Better to Beg Forgiveness…: Chapter Two

    They traveled in silence the remaining few kilometers to the palace, the troops fuming and distant, even if close enough to touch.

    As they neared the edifice, Alex assessed it with a practiced eye. He recognized it from photos, but a bit worse for wear. Random fire had hit it, and not much maintenance had been done. It was apparent why the press always showed it from a distance, even apart from security concerns. The Palace had never been impressive architecturally, merely large. With a scruffy façade, it just wasn’t eye catching, especially through heat-crazed air.

    As they get closer it grew larger, and didn’t get much worse, but certainly not better. There were desiccated lawns around it, with some weeds creeping in, and low walls and spike fences that had been more than decorative at one point, with sensors and stunners and other defenses. The bright sunlight just seemed to point out the current lack.

    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 vests 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, spreadeagled 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 professional image.

    “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.

    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 nametag 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 floorplan, 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 onsite 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 3rd basement.

    “Weak government, 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 looking 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 doorframe, 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, though 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 said 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, electrolytic drink, 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.

    Bishwanath continued as if there’d been no interruption, as Rahul left. “Excellent, Mister Marlow. And Mister Vaughn.”

    “Palace security,” Alex continued as if he hadn’t just been told the locals were full of leaks and potentially corruptible as neutrals or enemies, “breaks down into external and internal. The military has external, though we’ll watch this immediate perimeter. Inside, it’s the domain of Miss Sykora and Mister Mbuto.”

    They stood. Elke was sweaty from shifting boxes of gear, mostly explosives. Shaman was carefully cleaning his hands from handling non-medical gear. He did that almost constantly and without conscious thought.

    “I will be setting up monitors and reactive devices on several internal perimeters, sir,” Elke said. She took a healthy gulp from a glass of lemonade. She gasped when done and said, “Even if we are not around, there will be defensive mechanisms. I would like to install some in your private apartments, if you will trust me.”

    Bishwanath looked slightly tense, then fought it down. “How much eavesdropping is required?” he asked.

    “Sir, I will be happy to shut it off at any time on your order. If you need privacy for political or personal considerations, it’s none of my business to monitor. At the same time, automatic systems should be armed, and you can override on a word if you need to. The more I can monitor from here, the better. I’m sure you’re worried about publicity of secrets—”

    More likely publicity of girlfriends, Alex thought.

    “—but my system is programmed not to keep logs of that. You are welcome to come look for yourself any time. But only you or one technician you escort, to keep my material secure.”

    “And I would like to monitor your vital signs, and also air ducts, windows and food,” Shaman said. “Let me know of exercise and I can instruct it to ignore high metabolic readings. I would like to make periodic inspections of the quarters, and I will escort you on each trip. After any attack, I will examine you for external injuries. It is possible not to be aware of them.”

    “Yes, I have had that happen,” Bishwanath nodded. “I agree. Please pardon me. I’m not used to this level of attention and it feels not only odd but intrusive, even though I know it is necessary.” He looked disturbed and sad, then resumed a professional mask.

    Alex recalled Bishwanath was married, but his wife would not be along until things stabilized. She was still on Earth as a moderately wealthy exile. Of course, that “moderately wealthy” had translated to “hugely wealthy” here. That had to be a lifestyle change.

    And that wasn’t his concern. His concern was keeping this principal safe. How was Bishwanath dealing with the separation? That was something to follow up on.

    Few people realized there was a necessary rapport between guards and their principals. You had to learn their mannerisms, quirks, how they’d respond to requests, demands, being slammed to the ground for cover, how to motivate them to keep their morale up in a crisis. A polite, intelligent and friendly charge made it easier, but it was possible and just as important with a jerk you hated, as long as he understood you’d do your job.

    Bishwanath was easy, so far, but any VIP at this level had to be hiding secrets. Alex didn’t need to know those secrets, but he did need to have a feel for the man.

    “And what of Mister Weil and Mister Anderson?” Bishwanath asked.

    “They’re our youngest and toughest, sir,” Alex said, without adding, and most expendable. “They’ll be close in, and prepared to carry you if needed, block you from harm, aggressively protect you from threats. At the same time, we are specialists in our fields but each crosstrained to some extent. At any moment, the operator on scene or seeing a threat may take charge, and we will follow those orders until circumstances resolve. So if Mister Anderson locates a threat outside while I’m still in the car, you can expect that I will do as he tells me as far as reacting and responding to it.”

    “And you’d like me to do the same, you are saying,” Bishwanath said with a nod. He didn’t seem bothered by the idea. In fact, he seemed glad of the discussion. Good.

    “Exactly, sir, and I appreciate your understanding. It helps us do our job.”

    “We should talk again, then, when I have time. In the meantime, I think we should look over our upcoming itinerary as soon as we can.”

    “Excellent, sir.” Alex waved and everyone moved in close. He noted with approval all now had body armor, carbines and pistols, and were assembling commo rigs. They'd do everything in that basic gear except shower, for the duration of the mission.

    Bishwanath opened up his doccase and started fingering commands. He had the latest style that worked on finger movement without any actual contact with keys, and wasn't popular because it took a lot of sensitivity and training to operate. That was another sign that he was comfortable with modern, even futuristic tools. The device clashed with his glasses and archaic suit.

    “These are times, locations, and purposes,” he said. “You'll notice several are to smaller venues to meet with tribal leaders. I cannot insult them by demanding they be disarmed. Your Bureau of State would like me to not make those appearances, but I must.”

    Alex cringed. Yeah, he had issues with that. Huge ones. He glanced around. Elke was grinning, probably at the thought of gadgets and explosives. Aramis seemed to like the idea of being Billy Badass to the peasants. No doubt he could clobber several of them at once, but the idea was to avoid engagements when possible.

    Alex said all he could. “We'll manage. Do you have body armor yet, sir?”

    “I do, but could use advice on it.”

    “Mister Weil will work with you. That's his field.” In part because he'd done more actual close-in bodyguarding as opposed to combat missions. That would not be a good way to phrase it, however.

    “Thank you,” Bishwanath said, and Bart nodded.

    “My pleasure, sir. I think I shall enjoy your attitude in contrast to some of the celebrities and corporate managers I've protected.”