Better to Beg Forgiveness

  "Assholes!" the troop returned. Some of his buddies were heading over, but the rest were snickering and pointing. They thought it was a score of bragging points.

  Meanwhile, Elke slipped back, grabbed a drum-fed grenade launcher and edged around the building behind the crowd. One man made to stop her, but she handed him the bottle as she walked by, and just kept walking. He eyed the bottle, eyed her, shrugged, and said nothing.

  ****

  Bart and Jason panted as they piled into the grumbly. They weren't young anymore, it had been a long day, and they'd grabbed an overload of hardware. Aramis nailed the throttle as soon as they were balanced more inside than out, and came out onto the street where Elke was at a sprint, grenade launcher at high port. She threw it at the open door where Jason was, who caught it awkwardly and hauled it into the back, while she dived into the passenger side through the window.

  Her abused victim had a great view of her ass, framed by the window as the team drove off shouting obscenities.

  "Back gate, fast," Jason said as he helped haul Elke in. He grabbed shoulder, breast unintentionally until she squawked, arm, and belt and got her fully inside. She tumbled from head down and ass up to sideways to right way and buckled in.

  "Hand me that grenade launcher just in case," she said.

  "In case of what, exactly?" Bart asked, but handed it over.

  "If the gate is closed, we go through the fence," she said.

  "We're going to die or go to jail for this," Jason said.

  "That gives it some spice!" Aramis whooped. "Don't you feel alive?"

  "Not as alive as I do after a good beer and a fine blow job," he said. "Sorry, Elke."

  "No problem, I agree," she said.

  "It's been less than three minutes. Think it's safe to go through the gate?"

  "Change vehicles? Split up?" Bart suggested.

  "Or just say FIDO," Jason said. "Fuck It. Drive

  On."

  "Drive on it is," Aramis said.

  They made it through three of the four weaving barricades on the exit before someone came running toward them shouting.

  "Just smile and wave, boys," Jason said, and did so.

  Then they were through.

  Behind them, Security seemed unsure. A military vehicle with military personnel had run out the gate. They had military weapons. The report was that pranksters had taken hardware from another unit. They were outside now, and a firefight wasn't a good thing to have on the street. Then, they were military, and that wasn't a cool thing to start . . .

  By then it was too late. Aramis took a corner, another, and a third, and slipped into a long line of traffic of which every tenth vehicle or so was military.

  "So far, so good. Now we head back."

  "And then we have to decide how to get out of here," Bart said. "We're still in hostile territory and have just abused our friends."

  In ten minutes, a car behind blinked its lights twice. "We're here," Alex's voice came. "How's it look?"

  "We're good if you are." Casual. The radio lingo was very casual. Anyone scanning the net should decide they were civilian workers.

  "Follow us to dinner," Alex said, then pulled up and passed them. He and the others were in a much newer enclosed truck. Aramis was pretty sure it hadn't been purchased. It looked like another contractor vehicle. That made sense. Contractors hated reporting thefts, and the military gave them low priority anyway, as they were just basic transport, not military gear, and it was largely deemed an insurance issue.

  He led along one of the main routes, with military vehicles going both ways. It took serious balls to drive a stolen vehicle with stolen weapons as a solo, not part of a convoy, and act as if everything was cool. It was working, though, and damn, was it a rush. Jason was chuckling, Bart quiet but smiling, and Elke snickering. They had a hard time keeping serious expressions, because they were so blatantly in trouble if they got caught.

  Shortly, they pulled into another cheap motel, this one a long row of little boxes, the type of place where six men of various races and a woman would be taken as an illicit party, a criminal enterprise, or government agents making a woeful attempt at camouflage. They'd be watched by the locals, but they would not be reported, if Aramis guessed correctly.

  The others swarmed his grumbly and looted it for everything removable in seconds: weapons, tools, first aid kit, and the second capacitor. Elke brought out empty packs and bedding that were used to camouflage the stuff for transfer into the room and the other vehicle.

  Then Jason jumped into the grumbly with Aramis while Bart grabbed the new vehicle.

  "Follow me."

  In short order, they abandoned it in a seedy neighborhood and swapped to the new one. Aramis kept his hand on his pistol. It was that kind of neighborhood, all burned-out stores and houses converted to something else, with little going on save drinking. He figured the grumbly would be stolen or spare parts or ransomed back within the hour, and leave a confusing mess for anyone to decipher. Of course, an in-depth scan for DNA would identify the occupants. Bishwanath would not show, though, so it would be taken as simple theft by the team. Since they could legally travel through BuState or Mil, that would mark them as having gone criminal, likely over some black market stuff. He didn't envy Alex the job of explaining this afterward.

  ****

  "Well, that would appear to be significant," Weilhung said to deWitt. Both were seated at terminals with a screen set up in front of them. Two intelligence troops and some contractor from BuState were helping sort through information.

