Better to Beg Forgiveness

  ****

  "This is it," Alex said to Shaman, amazed at how calm he sounded. Whoever had discovered them was twitching on the ground ten meters away at a blast from Shaman. No one had seen Jason and Bal that he knew of, so it was time to create distractions and vacate this area.

  He fired a shot into the wall behind, paused a second for a response, then fired five more times in a vertical line to break a hole. He crashed through, leaving skin. His face, arms, and chest stung and burned and he was bleeding in ten places at once, but Shaman could tape him up afterward. Right now, he needed an outside wall of some kind, or a stairway. This was a vacant office with a desk and computer but nothing to indicate human occupation. It was just one box of many. He pulled the door on the far wall and Shaman led the way through in guard position into another hallway of this rat maze. No civilians, no threats. Behind them, however, was a large amount of noise as security people arrived. He yanked the initiator on an incapacitance grenade and tossed it in as he closed the door. That was area denial at least. Three meters to the right, Shaman opened another door, fired a preemptive stun at something and waved. Behind him he heard the beautiful sound of someone violently heaving their guts and banging on the door in panic.

  In two more twisted passages they reached an outside wall with a rolling overhead loading door. Somewhere was a ladder or elevator, but it wasn't here. He heard definite sounds of troops in both directions. This area was hotter with fumes and a hint of fresh outside air.

  Gulping, he hit the lift button, grabbed hold of a ridge on the door and jammed his boot toes into another. If he could ride this up, there might be something to hang onto.

  From outside he heard, "Shit, there's one!" and someone fired at Shaman with a real weapon. Shaman ducked, rolled, zapped in that general direction, and ran. Three people pursued him, local security in plain coveralls. Three more bashed through a wall and caught sight of the fracas and followed. Now they were chasing him, and none of them noticed Alex rising up with the door.

  The full height was ten meters. Alex reached six in a panic, looking across both levels of offices, until he saw enough bracing and scaffolding to take his weight at least, a couple of meters higher. He wouldn't fall unless shot, and he could snipe at the minimum. Not that many meters away, he could see Jason and Bal creeping along ductwork.

  Then three blasts almost blew him off the door. A cloud of dust billowed to his right and a gaping hole opened in the wall. He cringed and clutched, eyes closed against the dust until he remembered he was on a rising door and had to find a handhold at once. He took a glance through slit eyes, saw a girder, and snatched at it. He kicked off, wrapped his legs around and started shimmying backward. Below he saw the concrete floor, a cruel bitch he didn't want to get intimate with. He didn't loosen his cramped hands until he felt a vertical truss that let him stagger carefully upright. From there, he had to step gingerly along the five-centimeter-wide joist using wires and angled braces for balance. He took a much needed break to calm down. Sweat was pouring into his wounds and the combination gravity and atmosphere getting to him.

  He almost fell when he heard more shooting and explosions. But those were a good thing, because it meant this wasn't over. That was also a bad thing, as it meant this wasn't over. Any time now, sensor gear would be brought in and start showing vital signs, including his. They were on minus minutes and counting.

  He cautiously eased forward. Ahead was the overhead of the offices, and beyond that the soundproofed double walls of the studios. At this point, his greatest fear was that someone, probably on the other side, would take out the power or antenna and leave them with no message to send. He had to hope their plan was to be as discreet as he'd hoped to be, and be struggling with the reality for a few more minutes.

  ****

  Someone was busy, Jason thought. A triple blast indicated Elke, he hoped, and not some other agency. He heard general shooting now, coming from all directions. The six of them had managed to tie most of the security up, but there was bound to be some at the studio entrances, still. Elke was right. They needed to be overhead fast, and rappel down. They only had to get Bal in, and not get dead in the process. That would do the trick. At least he hoped it would. This was the final drive and they had no Plan B now. Not even Elke had that much explosive.

  "Come on, Bal," he urged. He'd taken the lead because Bal was having serious trouble with the heights and swaying supports. Well, so was Jason, but this was the only feasible way.

