The thing flapped away and didn't return, but its presence had certainly been putrid. He took a seat at the rear of the bench and as Bart dialed the ramp up, he looked around to see if anyone was laughing.
"Gross, eh?" Jason asked from across, panting for breath and caked with dust and sweat on his skin, powdered gray on his suit, which was shredded in several places. He bled from a couple, where he'd caught the rebar in the wall. Shaman was applying bandages and disinfectant.
"Yeah, kinda." Kinda. He felt hugely embarrassed. What a contemptible fucking bird.
"Kinda? Son, I'm halfway to puking from the smell of that disgusting fat chicken. If you're only kinda grossed, you're a better man than me." Jason didn't seem to notice the treatment of his shoulder.
"I can see why no one likes them," Elke said.
Attention moved back to Bishwanath, who looked fairly clean and just a bit ruffled.
"I thank you," he said. "I am not sure what that was all about, but I am in your debt again. I am unharmed and somewhat invigorated, if annoyed at why the infrastructure of my country keeps getting torn down by these bastards!"
"I wish we could offer help on that, sir," Alex said. "But I don't know who to ask, unless Mister deWitt knows."
"I know," Bishwanath replied, head in hands, looking tired. "We shall just carry on."
There was an awkward silence for a moment, while everyone tried to find another subject.
Alex finally asked, "Aramis, who was that back there in the mall? You seemed to recognize him."
"Uh, it's hard to explain, Alex. I'd rather not, in fact." He was flushing crimson, possibly from exertion, but it was definitely at least partly embarrassment. This was not a great day after all.
Bart added, "Let us just say it's a mall world after all."
Aramis cackled at the joke. Bart had done it in English, too.
"What?" Alex was really confused now.
Bart said, "That was about our response, ja. You don't want to know. Trust me."
"Okay. I'm guessing you met up with some other contractors."
"Close enough."
That was all they would say. Aramis was grateful for that fact. He was going to need to burn these pants when he got to the palace, and shower in bleach. Explaining about a mall tactical team didn't appeal.
Chapter Fifteen
Well, the news is full of it this evening," Bart said.
"It's my experience the news is always full of it," Jason said. It took Bart a moment to get the joke, but yes, that was true.
"On the positive side," Jason said, "the worst they are saying about us is that we 'gracelessly dragged the President to safety while doing substantial damage to a store and the outside of the mall, see attached picture.' "
"Who's taking the flak?" Alex asked, pulling the channel up on his fliptop.
"Factions," Bart said. "They do not attempt to say which faction or why. I believe they just want the banners and like the word."
"That's their audience," Jason said. "Anything beyond a sound bite is too tough to figure out. Recall that this war started because 'the SecGen has shipping interests.' Yes, rather than start a trade route or embezzle some funds, he started a war no one likes against people who blow up ships, threaten starports, and offer to toss KE weapons at cities, just to get rich."
"Eh, that's why I don't bother," Aramis said.
"That is how we stay aware of our jobs and possible next contracts," Shaman said.
"I'm going to take a nap," Jason said. "I'll cover tonight. If you need any help with weapons, leave them tagged on the rack. Later." He limped slightly from the dings he'd taken.
Bart was experienced enough to have some grasp of politics. There was no money on this planet for itself, only for its use as a transshipment point. There were bound to be lots of people who liked it as such, and didn't want it to change.
Aramis came through from the bathroom, cleaned up and in casual clothes. He still looked angry.
"I had to toss the pants. Couldn't get them clean of the stain."
"We'll want to avoid those things," Elke said. "But the locals get upset if you shoot them."
"They don't seem to do anything with them," Bart said, wondering.
"No, they're useless and annoying, but are seen as a sort of disgusting entertainment, and people pity them."
"Strange."
They'd eaten a snack before the event, but since it had been brought to a halt, none of them had had dinner. That was just as well. The team's dinner would have been field rations eaten cold in rotation, hiding in a back room out of sight. This way, they got a proper meal Bishwanath had brought up from the kitchen, with salad, sandwiches, soup, and some stew and light desserts.