  "Money spent, military vehicle hijacked, and base raided for weapons. Certainly significant," deWitt agreed. "What do we make of it? You're the military expert."

  Weilhung clouded for a moment then realized that deWitt meant it earnestly, not as a slam.

  "Well, there are similarities between me and Marlow, but considerable differences, too. We're talking background, training, and current mission and assets. I see this going one of two ways. Either they're trying to set Bishwanath up somewhere with guns and money to be a local lord who won't be noticed. That means eventually he'll send for his family and we can track him that way. He's not the type to abandon them. Or else they're gearing up to find a way off planet."

  "How likely are they to pull that off? I served decades ago," deWitt admitted, which was not too surprising—he had a good, professional attitude that smacked of soldier, but it was also rare for a bureaucrat to admit to getting hands dirty. That he said so was a mark of trust. "But I'm not as up to date on a lot of this gear as I'd like to be."

  "There is no chance they can get any ship we control, which is anything leaving this continent," Weilhung stated as a fact. He was sure of that, because no matter what one thought of Aerospace Force, they did have very strong security measures around their ships.

  "So you expect them to hide out here? Maybe set him up, then either go private locally, or scream for help and say they never saw him? Plead misunderstanding?"

  "I'm not sure, sir," Weilhung said. "Neither option makes sense or is viable. They shot themselves in the ass as soon as they started this." It was true enough. He wasn't going to mention the other option. If those crazy fuckers really thought they could get across planet and hijack a ship there . . . well, they'd probably die in the attempt, but he'd grant them the professional courtesy of allowing it. You didn't rat out a troop who was doing something spectacular and likely to become a legend.

  "Right," deWitt said. "So, let's assume they do plan to get off planet eventually, to some stash Bishwanath or his allies have. Because staying here does not make sense."

  "I would agree, sir," he said.

  "And let's assume they do want to hide him. Here, he has no assets. Off planet, he can hit his bank accounts and transfer holdings before the UN moves to freeze them. Being even a 'dead' head of state gives him some advantage there. He might lose half or more, but he can still be a comfortable exile, as opposed to dead."

  "I can't fault him fo
r wanting that. I'd guess his best bet is just to quietly disappear and never even hint that he's around. He's not young. Another thirty years and it won't matter, and he's old enough to be patient."

  "So if I wanted to get off planet and knew everyone was looking for me," deWitt reasoned, "I'd find another way off planet. Something that didn't involve UN ships or military perimeters."

  Damn, but the man was good.

  "That . . . wouldn't seem any more viable than the other options," he cautioned, trying to dissuade enthusiasm for the plan.

  "What are the chances of them deciding to head for Kaporta?"

  He paused for a moment. "Sir, I'd never attempt it if I didn't have to. But if they think they have to . . . I can't say the odds are good."

  "That's not what I asked."

  Damn.

  "They might. They've been crazy and resourceful so far." And, God, I wish we had a thousand troops like them. "It's unlikely, but feasible." And I will do everything I can to convince BuState that it's the last thing they'll do.

  "I'm going to add it to the list, then," deWitt said.

  His expression made it clear he didn't like doing so, either.

  ****

  In the hotel, the team held another strategy conference. Horace was exhausted from the events of the last day, and he hadn't even been part of the raid on base. The younger ones seemed possessed of limitless energy, but he knew they'd collapse soon enough.

  "We're going to Grainne Colony," Alex said from the back wall where he could watch the door. "We can use the laissez-faire system to get us where we need where we can do it with cash and smooth talking, whereas on Earth we'd run into bureaucrats and guards, and even Elke doesn't have that much explosive."

  "You shame me in public," she commented. "But are probably correct." She sat where the now stolen vid had once been. There were no local stations anymore, anyway. Around her were tens of disassembled grenades and rockets. The filler was mostly standard Smitherene with booster layers she sliced off. Horace cringed every time she scooped some into a small pan she was using to melt it and recast it into bricks and conical breaching charges. She also had a few kilos of Composition G salvaged from flex mines.

  Jason picked up the brief. He and Alex had plotted this at length, at least ten minutes, while Horace and Aramis had moved gear into the room and secured it. Jason had also spent that time with Elke's help, destroying the transponder on the vehicle and trying to change enough signatures it wouldn't be found before parking it behind the row of shacks called the Plaza Hotel. That gave at least some measure of distance in case of attack, while keeping it within reach.

  Jason also watched the front of the room, from the corner of the bed and wall. "So we need to get onto a shuttle into orbit. That can be done with money. Then we need to get hold of a gig and get to a Grainne-bound and Grainne-registry ship. We know the ship. We have a tight schedule or else we'll be left hanging and will probably be IDed by the UN Space Guard or Aerospace Force."

  "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.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  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 pro
fessionals, 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.