  "Coming," Bal agreed, and kept moving. It was taking ongoing support to keep him going, though. The man was near mental exhaustion and looked ready to give up. He was lagging from a combination of the environment, the duration, and the stress. However, now was not the time, dammit. Harsh measures were called for.

  "Bal, if you fuck this up at this point in the game, I will kick your ass, and then I will shoot you myself. You are part of this team and you are not fucking it over because you've had a bad day."

  A look of pure rage crossed Bal's face, then slipped back underneath as he nodded. Jason could see his jaw grinding as he walked, though. He'd hit close with that one. Good. He'd do it again if he had to.

  A strap popped and the ducting creaked as it repositioned. Jason held out a hand and clutched at Bal's, then pulled him forward. Another snapped and he had to skitter back himself, spreading their mass out over as great an area as possible.

  "Hand and knees," he said.

  A bullet whanged by, the weapon's report echoing in the large dome. "Over here!" someone shouted.

  There was more fire from another direction, then two groups were shooting at each other. Just ahead was the thick mesh of a catwalk with railings. That was safer for walking, if more predictable.

  "Hurry, Bal," he urged again. "We're there."

  ****

  Alex had almost reached a work platform welded against another upright when the weapons fire started. Far across the dome was a man with a carbine in a good shooting position, aimed in the direction of Bal and Jason. He had to do something about that, but the only weapon he had at this point was a pistol. A shot at that range was almost ludicrous, but he only needed to be close. Better, still, that he did not hit. He leaned across the small floor and took careful aim, then fired.

  In moments, he was taking fire in return. They couldn't see him, but could deduce it soon enough.

  A crashing blow on his shoulder told him "soon enough" was now. Spots flashed in front of his eyes as he passed out from the pain.

  ****

  Horace had no idea what to do other than seek people out and put them down. At this point, they wanted to not draw attention to Bal by crowding him. Jason should be enough, and with Alex up above, or more, he could work best down here.

  The question was, how many of them had his picture, had memorized it, and would recognize him now? If he could get close . . .

  "Help, security, I see a man!" he shouted in his best American accent. Most of the execs in this field were American, after all. His suit was dirty but that was not unexpected.

  Damn, they were good, he thought with disgust. Two Recon troops just appeared, one through a wall leaving a hole, and one dropping down off nearby scaffolding. They pointed weapons at him.

  "Where?" one asked.

  "Right there," Horace said, pointing with his empty right hand up into the framework above. When they followed his finger, he swung his baton out with his left hand, flashed the light and zapped at the same time, just as they swung at him.

  He did get both of them. They got him. The irony of the combat doctor getting shot center of mass was not lost on him. He felt a sledgehammer blow to the chest and went down.

  ****

  Elke reached the top and hopped lightly over the secured gate onto the catwalk. The coiled cable and her bag tangled somewhat, but they were annoying rather than a real hindrance. She confirmed there were six walks radiating from the center, and that Bal and Jason were on another one heading to the cross-route that wou
ld put them above the studio. The plan had been to meet at the supplemental control room off to her left from here, but they saw each other and headed straight for the access at the center of the studio. Power was still up and the broadcast was still going on. Aramis had been right. Interfering with a broadcast was the one thing the government did not want to do, and they weren't going to discuss it with local hires around. Add in the debate between bureaus as to who controlled what, and it was still an exploitable situation. She moved as fast as she could while keeping silent, senses alert for threats. Not that she could do much with just a couple of small charges; all her weapons were behind her, and she hoped Bart would take care of her shotgun.

  That was the moment she heard him burn off the cassette down below. So he was still in the fight. Her rear was secure.

  Panting, heaving for breath, she fell against Jason for a comradely hug that was hands on forearms, then pulled the cable over her head.

  "Lose weight before going down," she said. She ripped the fastener on her torso armor as she did. "These cables will be good once at most. I hope."

  ****

  Jason was glad to see Elke. He was more glad to see a second cable in case they needed it, and someone to escort Bal down. As the lightest, Elke was the right choice for that, and he'd keep control up here. She'd figured that out and was already doffing gear.

