Alex said. "It's a discreet principal movement with a one-car convoy."

"Are you thinking of buying or renting transport as we go? Or commandeering?" Bishwanath asked.

" 'Commandeer' is so formal," Elke said. "Now that we're closer, shall we just call it stealing?"

Bishwanath chuckled. "I am so very glad you are on my side, and I wonder how any of you stayed out of jail so long."

"Because we had official sanction and lots of guns," Jason said. "We still have half of that."

"Guns, explosive, and big brass balls," Elke said.

"So let's rest for a few hours. I want to roll as it turns dark," Alex said.

Bishwanath woke at dusk. He was groggy, but he did feel better. He'd survived a real firefight, a car chase, an infiltration, and theft in two days. If not for these professionals, he'd be most assuredly dead.

He recalled that when first presented with the budget for his security, he'd balked, but Mister deWitt had insisted that these were the professionals that anyone in his position needed for protection and image. He was not arguing with that anymore. They'd saved his life multiple times and were risking everything to secret him out. "Mercenary" was a foul insult, and the commentary in the press obscene. These people had the highest integrity and honor he'd ever encountered.

Of course, he reflected, that was what people were paying for, at the same time they sneered at it: loyalty that could be bought and kept, no matter what happened.

They hadn't fully accepted him as part of the group, and likely never would. He simply did not have their training or fitness. However, they were treating him less like a president and more like a normal man. That was partly cover and partly familiarity, he presumed.

He appreciated the humor, even if some of it was rough to his ears after so many months portraying the gentleman.

Shaman was sorting his medical gear and making lists, as he did often.

"We are running out of band-aids," he said. "Everyone will simply have to scrape their knuckles and limbs less."

"You heard the man," Jason said with mock sternness. "Get hurt less. That's an order."

Grinning, Shaman continued, "I will need something I can use as heavier trauma dressings. I can substitute feminine pads in an emergency. Elke, can I delicately ask if you have any?"

"Sorry, I use leeches," she said with a shake of her head, not even looking up from the pistol she was cleaning.

Bishwanath choked. Her delivery was deadpan, and no one else even twitched.

Bart said, "It would not hurt to have some stocking material we can use as either masks, bore snakes, or washing bags for small components."

Jason handed out food, mostly field rations with some candy. "There is water boiling over a fuel tab in the shower for heating," he said. "Don't move the stove. The fumes are going out the vent from there."

Bishwanath took his through to heat while the others kept packing. He had a pistol in a holster for close-in self defense, and nothing else to carry save a change of clothes. The shower stall made him shudder. Certainly, the palace had nice plumbing, but he'd grown up using a bucket and hose wedged over a door. This, however, was disgusting. Between native molds and Earth mildew, the "nonstick" surface was a rainbow of reds, blacks, blues, and greens. One of the team had wiped an area clean around where the small stove sat, but he wanted desperately not to touch the rest. This "hotel" wasn't even a flophouse. He'd rather go dirty than shower here. He tried to ignore the filth as his ration pack heated. There were self-heating rations available, but they bulked more than these, so they weren't common amongst infantry or bodyguards. Given a choice, he'd take the bulk at the moment.

"Eat fast, we roll in twenty minutes," Alex said. "Bal sits in the middle with Jason and Shaman flanking. Bart drives, I have shotgun. Elke and Aramis are tail gunners." He stuffed his own gear down even tighter and tossed out some of the rubbish that always accumulated in gear.

"I should ride shotgun," Aramis said. "It's the standard position for the plucky comic relief."

"You are not the plucky comic relief," Jason grinned.

Bishwanath sucked down the last of a package of beef stew—quite good, for a field ration, certainly better than goat jerky or pickled fish.

"I am ready," he said.

"Sit here until we are," Shaman said, indicating space on the bed. It was well worn, having been used by the two of them to sleep in. Jason and Elke had slept in the other one with everyone else on the floor and a rotating watch. The constant movement had prevented a solid six hours sleep, but the enforced rest and napping had helped. Bishwanath was alert enough to be nervous again. He wanted to move now. It seemed ages until they piled in.

That was a lesson in preparation. Alex stood next to the vehicle and said, "Go!" and they did.

