Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC by Michael Z. Williamson
"No problem. Take that one," Jason indicated with his head. "Tools are in the box."
Holy crap. It only took a glance to realize that Jason really knew his stuff. There were tools and spare parts in the toolbox's trays that could likely assemble the guts of four or five different weapons. He had nice tools, an electronic analyzer for trigger mechanisms, ballistic tests, and bore-sighting, as well as adjusting and programming optical sights, and some custom-made stuff. One of them was a highly illegal box for reprogramming or scrambling operator codes. That was how all their weapons had been made "any user."
It was hard not to feel out of depth, and Aramis knew he needed to back off. Dammit, he'd passed the same tests and training as the rest. He was younger, sure, but he was good for the job and was proving it. He had four years in the military, running good exercises and some real peacekeeping ops.
Jason, though . . . he'd been career and retired, and was still in good enough shape for this. The man knew weapons, medicine, could acquire stuff . . . and he never made an issue of it. Aramis found it aggravating, because he wanted to be that good himself. But that would take years and he was not patient.
This H&K wasn't too different from the one he'd trained with on duty, and they'd had familiarization at Ripple Creek's Academy. Actually tearing down the weapon you'd be using was a good move, though.
Jason didn't even seem to be conscious. His fingers took assemblies apart while his attention was on a screen off to side, which he paused to scroll periodically. Cleaning brushes, cords, cloths, and adjustment tools flitted back and forth, and in minutes, the thing was back together, sitting on the polished floor, its bipod feet padded against the fine wood.
"So why Aramis?" Jason asked.
"Huh?" Why what? It took a moment to catch the question. "Oh, my father was a Three Musketeers fan, when the sensie came out. Even named my sister d'Artagnan. We call her 'Dart.' "
"Have trouble growing up?"
"Because of the name? No. I'm Aramis Adam Anderson. I went by Adam or A or Triple A. I use it now because it's a neat-sounding radio call sign." At least he thought it was neat. Jason didn't seem to be the kind to harass someone over their name. He held the barrel to the light and checked the bore, clean, then picked up the receiver to work on the gas mechanism.
"Yeah, it does have a ring. Though you might have been better as d'Artagnan. And that buffer balancer retention pin comes out the other side, which is why you're trying to fight it."
"Right, thanks," he said.
"No problem. Look, I'm twice your age, and I remember being yours. I think you'll work out fine. Stop trying to prove it and just be yourself, eh? You could easily fit into a position like Bart's or Elke's in a couple of years."
"Ah. Elke." It slipped out. Now it was going to become an issue.
"Yeah, what about her?"
Aramis sat still for a moment, and pulled the pin from the correct side and found it was easier that way.
"I got nothing against her," he said with a shrug.
"Sure you do. I may even agree with you."
"Really?"
"I can't say if you don't talk. I can't advise you if you don't, either." Jason buttoned up the remaining gun and started stripping down a couple of the spare pistols.
"Well . . . EQ crap aside, women aren't as strong as men, don't have the endurance, and react differently . . . not necessarily badly, but differently."
"Yeah, I know that last part. And?"
"And her presence is bound to cause friction for the rest of us. Every time they've let women into combat units, it's screwed things up."
Jason just nodded. Finally, he said, "Well, all those statements are true. At the same time, people with her skill set are rare, and you adapt to the reality. She's also passed the Company minimum and then some, so even if we're both stronger, which I'm pretty sure we are, she's better than a lot of those infantrymen out there you keep talking about . . . infantrymen you are way above, despite any friction or attitude."
Aramis felt sheepish and flushed red. Yes, he was better than average, and proud of it . . . and it was uncomfortable to boast, even though he felt he should a lot of the time.
"Yeah, I know," he said. "And she seems to know her demolition."
"Seems to," Jason chuckled. "Look, I'm fine working with her. I know the kind of jazzy chick you mean. But there are jazzy guys, too . . . you just meet more and can empathize with them more, so you don't notice them."
"And they don't create a problem in shorts or half naked," he muttered.
"Heh. Get used to it, kid. I don't know what the Army's been doing, but it was pretty standard when I was in that you showered or dumped when you could, and your buddy or teammate was likely wired the other way. You deal with it." Jason didn't nearly look his age, but when he said things like that he came across as old and crusty.
"What unit? You said Engineer."
Jason nodded. "Aerospace Force Landing Field Engineer. I did electrical power and controls, and crash barriers and recovery, plus got shot at a few times by locals who didn't like dropships landing in their cornfields." He finished replacing the barrel on his pistol, cleared it, loaded it, and holstered it. "Let's get breakfast. I'll check the grenade launchers afterwards." He stood and stepped into the kitchen.