  "Bal, come here," Jason gestured. He started tying a bowline on a bight, to make an ersatz seat. It failed on the first attempt until he reversed the loop, then it worked but used up most of the cargo strap. He wished Bart was here. Bart had been wet navy and had practice tying a lot more knots a lot more times. Swearing, he yanked it open and tied a single bowline. "We'll have to get you down quickly."

  "How strong is that power cord?" Bal asked, looking worried on top of all the other emotions cascading over him, as Jason dropped the loop over his shoulders.

  Jason started coiling the cord in, trying to get a good, loose pile to feed from. He was going to have to lower Bal manually.

  Someone saw them and shouted, "Over there, above Studio Two."

  "I'm going to lower you faster than it can stretch and break," he said. "But slow enough you are not hurt."

  Elke swore, stepping into an improvised abseil in the other cord, shoulder, crotch, thigh, and back up. In her hurry, she'd done that before tying the far end to a brace. Now she was fumbling to do that.

  "I trust you," Bal said.

  "Which is why you're sweating," Jason grinned. "Hang off the edge and let go when I tell you." Bal did do as he was told, age apparent as he bent awkwardly over the railing and hung by hands and feet, right above the access hatch. Jason measured out cord. He had plenty, and might need some for himself shortly. He took a moment to tie a loop around the railing with the other end. He tugged at the railing because it seemed very flimsy, but it held against his weight.

  Stun charges started cracking nearby. None had the range so far, and no one was using lethal force yet.

  BangCrack.

  That was a bullet, he thought. Now they were shooting. Twenty meters away, trying to shoot through the web of structural walls, hangers, trusses, cable runs, and pipes was a Recon assault team looking very odd in tactical harnesses over suits and shirts. That didn't make them less deadly, and he didn't think they'd stop for cameras. Jason and Elke dropped directly onto the roof of the studio, hoping the blown polymer would take the mass. Bal had flattened out on the catwalk, and Jason helped him wiggle through and down. Then Jason had to reach up, untie the cable, and reposition it so it didn't bind through the railings.

  Seconds, we have seconds, he said to himself. Do it!

  "Elke, we need a distraction as soon as you get down there. Something Spaniel will pay attention to long enough for Bal to say hi, and not think it's an attack."

  "Oh, distraction?" she asked. "Like what?"

  "Make Aramis proud."

  She stretched in her harness, rolled her eyes, sighed and said, "I suppose for the Cause I can go with maximum mayhem, screaming, girly crying, and bare tits if need be. But I better see a bonus."

  "Consider the audience," he said.

  "Consider me on the hyperweb," she replied, looking disgusted as she stared at him. "I'll do it. On three." She snatched a lightstick from a thigh pocket, cracked it, stuck the end in her mouth, and ripped it with her teeth. She let it hang there oozing bright blue goo as she raised the hatch. Light and sound and positive airflow spilled up from the sealed facility, illuminating her. She was wrapped in cable over pants and bra, sheened with sweat, disheveled, and bruised.

  Another bullet cracked past and Jason shouted, "That's three, go!" and grabbed the hatch, as she growled and jumped.

  ****

  Bishwanath gulped as Elke dropped down the hole, and again as he was chivvied off the roof, down and through. He dropped, panic making him shake, until he felt the cord behind his shoulders yank and stretch. Somehow, he could feel it stretching faster than Jason's jerky lowering, and panicked again. Below, Elke spun and the floor below her twisted dizzyingly, and people were looking up. They started cheering, pointing, shouting. Obviously, they thought it was part of the show. There were three bizarrely dressed individuals on a couch near center stage, and two others off to the side on chairs. It looked like an orgy of body paint had been in progress.

  "Get the camera on that!" the director hissed and pointed up at them.

  Well, he was on camera. Though this was not how it was supposed to be. He gulped as he fell, because he was sure the cord was parting. Elke touched down with athletic grace and threw the cable off herself with a dramatic wave. Her bra came with it leaving her in suit pants and boots.

