Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC by Michael Z. Williamson
In a moment, Bishwanath was chuckling warmly.
"Mister Vaughn," he said, "every clan on this planet has some agreement with some chief of every clan. That's how business is done. Think of the corporate and union ties on Earth. This is like that."
"Sort of like winning the lottery and finding all the relatives you never knew you had?" he offered.
"Exactly like that. Exactly. All of them angry that I won't make favors."
"What problems are you having, if I can ask?"
"I can speak of some," Bishwanath nodded. "My own people expect position among the government. I am expected to guarantee this as a matter of course. Whether or not they are qualified for any position is irrelevant. They are entitled and I owe them, because we are kinsmen. What of their inability to do the job? I should hire a subordinate to do that, doing all the work, for less power, prestige and money, and have the 'government' pay for it."
"Mm hmmm." There wasn't much to say. Bishwanath understood the problem. Jason understood the problem. The idiots couldn't, wouldn't, and weren't here.
"Other factions, of course, expect the opposite, to show that I do not play favorites. All expect handouts for their groups, again paid by some mythical government that has bottomless pockets from some source of revenue not in existence. The only relevant source of income in this nation was black market percentages. That is now gone. If we can come to some agreement with our two neighbors, we can exploit the asteroids. They are far enough outsystem to make them easy to transport. Of course, that requires a stable nation here first."
"Bootstrapping," Jason commented. "Check."
"Blast you and your unconventional strategy," Bishwanath said. A moment later, both of them lacked queens. "Or is that a strategy?"
"It is," Jason admitted. "Though it's for lower grade players, most of whom don't play well without a queen—they rely on it. So by swapping I force a more tactical game I can play better."
"Astute," Bishwanath admitted.
A few minutes and several moves later he said, "I thought you were also offering that as a gaming metaphor for something I should do in politics. But if you are, I cannot see what it is I am to do."
Jason laughed, heartily but softly. "No, sir. No ulterior motive. I have opinions on politics, but if I had any aptitude or real interest, I'd work for BuState at the very least, not as a mercenary bodyguard."
"Ah, BuState," Bishwanath said.
"Aggravating?"
Bishwanath seemed evasive. Finally, he said, "How well do you get along with Mister deWitt?"
"Well enough," Jason offered. "I think he's former military. Honest, straight shooter in a nest of snakes. Decent guy, but stuck in a job with starry-eyed idiots."
"Yes, I agree." Bishwanath moved a piece and sighed. "Check. Apart from him, they all know what's best for me, and can quote historical examples. When I point out that every such example is a nation that either survived on charity from some major power, or fell into endless civil war, like Indonesia in the twenty-first, or Liberia or Iraq before they were absorbed, they get rude, as if they're doing me some favor."
He breathed deeply, obviously angry, and said, "I am doing them the favor. They have a list of wants and needs to be accomplished. I am willing to give them at least half of what they ask for. Instead my goals for my country are ignored, or worse, treated with smug contempt."
This was how well the man played chess when exhausted, angry, and focused elsewhere, Jason thought. He could see his defeat in about four moves. Bishwanath wasn't even looking at the board, really. He was giving his attention to Jason and the conversation.
That attention was a distraction. Strong personality. Still, while the game was a challenge, hearing his host and employer out, as well as shamelessly gathering that intel, was more important. He blocked the attack with a pawn and spoke.
"I've never liked the hubris, I guess it's called, that these guys show. If they're so smart, why are they bureaucrats and not leaders? Washington, Franklin, both Elizabeths, William, Carl Gustav, Caesar, Mao, Pitt, Ghandi, Shaka . . . whether heads of state or statesmen, we recall them and their works. No one remembers a SecState or a Deputy Chief of Economic Development Counseling or whatever."
"And yet every one of them believes himself or herself to be my superior," Bishwanath said, holding a rook and gesturing. "Even deWitt. He is informative and educated, but he does make assumptions on how I will deal with an issue. In his case, he's been here long enough to have some picture. Usually, he's not far off, but he presumes to proceed. I can't blame him; it was like that until I was brought in a few weeks ago. In some ways he has more experience than I do. But I am the President. I am not the warrior you or your comrades are, but I have fought. I am no Marcus Tani, no Simon Bolivar, no Winston Churchill. I seek to run a nation that has somewhat less resources and assets than Atlanta or San Diego, but I do seek to run it, and I have experience with these people and this planet. These . . . desk-sitters . . . would tell me how to do the job, with nothing to support their theories than older theories." He placed the rook down carefully and said, "Checkmate."
It had taken two moves. Wow. The man was cagey.
"I'm not sure what I can offer, sir," Jason said. "I'm just a mechanically inclined grunt who got lucky. A high-gravity environment lets me keep fit, and I've done executive protection because it was available and I was good at it. I have opinions, as I said. I can't offer any useful insights."