Bart was glad he was not in charge. Every one of these events caused Alex to sit in the corner grumbling as he typed and dictated an after-action review. One at a time they reported their findings, and Elke downloaded her photos and vid.
When it was Bart's turn, he gave a terse rundown of hearing the fire, watching the crowd's reaction while moving the President to safety, and the disengagement and withdrawal.
Alex asked, "Okay, so who were those mall ninjas?"
"Mall ninjas?" he asked back.
"You know who I mean."
"Honestly, boss, we spoke to them, they wanted weapons, we said no. We thought they were some kind of nuts. They seemed to be well armed."
"Better than some of the alleged pros. I wonder how Simoncorp arranged that," Alex mused. "Well, not my problem." He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. "But I'm certainly tired of the bookkeeping."
"You should clean up and rest," Bart said. "You started early this morning. I'm awake now, Jason will be up later, we'll call Aramis if we need relief."
"Yeah. Good idea."
****
Bishwanath stayed up late quite often. He also found himself spending more time with his real security detail. They were all very bright people who took a sincere interest in him as their charge. Not at all the mercenaries they were made out to be. And apart from some comments by young Mister Anderson, they were quite reticent about the scorn heaped on them.
Although, he'd noticed, if you watched carefully, you could see the tension. That reached a crescendo when the news came on. While it was easy to be secure in oneself, a little professional recognition was nice once in a while, and like he, they were not getting it. That also might explain why he found their company pleasant—shared misery.
Their schedule was hard to parse. Jason Vaughn, from a substantially longer day cycle, slept in odd shifts and kept odd hours. Alex was on the local day as dictated by Bishwanath's schedule. The others varied.
Tonight, his company was Bart Weil, who was very reticent and quiet. His English wasn't quite as good as Elke's, and he seemed to be more private even than she. He didn't play chess well, but had a keen mind for other puzzles and for building fascinating structures out of cardboard, toothpicks, small boxes, and even ammunition rounds. Some of his mindless doodles were enough to make the eyes water. He understood illusion and misdirection quite well, and he was a good card player.
But after a day like today . . .
"Mister Weil, would you mind terribly if we practice some more this evening? I don't want to disturb anyone, but I need to work out some anger."
"Certainly, sir," Bart agreed. "It is always a good idea if you don't overdo it."
So he spent an hour in his apartment, running through drills on cover and concealment, donning extra armor, and how to move under fire. Then, Bart showed him in detail what he could do in his apartment.
"I would hide right under that chair," Bart said, indicating a wickerwork piece. "It doesn't look large enough, but will hide you for several seconds while we respond. Never under the bed. It is too obvious and will be shot first. That dresser will probably stop some pistol rounds, and if you are armored will help provide additional barrier protection."
"Yes, I see. What of the closet?" he pointed.
Bart opened the door and looked. Among the robes, suits, casual clothes, shoes . . . it was as big as the first house Bishwanath had lived in.
"I would move all the way back and under one of the stands. But that is only good for a few seconds. Obviously, your best bet is to run into our rooms. In an emergency or if you feel threatened, by all means come right in to any room, shouting your name as you do."
"I don't think it will get that bad," Bishwanath said. Dear God, I hope not! "But if I need to I will. I owe you the courtesy for all you have done."
"We will try to make sure it doesn't come to that, sir." Weil grinned. "This is just a worst case scenario."
Sweating and tired, he felt much better. He had a few aches, but that came from not being twenty anymore. He envied the team their fitness. With the diet and culture in Celadon, even the most muscular couldn't hope to be on par, and certainly not once over thirty Earth years old, like Vaughn and Marlow.
"Do you feel better, sir?" Weil asked.
"Yes," he replied. "Yes, I do. Also more confident and relaxed. If I could shoot a few things myself once in a while . . ."
"Sir, I haven't actually shot anyone yet, and hardly any suppressing fire."
Bishwanath stopped for a moment and thought. No, no he hadn't. He was used to thinking of firefights where hundreds of rounds were fired, and eventually the odds caught up with someone. He'd also thought that as trained professionals, they should have a higher rate of hits. In fact, they'd hardly ever fired their weapons.
It was something to consider. Having fought didn't necessarily equate to skill or knowledge of anything other than the fear and intensity one felt.
