Better to Beg Forgiveness (8 page)

"Incoming fire!" someone said, snapping him alert. Then he heard some pops. Bart had his pistol out, cradled in his lap, hands covering it for control and discretion. Aramis was a moment behind. Alex reached for his, but paused with a hand in his coat and decided to use his radio instead.

Clicking his transmitter to Weilhung, Alex said, "Sounds like light arms and normal harassment. Concur?"

Weilhung replied, "I agree. Hostiles do not appear to be targeting us directly, nor accurately. I'm watching it and continuing on mission profile."

Nevertheless, Alex checked his pistol under his coat again, and noticed Aramis and Bart kept theirs out for now.

Despite the sporadic fire, there were no actual direct hits. The trip proceeded well enough. Just more skinnies shooting it out for macho factor.

"Stand by," Alex said.

"Check," said Jason. Transmitted information was kept minimal. They all knew the drill; commo was just to coordinate.

Shortly, they pulled up in front of the Civic Center, which was the only public building in the district large enough, still intact and with the proper dignified presence to be used for this meeting. The Senate Building, the Federal Courthouse, and the National Building were all rubbled ruins.

There was a crowd here, Alex noted without surprise. Mostly media, some supporters, a few opponents. He briefly considered a comment to Jason, but Jason had done this before and knew what to do.

"We'll wait for them to clear the route, then proceed," he said while looking at Bishwanath. He also meant it as a discreet reminder for Aramis, on his first high-profile mission.

The vehicles stopped. Local police had the plaza clear, which made Alex frown. Not the most reliable support. Shaman and Elke got out and each took one side of the line, walking up toward the entrance. Jason stood by the car as cover. Assorted dignitaries and suited Recon got out of the other vehicles and began walking in. At this point, no one should know where Bishwanath was.

Then Elke and Shaman were walking back, and Alex's radio said, "Clear" and "Clear." He nodded and Bishwanath and the others tensed slightly.

Jason stood by their limo and opened the door, letting a wave of hot, dry air rush in. Bart got out first, then Aramis. Alex nodded to the President's attentive gaze, and Bishwanath stepped out behind them and started walking. Alex hopped lightly out behind him, Jason closed the door and fell in, then Elke and Shaman came back and alongside. They were halfway up the long, tessellated walk before anyone recognized him, and inside before there was any response more than a few shouts.

Perfect
. It was a nice omen and a good first impression to be absolutely flawless.

Almost flawless.

The Civic Center was under control of the military, specifically, the Army. There was a checkpoint manned by bureaucrats in uniform, not five meters inside.

Officially, they were Recon, too, but it took only a glance to determine they lacked the skill set or intellect of Weilhung's people.

"Mister Marlow, hi," one of them said, without looking up from the screen. She offered a hand perfunctorily, which he shook to avoid friction. "You can check your batons and sidearms here, and there's a waiting area set aside for you. I'll have you escorted."

"There is going to be a problem," he announced. His voice was on the loud side of conversational, and he recognized that.
Deep breath. Don't kill the flunky. Yet.
He was also sweating in the cool, dark foyer.

"Sir?" At last, the sniveler looked up.

"Unless the President releases us, we are staying with him. And we do not disarm." There. Calm and straightforward.

The response was one of those smug, condescending grins he just wanted to smash with the baton.

"Mister Marlow, this facility is under military control, and safety is guaranteed—" Alex flicked his eyes at Elke and made a bare shake of his head. She smiled and crinkled her eyes, but nodded the same way, no more than a half centimeter. She would not give lie to that statement. Yet. "—and it's best for everyone's safety if we keep control of all weapons. You understand of course."

Bishwanath wasn't happy, and was in fact, getting angry. This was his nation, but both UN BuState and the Army seemed to think he was a puppet to push around. They denied that status vociferously in the media, but went right back to setting his schedule and "advising" him and shuffling him around like a flunky.

He wasn't going to say anything yet. He wanted to see how Marlow handled it. Was Marlow another puppet, and would he accept the role? Was his loyalty to BuState, Bishwanath, or himself?