  "There's been a terrible accident!" she shouted, arms wide as she tossed her head. She'd spilled the lightstick down her chin and her breasts were glowing a bright Cerenkov blue over pink nipples and tanned skin, rivulets running down into her pants.

  "Get the camera on those!" the director shouted, looking simultaneously shocked, confused, and thrilled.

  The cable did part just before he landed, and Bishwanath banged one knee as the point of his chin struck the other. He felt blood on his lip and stood, slightly groggy.

  Spaniel was halfway toward them, flanked by his shaven-headed, mean-looking goons who actually wore black shirts that proclaimed, "Goon." Into his microphone, he said, "First we have an explosion behind the studio, now we have some unusual guests. This is certainly one of the more interesting systems on our space tour."

  Get up, get up! Bishwanath urged himself, forcing all his remaining strength. Just five seconds.

  He rose and held out his hand. "Good afternoon, Mister Spaniel," he said, grinning a friendly grin at the camera to his right. "I'm President Bishwanath of Celadon. I hope you will pardon the unorthodox methods of my bodyguard, but the situation itself has been most peculiar."

  His grin turned an amazing combination of triumphant and vicious. That look was what would be remembered for decades, not the angry shouts and screams that followed a few seconds later. "The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated," he quoted. There were close to a thousand eyewitnesses here in this studio to attest to his presence. LeMieure was going to wet his pants.

  "Mister President, this is certainly most interesting," Spaniel said taking his hand in recognition while staring at Elke, hands on her hips, who looked challengingly at him as she heaved for breath, chest rising prominently, scarred with welts from the cord. He might run a show that resembled a zoo full of howler monkeys, but he was neither stupid nor slow to exploit an opportunity.

  "Won't you please take a seat."

  One of the cameras exploded as three men came through the roof in a shower of polymer. People screamed and an NCO shouted, "Stop, it's over, dammit!"

  President Bishwanath grinned again.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Weilhung was dictating his daily reports, a process that took two hours that wasn't scheduled, in a day too short, when a message blinke
d in. He finished speaking the paragraph, glanced at the header, and saw it was from recently promoted Sergeant White. He wondered what she was calling about. They'd been in touch, and she'd had useful info for the palace evacuation after action review, very helpful in removing him from the incident with Bishwanath. She'd been cool about that, apparently helping because he'd asked. Fair enough. The politics of it all sucked, and she'd really been out on a limb he didn't care for. Maybe she had details on the newly arriving President Rajani?

  Still. "Hello, this is Major Weilhung."

  "Major, you're just in time," she said as she came on-screen. She was in micro G, her hair floating loosely. "I'm aboard Strident, and this is a conference with Mister deWitt, Colonel Weygandt, and Mister leMieure." Their faces flipped on-screen as she said, "I thought you'd all like to see the following."

  The image flipped to an interview before anyone else could offer a greeting. One of the two was some annoying talk host. The other was . . .

  "Holy shit."

  He couldn't believe it, but part of him was thrilled. The man was alive! Damn, those Ripple Creek fuckers were good. Weygandt didn't seem to agree. He was cursing heatedly. DeWitt was chuckling. LeMieure sounded incoherently apoplectic.

  It ran for about ten seconds, as Bishwanath talked about being told he was dead. Six groggy, wounded, and beat-to-hell contractors sprawled across the studio, some of them leaking blood, while a second feed showed a car blown to hell, massive holes in the building, and some of his Recon guys stunned or trussed. The conscious ones, he was relieved to see, said not-a-damned-thing. Sykora was next to Bishwanath with a mismatched jacket over a bare chest covered with blue lightstick goop. What the hell was that about? Marlow bled from a shoulder wound, Mbuto's armor oozed reinforcing fluid, while someone checked him over for further wounds. Anderson was already bandaged and Weil was shaking himself awake from a heavy stun, with one pants leg dark from congealing blood.

  White came back on full screen, the other minimized faces all showing some sign of shock. "Would you care to comment, Mister deWitt?" she asked.