"It must be frustrating to be locked into your role," Weil offered as they walked back into the parlor.
"It is very frustrating," Bishwanath agreed. "I'm flexible on development, as long as we have something. I'm even willing to give Dhe and his cronies—Ton, Mer, and Stein—more than an equal share of development. They may be corrupt, but they do want to make their people happy.
"It seems that was a mistake," he said, sighing and taking a seat on the couch. "They don't want to share. They're willing to attack each other, and possibly themselves, in order to create strife they can blame on each other, and me. The aggravating thing is I can't just have the National Army exterminate them."
"No, that would be very immoral." Weil sat facing the door. Always.
"It also wouldn't work. Their local forces are better than anything I can bring to bear. The BuState people call it 'warlordism,' but that's not quite correct. They're above being warlords, but are certainly feudalistic, greedy, and fascist." He was cooling down at last. Yet Bart was hardly mussed.
****
Bart was intrigued and flattered to be talking to a president. Bishwanath was far more educational and satisfying than music stars. In this case, the principal was smarter and better educated than he, rather than the other way around.
"Can you place them in positions where they take the blame for failure?" It seemed reasonable and moral to use their own techniques against them. He went to get a drink from the kitchen, and Bishwanath replied as he did so.
"I would, but they are masters of deception. If something goes wrong at their end, it's my fault for hindering them. If it goes wrong here, that's also my fault. With off-planet media supporting them, I am damned no matter what I do. Accept UN help, I'm a puppet. Refuse it, I'm selfish and egotistical.
"Not only must they succeed, others must also fail. So they fight each other, and ally together only to stab at me."
Bart pondered for a moment and said, "Perhaps you are lucky in that you know none of them will attempt to play you from behind." He handed over a glass of apple juice.
Bishwanath chuckled. "There is that. I can assume they are all threats. And thank you."
Bart wondered if the man was being too nice. If the locals respected bastards, then be a bastard. Kill a few here, jail a few there. King stork, as the parable went. While not a good thing, it might be better than the childish fighting now. After all, it was what Bishwanath's opponents were doing.
He didn't think it was the kind of thing he could offer, though, nor was it his place.
"Have you taken your medication tonight, sir?" he asked instead.
"Yes, I have," Bishwanath replied. "And I am grateful that you treat it as quietly as you do, all of you and Rahul."
"We are happy to help, sir," he said. "We would not want you to get ill or worse under our protection."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry, Mister Weil," Bishwanath replied. "No doubt my opponents would blame that on me, too."
They both laughed heartily, and then Bart realized something.
"But the press would claim it had been our fault. They'd be fighting between themselves to decide which story gave them more dirt: self-caused death at your end, or incompetence or dishonesty at ours."
It was a dark, dark joke, but the potential truth made it hysterical.
A door opened, and Jason stuck his head through. "I'm awake. Care to fill me in on the humor?"
Chapter Sixteen
Four fucking weeks, Aramis thought.
Four weeks of psychotic, on-edge fear and insanity, with attacks all over. Most had been incompetent and foiled far away from the President's entourage. The Army had done its job and caught a good number of factional operations with its patrols.
But some had gotten through close enough for both the team and Recon to have to hit it. Violence was growing elsewhere.
Every morning, Bishwanath and Alex, with Jason sometimes, were tied up in meetings. Alex was on the phone with District quite often now. This was an independent command, but their supplies and payroll came through District.
The good news was that Corporate had managed to get another shipment of weapons in and they were coming up from Receiving now. Jason almost giggled at the stuff being laid out.
Looking at that again: Jason was giggling. Some of the firepower was . . . impressive. There were missiles, sensors, extra ammo, a brand new machine gun, another tonne of explosive for Elke, and a Medusa. How the hell anyone had managed to get a Medusa, and get it sent here, was one hell of a question. Aramis had only read about them in news releases and speculation, but that massive, clunky thing couldn't be anything else.
"What the hell are we going to destroy with that?" he asked.
"Anything that gets in our fucking way," Jason said. He looked his age, and very cynical. With all that experience, the man knew his weapons and knew what to ask for.
"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.