Marlow seemed moderately agitated. There was a pause that lengthened, while the officious little twit stared in growing confusion.

"It's 'Agent' Marlow," Marlow said. "Not 'Mister.' And my contract isn't with the Army or BuState, it's with the Office of the President of Celadon, which is the Honorable Balaji Bishwanath. I take orders from him, or from my chain of command. So if you can reach my District Agent, or if Mister Bishwanath concurs, we'll check our gear."

"Very well, if you wish to be formal," the woman said—she came across as a "woman," not as a "soldier." She still hadn't stood up from her desk. Meanwhile, people were milling about. Bishwanath saw three District Representatives from the capital, two others from outskirt regions, and Mister deWitt from BuState, who was looking rather amused at the exchange.

But then the . . . soldier was addressing Bishwanath. "So will you please relay our request to your contractor, sir?" She made the word
contractor
sound like a cross between "pet dog" and "maid." And since Bishwanath's mother had been a maid for most of her life, he really got annoyed.

"I will not," he said. He waited for the confused look to return, then grinned. For a moment, he saw Marlow's face, which was also grinning.

"But, sir, Army policy—"

"This is not an Army function," he replied. "This is a formal meeting of the District Councils and myself. The Army's function is to keep outside threats outside and away."

"But we've taken control of this building," the woman said stupidly. She'd already lost the debate and didn't have any grasp of it.

"It is a civic building, and falls under the Office of the Mayor," Bishwanath said. "As Executive, he answers to the Executive Branch. That is me. If he gave you such authority, I am revoking it. Did he?"

"Er, well, lieutenantcanyouhelpme?" the woman said, turning.

The lieutenant was already standing behind his poor, outgunned sergeant. However, the question was one he hadn't been prepared for. "Er . . . I don't know if he did or not, sir. To be honest."

"Well, it's quite simple," Bishwanath said. "If he didn't, your presence here is not authorized. If he did, I can countermand it. Now, for the sake of good relations, getting started on time, not making a scene, and not interfering with the Army's ability to perform its mission, I will allow you to stay. I see no need to change a plan that's working in the middle. We shall discuss who has what jurisdiction afterwards."
Yes, indeed, we shall. You bastards
.

"And in the meantime, it pleases me to have Agent in Charge Marlow and his team escort me to my booth, and to sit nearby. I also believe their apparent civilian presence will improve the perception that I am actually in charge here, and not a mouthpiece for the UN SecGen and Assembly . . ." He paused a moment, watching the expressions of embarrassment, discomfort, and anger, before concluding, ". . . as some have implied in the news."

The lieutenant actually looked relieved. Possibly not having to put his name on the decision?

"Very good, sir," he said with a slight sigh as he exhaled a held breath. "I'll relay that at once to—"

Bishwanath didn't wait to find out who he planned to ask to be the next obstacle. He turned and said, "Agent Marlow, gentlemen, lady, please escort me."

Then he turned his back on the Army and walked past the booth. He was quite confident that . . . and yes, there they were. The team was around him again, in a perfect square, guiding off his steps. Miss Sykora was slipping what had to be some kind of small explosive back into her pocket.

He grinned. No, he had not been intended to be a sovereign, only a figurehead. But that was changing. Oh, yes. The mobs, gangs, and clans had been warring over this land for a hundred years. He didn't like the waste and suffering from that, and he was damned if the UN was going to add its different, more evolved, but still corrupt influence to the mix.

Behind them, the Army was having a shouting match over who had authority, and who might be prevailed upon to destroy their career by stopping Bishwanath. He smiled. Now if only the negotiations ahead would go as well . . . 

President Balaji Bishwanath. The title sounded like much more than it was. At best, he wielded the power of a midsized town's mayor on Earth. Despite its population, Celadon's economy was small.

He entered his apartment and turned to his escort. "Miss Sykora, thank you. I appreciate your efforts."