Bishwanath was carefully putting the chess set away.
"I appreciate being able to vent to an outsider," he said. "And I wish the other nonexpert outsiders shared your modesty. We must play again sometime."
"Certainly, sir. I or Bart are awake most nights, and Elke plays, too. She's likely better at problem solving."
"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."
* * *
"Supply run," Jason said the next morning. Alex was at the morning chitchat, leaving him in charge.
"Where are you going?" Aramis asked from his computer. He had a list of sundries and luxuries he could use filled.
"Someone is going on post."
"Someone?" he asked to confirm. "Hell, send me."
"I also," Bart said. He'd been watching the wall and doing push-ups from boredom. The local dialect had to be even harder for him, not being a first language speaker of English.
"Military Exchange and then some stuff from Operations Store. I have a purchase order number and a corporate card. We're allowed two hundred each discretionary, after that it comes out of our pay. Got the list for team goods. Everyone scrawl down what you need."
"Suits," Aramis agreed, grinning.
Elke looked over. She was hunched up in a chair almost cuddling her screen. "I have a few things." She scrawled hastily and handed over a note page. The printing looked like that of a machine. Very precise, very fast. Made sense, if she handled explosives.
"Sidearms, carbines, and grenades only. No heavies. Take the Pimpmobile," Jason ordered. That was the oldest Caddy in the vehicle barn, and looked the least presidential. "Stay in contact. Scramble Seven."
"Seven," Aramis agreed and set his radio accordingly. Body armor, casual local tunic to blend in better, even though his skin was lighter than the locals, especially in this weird orange light. Phone, sidearm, magazines, a handheld with maps and codes. Lists, cash, cards, corporate ID, all the basics he wore every day, adjusted for a civilian mission.
Bart was ready, and Aramis couldn't wait to get out of the palace.
Once out the rear gate and past the Bodyguards, who were standing alert and conducting actual perimeter patrols, he gunned the engine and headed into the maze to the north, making several turns to evade ID. There was still a risk, but leaving the front meant going through the plaza and the heavily trafficked areas where being made and pursued were much more likely. After a couple of minutes, he deemed it safe to find a main road, using the onboard map.
It was always good to get on post, where most of the people were
He pulled up to the gate and had his ID ready. He slowed as directed by the signs and the MPs and tried to be as accommodating as possible, professional to professional. He wove through the barricade slowly.
Window down, he eased up to the shack and said, "Anderson, Weil, Ripple Creek, Palace Detail."
The MP was younger than he was, and nervous under his professional demeanor. It showed. "Okay, sir. Can you get out of the vehicle for an inspection? And you'll need to sign those weapons in. Sidearms only for nonmilitary personnel."
"I'm Reserve," Aramis said quickly, pulling out that ID.
The MP was suddenly even more serious. "Not when on contract you're not, and I wouldn't show that around. You know it's a violation to for soldiers to go contract."
"I'm inactive," he lied/admitted. "But can't you grant us the courtesy? We're at the palace, not some visiting advisor's guards."
"Sorry. Rule is all nonmilitary check anything larger than a pistol."
"No," Bart said softly.
Aramis wasn't even considering that. Something about it just made him refuse.
"Sorry, we'll have to stow them at the palace and come back. I can't turn company weapons over to noncompany personnel."
"It's a real pain to let a vehicle get out of here," the troop complained. "Can't you just do it? They'll be right here and tagged."
The debate was minor, stupid, and getting out of hand. All the MPs had to do was move a small barricade, since the entrance was designed so vehicles could be channeled in or out.
"No, I don't have that authority, sorry," he said, and prepared to wait.
Grumbling, the soldier and his buddy from the other side closed the gates, then lifted and moved the barricade by hand so Aramis could drive through and back out through the maze to the highway.
"What do we do?" Bart asked as they turned onto the route. He seemed as agitated.
"Hold on," Aramis said, smiling. He keyed the radio. "Playwright, can you call your actors and tell them we need a favor, over?"
"Aramis, what do you need, over?"
"I need a better route. There were some roadblocks. Ones we couldn't argue with, over." He couldn't actually say what the problem was, even scrambled, in this environment.
"Stand by, over."
"Standing by, over." He kept driving, watching for blocks or threats. They were one vehicle, not a convoy, after all.
"Aramis, use Gate Four, over."
"Gate Four. Understood, out."
"That's just south of here," Bart commented.
"And guarded by Marines." Yeah, it sucked to admit that the Corps would treat them better, even with him being a Reservist.
Gate Four was set up the same way, but was guarded by four Marines. They looked at the IDs, checked the vehicle's palace transponder, ran around with sensors, and waved them through. The whole process took about fifteen seconds.