Elke and Aramis strode straight out the door, climbed in with their bags as cushions and unlimbered weapons they'd wrapped in blankets. Shaman and Jason moved one ahead and one behind of Bishwanath, settled in, and started positioning small arms. Bart mounted up front as Alex locked the room door, leaving the old-style key card inside.

There was only one route going where they needed, and it had a certain level of military traffic on its five lanes. That traffic would decrease the further they traveled, but it was possible there would be checkpoints, too. From discussion, they were prepared to blast through or detour around as indicated. Bishwanath let himself slump back into the apathy and dullness he'd learned when young. Sometimes, it was the only way to stay sane on this world.

Alex wasn't thrilled with having one vehicle, although it was in great mechanical condition. He was paranoid that one breakdown was a hundred-percent mission kill, rather than fifty percent or less. He was also nervous that the vehicle might be IDed, transponder and locator signatures aside. On one hand, distance took them further from obvious recognition. On the other hand, the further they went in a good condition off-planet vehicle, the more obvious it would be. Fuel would also be a problem. Diesel fuel would work for a while, but it wasn't the best formula for a precision turbine, and would also crud things up eventually. Any debris in it would play hell with the fuel system, too.

They were adequately armed now, with a belt-fed grenade launcher, three machine guns with ammo including some Bart salvaged off the Medusa, plus their carbines with grenade launchers and pistols. Jason had been and was still busy disabling safety circuits, and several of the local weapons were needing ongoing percussive maintenance to keep things working. Elke had a few kilos of HE salvaged from the rockets, plus her shotgun with only two cassettes, the third cassette having been expended leaving the palace. The video of that was impressive. He'd had her burn a spare file on the one computer they still had, just in case the evidence would help them.

He kept watch out the window in the rapidly falling dusk. It was amazing how
big
a city could be when it was nothing but shit. Most of the continent wasn't terraformed, roads were few and mostly dirt tracks, so the population strung out along those few roads. When infrastructure and commerce collapsed, they moved closer and closer to the few functional centers. A historical example was Mexico DF, which at least had had electricity and some plumbing. This was a nightmare of filth.

"You know there are golf clubs back here?" Jason said, drawing one from the storage tube under the seat and along the turbine hump.

"You're kidding," Alex said, bringing his attention back inside.

"Nope. Not a full set, just two drivers, a wedge, and a putter, I think. I'm guessing. I don't play golf."

"Can we salvage them?" That was weird. He'd swiped this from sewage contractors, who apparently had more downtime than they admitted.

"Possible carbon fiber tube, molded grips, possible trade goods as is," Jason said.

"Then keep them for now."

"Traffic is building up," Bart said.

"Yes, I noticed that. Tail gunner?"

"There are a few vehicles, yes. Mostly trash," Elke said.

Trash was true. There were a dozen vehicles or so within a kilometer. Most were missing windows and were jury-rigged in various ways. Most were piled with cargo. One actually had cages of chickens atop, a donkey trailer behind, and kids hanging off the roof. God help them if they fell. Even after the beating so far, this vehicle stood out, dammit.

"Don't use lights," he ordered. A few moments later, he added, "Snarl up ahead," as an advisory. The road had been fused at one point but was broken rubble and dirt now, rutted and rough. Still, it was better than cross-country, which was why it got the traffic it did, which made it worse.

"Why the snarl?" Bart asked.

"I'm not sure. There's an intersection ahead of that market." He sighed. He was starting to hate local markets.

"I see the awnings and carts. I see cars. I see one empty corner lot full of people and three buildings," Bart offered as confirmation and as intel for those who couldn't see.

"Two-story shacks, not real buildings," Alex said.

"And traffic is stopped." Bart braked. They were three vehicles back in a four-wide jam against three-wide coming the other way, with vehicles stuck across. At least they could see the cause of the trouble now. Two ******s were mating in the middle of the intersection. No one wanted to get too close, and Aramis's experience was probably a good reason why.

"That may be the most ridiculous and disgusting combination I have ever seen," Shaman offered, laughing.

"It certainly lacks dignity," Bart agreed.

"I'd hate to think how pissed off those things are if you interrupt them getting a piece," Aramis said. "If your car has broken windows, you're not likely to mess with them."

"Can you get us through here? I hate being stuck," Alex asked. That wasn't the right phrase for it. He wanted maneuvering room now. People were staring at the truck.