Aerospace Force . . . and Bart was former navy. Elke had been with some regional paramilitary European unit that barely qualified as military for Corporate's standards. Alex at least had been a Marine . . . but Aramis was more of a "real" soldier than any of the others.
It was frustrating as hell that they all outclassed him.
* * *
Bishwanath felt an eager, nervous tension. One of his new duties, not discussed, was to protect himself. To that end, Agent Weil was teaching him how to use assorted tools that were designed to prolong his life. The necessity was not pleasant. The facts around some of the devices were even less so.
First came armor under his clothes, hot and restrictive, but able to stop most fragments and small arms. For larger weapons, Weil assured him it would "make sure you leave a good looking corpse." Hardly reassuring. Additional armor was laminated in his briefcase, which could unfold in four layers to yield an extensive front trauma plate. The umbrella was heavier than it needed to be. It acted as more armor, and the shaft was made of titanium, so it could be propped on the ground and used as a fighting position.
There was also a small plate that Bishwanath wore plastered to his torso, which he'd been warned to be careful of showing through his clothes. The device was a combination of a long-range transponder, by which he could be tracked in the first minutes of a kidnapping, before it was detected, and an emergency medical system that could both monitor and inject lifesaving drugs—shock reducers, stimulants and heart medication, anything that might prolong his life a short time if attacked. He didn't find it reassuring that such was needed. Nor were the drills pleasant. They were, however, invigorating.
"Go!" Weil said, and Bishwanath snapped his briefcase open and stuck his arms through the loops as the practice papers fluttered around him, popped open the umbrella, and ducked behind it. He shimmied back against a wall to provide maximum coverage of the large canopy of the umbrella.
"Not bad," Weil said. "Practice twice every morning and once at night. I will teach you pistol for defense in a few days."
"Please," Bishwanath said, smiling through sweat. "The Army is very much opposed to the idea. So I embrace it."
"This is going to be a very awkward tour," Weil said. "And it's not because of you, sir. You are a great principal to work with."
"I imagine the conflict between your factions is similar to that between mine."
"Yes, sir. That would sum it up well." Weil looked bothered by the conclusion.
CHAPTER 8
After a week on-site, at last, the team went out in two rotations to get a tour of the area. Alex had gained grudging permission for them to be their own drivers. Before starting that duty, he wanted a thorough f
Jason was still unhappy in the fancy Volvo. He would rather be in a dented and dinged Lexus or some other second-rate flash box. The problem was the President couldn't just buy such, Ripple Creek didn't have the money on hand, BuState wouldn't hear of it for image purposes, and the Army wanted something modern and "reliable," meaning "new."
He, Aramis, and Bart were out with one of the Recon troops, a Sergeant Raviti, who had been here for some weeks and done a lot of driving.
The man kept a running lecture going as he steered through traffic. "You'll notice no enforcement of road laws," he said. "All optional, and four-lane roads are used as five or six on a common basis. Pedestrians have right-of-way if they get in the way and might damage your vehicle or make you late, but can be safely run down and killed as long as the press isn't looking. Officially, of course, we have a policy against that. You'll see people merge from side roads without signaling, and across lanes. Very chaotic. Here we have a bottleneck because lights are ignored. Lights will also not work sometimes."
"Lights," Bart repeated.
"Yes, lights for traffic control, no automatic vehicle controls at all."
Jason made notes, as did the others. He'd known that intellectually. Now he had to actually consider it. That was why they were doing this recon.
"That's the plaza to our left now, yes?" Bart asked.
"Correct. And this is the end of the broad area of the Esplanade of the Nations. Largely used for parades and such during the early years. It is now a convoy road and kept well clear by patrols."
The plaza was paved with tessellated concrete flagstones. There were some elevated areas and other architectural features that had probably been striking when clean and painted. Now, it was cracked, filthy, covered with people treating it as a park and swap meet, with weeds growing through the gaps and cracks. Some stones were missing, stolen for construction or repair, or they may even have been borrowed by city engineers for official use that was more important than the public spectacles held here. When your choice was plaza or road . . .
"What about the plaza?" Jason asked.
"It would be impossible to keep clear so we don't try. That will be a problem for you at the palace."
"Yes, it's closer than we like," Bart said.
"This is a market on this side?" Aramis asked, pointing to a mishmash of tents, carts, trucks, and awnings.
"It is the official traditional market. Farmers bring produce here. Notice the rioting."
It wasn't quite rioting, but there was much pushing and shoving, money and goods being swapped and in some cases forced back and forth. Kids darted under the mob, likely pickpockets, and some shouting matches led to pushing and shoving. The likelihood of more than small-group violence didn't seem great, but was possible.