"All this to shop for groceries," Bart groused, leaning back with a hand on the integrally molded roll bar just above his head.
That part went easily enough. There were a few looks for the civilian vehicle and a few more for their garb. They'd left the carbines well hidden in footwells, but were carrying grenades that weren't on any inventory.
They didn't really need the extra hardware on base, but they weren't trusting the weapons, with disabled safeties and that were black market, around anyone who might follow up on the issue, and they certainly weren't traveling around town with just sidearms, especially with the violence escalating. At that, the rocket launcher under the seat bench had never been mentioned to anyone.
They shopped off the list, paid and signed the contractor voucher—which was also used by food service, transport, engineer, and other contractors—loaded up, and left. A thirty-minute errand with two thirty-minute, ten-kilometer round trips and a thirty-minute detour.
"What now?" Bart asked.
"Playwright, this is Aramis, over," he called while grinning at Bart.
"Go ahead, over."
"I'd like to shop in the town market, over."
There was a pause. "Go ahead. Keep location visible, stick to open areas, over."
"Understood, out."
"Extra weapons?" Bart asked.
"Weapons, maybe . . . souvenirs. Possible intel. All kinds of stuff." That, and he wanted to say he'd seen something of the planet other than cars and official places. He was entitled to an hour of vacation.
He planned to be cautious. No doubt, he and Bart could kick the asses of any twenty locals. There weren't twenty, though. There were thousands, and the end result of an argument would still mean they were dead. In civilian clothes, they weren't too remarkable. There weren't a great many offworlders, but enough that they were respected for the money they brought in. He shuffled bills and silver around into four different pockets and handed some to Bart.
"Don't want a strike to clean us out," he commented.
"Right. What are we buying?"
"Anything useful or interesting."
He parked in an abandoned lot with a dozen other vehicles in it, ranging from hulks to other modern contractor type trucks and cars. Good sign. They got out and started a tour of the booths and stalls.
Clothes, fabric, local food he didn't dare touch, tattoos, sex . . . all kinds of stuff, but not what he was looking for. Chintzy handicrafts . . . maybe that carved stone cat for his mother's collection. Nice choice, and cheap. He haggled the carver down out of manners and drew out a single bill and a coin, which simple act garnered the attention of every vendor and beggar within sight. Bart put on an expression that on his big German frame promised a brutal graunching to anyone who tried to horn in, and they moved on.
"Jackpot!" Aramis grinned. "Fucking sweet."
It was a bladesmith's stall of iron rods and canvas, with decorative souvenir butter knives in elaborate wooden stands, letter openers, axes, shears . . . and knives big enough to fight with, tomahawks, and other sundry tools. He carefully lifted one, examined the metal and the work. Not bad at all.
"I want seven of these," Aramis said, pointing at forty centimeters of big-bellied knife atop a thick leather sheath, probably elk or buffalo hide. "And seven of those tomahawks."
The vendor's eyes grew wide in his dusty, sooty face. "Sebn?" he asked. He was wiry but healthy looking. Besides the exercise, he was well fed. Likely because he had a skill set that was much in demand.
"Whatever you have to fit the bill. My friends and I need them."
"Yar, sho. That be fife choppy ax, two these beard ax, close I have." He held up a bigger, broader but thinner axe. "Sebn knifes gon clean me out."
"How much?" Aramis asked, flashing a hint of silver.
That made the man freak. He started waving his hands in front of him.
"No you bring that here! I'm'n honest merchent. Cash. UN cash."
"No problem," Aramis agreed, slipped the coin back, and drew bills. In only a few minutes they settled on ten marks each, M140 total. No licensing, no tax, and about one-tenth what he'd pay on Earth for anything close to that quality. The local was ecstatic with what had to be a week's income or more for him, and his family was certainly going to keep eating. The UN cash implied he'd be buying black market imports to supplement the local gruel. He shook hands effusively and insisted on a hug. Aramis was caught off guard, and the man had to feel the bulges of hardware under his tunic, but he said nothing, just gave a friendly wink.
"We'll tell our friends," Aramis offered. He meant it. Though what restrictions the Army had on such weapons was unclear. Still, there were other contractors.
"We're being followed," Bart said as they reached the car.
"Thr
"I don't think so yet." They got in and sat ready for a meeting.
A man approached, uniformed and tall. Off world. He nodded and gave a half salute.
Aramis nodded back. He didn't recognize the gear but he didn't look like a threat. Some kind of security hire.
The man stepped closer and said, "You're RC, yes?"
"Maybe," Aramis admitted as Bart closed his door.
"Sergeant Fife. ES Associates," the older man said, offering a hand. "I'm trying to locate some gear."
The guy was in black slacks and white shirt with patch and badge, overvest with radio and pouches. Aramis shook his hand and sat back enough to be comfortable, and so he could reach a sidearm.