"Thank you, sir. Let us know when you need help," she said. "Delivery complete." She nodded once more and turned as he closed the door. He'd never get used to them speaking into the air. Their transmitters were dental plates that sat on the teeth and were all but invisible. The receivers were those tiny buds in their ears that also worked as amplifiers and filters. The equipment wasn't even particularly high-tech, but it was higher than anything here.

He exhaled heavily at once, and pulled his tie the rest of the way off, then started on the shirt and jacket. He needed a drink.

Bishwanath was tired. At every step, he'd had to debate not only his opponents, but his allies. It was infuriating. BuState, with good intentions and a committee of political scientists, was prepared to create his government. They were smug and not very discreetly condescending about his thoughts on the subject.

They wanted to "modernize," and in that he agreed. However, they had different definitions of "modernize." Their definition would make Celadon a molded copy of Zimbabwe, and Bolivia, and Borneo. A second-rate nation stuck with the expensive trappings of first-world pretension in the capital, with an ongoing struggle for relevance. Too, they expected that the same infrastructure would be used, which would destroy any national identity. No culture, trade, or tourism, just one more cog in the machine, providing raw materials at a horrible exchange rate, with the cost of interstellar travel.

He sat in one of the broad, stylish chairs. "Stylish" in a fashion of two decades ago. They came from no real culture, were just castoffs from the modern world. New, but not original. All of Celadon was like that. All of the planet, in fact.

It wasn't just that they were poor, uneducated, and undeveloped. They had no cultural identity. No reason to care. Each tribe had leftover scraps and machismo, and xenophobia of other tribes, from back on Earth, mixed with their development here. They all regarded it as important to keep the others down, and thus never made progress.

Earth made him think of Abirami. He'd promised to send for her soon, but he wasn't sure that would be possible. Until the threat level came down, it wouldn't be advisable. No doubt Miss Sykora would be happy to escort Rami around, but a single principal, as he was called, was easier to guard. Best she stay on Earth in the town house in Connecticut, conveniently located close to New York. Her photos showed it to be very pretty in fall, and she had things to keep her occupied, if she was lonely. Once he had things in better mettle here, then she could come home.

He needed a drink. He also needed to avoid falling into it as a trap. One double of a fine bourbon would help his tension and anger, which was tightly controlled and eating at him. He must keep his poise, invite others to see him as a voice of reason in the scrum.

Bishwanath knew the solution. He was willing to make the sacrifice that must be made to accomplish it. That would win him no friends and lose many he had. He was already seen with distaste by his would-be handlers. He would be reviled by many here, including his own people. He had no idea how history would view him, but that wasn't important. What was important was a nation, a people.

The sipping that had brought him through the first half of the fine amber liquid was not enough. The rest disappeared in a gulp. Elijah Craig probably wouldn't have approved of his whiskey being guzzled. The man had come from a culture with an identity that lived on, though its geography was now merely part of the North American urban sprawl. Celadon did not have that.

But in Balaji Bishwanath, Celadon, BuState, warring tribes, and now the Army, it seemed, had the one thing they all needed to get past the obstacles and solve problems.

They had a person to bear the blame.

"Okay, so what went right with that operation?" Alex asked.

Jason sat back in his chair and didn't put his feet up on the table. He knew where this would go, and was curious to see if the kids got it. He met Alex's eyes and both of them nodded a bare fraction of an inch.

Bart spoke first, after considering for only a moment. "It was smooth in transport. Movement on the ground was excellent." His voice was clear even from across the room, where he was guarding the other entrance to the President's quarters. As soon as possible, there would be a barricade in the hallway and any supplicants would have to come through the team first.

Alex said, "Good. Next?"

Aramis said, "I think commo was clear and concise. There was nothing confusing." He was obviously thinking about it at length, which was the point of this.

"Right. Elke?"

She stretched upright and erect and said, "I had the resources I need, a good amount of intel to start with, and our position was understood by our immediate allies."

"Exactly. Shaman?"

"We had control of the situation door to door." His voice boomed even when conversational.

"Jason, what about you?"

Leaning on his arms, deliberately looking casual, he said, "We had room to maneuver and the crowd was at a distance, plus we had backup."