Someone looked back at their staring faces, then spit and made a rude gesture. The mercs were all dressed in cheap garb with billed hats, like the locals, and looked like contractors of some kind, for shipping, the port, any technical job. For a moment, everyone in the car discreetly reached for pistols and checked the locations of hidden carbines with feet. All was in order, and no violence was offered beyond the thick saliva on the glass.
"There are other markets," their guide said. "Outside abandoned shops or inside them sometimes. On corners that will overflow and block traffic. In the plaza, on the Esplanade. We'll turn down the Esplanade now."
"Only decent thoroughfare and it's largely foot traffic and animals," Aramis muttered.
It was broad and newly paved with once attractive trees lining it, but they were all dead or dry or withered now, with handbills taped to them and limbs broken from vandalism. People meandered across at oblique angles, or strolled.
"You can't run them down here," Raviti said. "It is considered a pedestrian route. You drive slow and polite and don't cause trouble or they'll roll your car." He drove very gingerly.
An ugly, ungainly looking bird strutted across the street. All traffic gave it wider berth than they did the checkpoints.
"What the heck is that thing?" Jason asked.
"The local name for that is a ginmar," Raviti said. "It's a mostly failed derivative of the ostrich. The intent was to provide a better, larger meat animal that could survive on the scrub growth. But while they were amending the metabolism, they came up with something even stupider than an ostrich, viciously aggressive, and very territorial."
"Dangerous?" Bart asked.
"Not as such. Apart from an annoying squawk. The claws aren't much. A kick could injure you, but it's not very coordinated. When it gets upset it sprays feces everywhere."
"So stay in front?" Aramis smirked.
"Yes, but it tends to spin around. The ranchers turned the damned things out. They can't tell friends from threats and attack anything. So they're all feral and largely useless . . . and would you believe the ecosimps have a fund for it?"
"Easily. Likely about how we created the problem, made it a victim, and are at fault, so we should correct our moral deficiencies and become more like this noble beast?"
"You scare me," Raviti said. "We had a group like that here last month."
"It stinks. Bad," Bart said.
"That's not the ginmar. They smell rotten, putrid. That's the chemical plants west of here, still working. We started calling this Ammonia Avenue."
"Good. Ammonia equals nitrates equals explosives," Jason said in understanding.
"Not so much," Raviti replied, shaking his head. "You'd think so, but they're largely nontechnical. I could do that from the factory. No doubt you could. Most of them have no clue. Occasional fertilizer bombs are about it. The real explosives, PETN and such, come in from off planet. The really sexy stuff, Orbitol and Smitherene, are furnished by some political group. We suspect Moveon."
"I thought Moveon was a peaceful front for progressive socialists," Aramis said.
"Right," Jason said. "And you believe that?"
Crump.
"Mortar fire," Jason said as everyone tensed. "Ah, the old days."
"There should not be mortar fire here," Raviti said, looking concerned. His hand went to the weapon under the console for reassurance.
Jason keyed his radio and spoke into the air. The transducer in his mouth picked up the speech. "Boss, we have mortar fire at this grid." He spoke the numbers. While that likely wouldn't matter, any intel was of use.
"Odd." He could hear Alex's frown. "Let me check with White."
"Please do."
Crump. Crump.
Those were slightly closer, and Jason was tingling. He wanted hard cover and there wasn't any that was viable. They were safer in the moving vehicle.
Alex came back on. "It's not directly related to you. Some urban faction and some rural one mixing it up. Jace Cady is on net. She says they're getting fire up north, too. Come on back for safety."
"Understood. Out." He closed the circuit and said, "Sergeant Raviti, we should go back, please."
"Yes, I was reaching that conclusion myself," the man said, turning onto a side street and gunning the turbine to blow through some debris. There were a few derelicts in the way, who scattered. Someone threw a rock and someone else fired with an archaic cartridge weapon. Jason decided it wasn't worth the time to shoot back.
Then they were on another thoroughfare, though this one was dirtier, with shattered and missing sections of road surface. The buildings were further back from the road and most were abandoned: large houses, small apartment blocks—actual blo
"Roadblock ahead," Raviti said. "Suggestions?"
Jason looked forward and saw a handful of armed men with archaic rifles. They were affecting some kind of uniform. Where their loyalty lay was indeterminate. Their barricade was semiprofessional, steel tetrahedrons and wired lumber to bind and slow a vehicle.
"Change routes? Back up?"
"Other routes are unknown. We're only a block off the main route, but getting back could be an issue. We're also sighted. I'd rather not risk backing into another block and giving them more time."