Better to Beg Forgiveness (10 page)

"Inside voice," Alex said with a grin. "Use your inside voice."

"Right. Then, there are at
least
two hundred clans in varying alliances. They shift daily. No one has any idea how, if they didn't grow up here. Hence Bishwanath as an attempt to create what has never existed here—a society as opposed to a mob. Then there is relatively peaceful but massively corrupt opposition from various sources. Like the mayor and representative of Vishnuabad, a district, technically a suburb, north of here." DeWitt squinted as if pained.

"Oh?" Aramis prompted.

"Known rapist, philanderer, indulges in sobriety once a month or so, drugged out of his mind and incoherent, gutless, fat, known to off people who get in the way—or have them offed. He'd never dirty his hands even if he wouldn't wet his pants in fear of an altercation, though no one has ever been able to prove a thing. Witnesses are either paid off, blackmailed, or threatened into silence. The locals slobber over him like some messiah. It's revolting."

"So he became mayor by being more brutal than anyone?" Bart asked.

"He's mayor because his father was president and got shot in a tribal dispute. The father was a mensch. The son played the sympathy card in his first election, and bought them after that. His main good points are that he stays bought, and buys people with lots of public services. Of course, he does that with other people's money."

"What's his name?"

"Kenneh Dhe."

"And why is Mister Dhe a problem for us?"

"He's powerful. That makes him a problem. He's complaining about the cost of security, the 'off-planet intrusion,' the 'second-class status for our people.' If he can get you out of the way, he's got a better chance of killing Bishwanath. Not directly, of course; he'll create an accident. Festering scum, but powerful, and will never openly be a problem, but watch for his lackeys, both paid killers and the frothing nutjobs of the People's Progressive Party."

"And what can we do?" asked Alex, pondering that if that was "relatively peaceful," either deWitt or the locals had a different definition than he did.

"His people want gear. If you're a source to him, he'll keep you off the target list for now."

"And our principal?"

"That's harder to say. Dhe can be bought, but Bishwanath is ethical."

"Not what I meant, but good," Alex said. "How do they interact? I don't want to try to involve myself in politics. It'll take me away from my real job."

"And I don't want you to," deWitt said, with a point of his finger. "But you need to be aware. If you need to trade gear for safety, I'll back you up. I'll be holding my nose against the stench, but if it gets us through this, I'll do it."

"Okay. What type of gear?"

"Intelligent question. Nonmilitary stuff is fine—fuel, vehicles, whatever you can acquire. If you can get his personal guard matching uniforms and shoes he'll owe you hugely. If you have to trade ammo or weapons, just keep it as low-end as possible. Sidearms, armor would be okay. Rifles are iffy. Do not give him anything larger. You're welcome to promise it if you must, but weasel out of it and call me if you need help. I'll try to protect you if you have to do it, but I can't ignore it."

"Well, we've got someone buying loot. I suppose selling it is ethical."

"Can't we order extra from Corporate?" Aramis asked. "Oh, right," he said, flushing as everyone gave him "What, are you stupid?" looks. Nothing with proper import papers or RC stamps could wind up missing without extensive documentation. Even in those cases, not much could go, and nothing accountable.

"Sounds like a goat fuck," Alex said.

"Ah, that explains the lanolin on our pants," Jason quipped through the speaker. "Well, I've been worse places. I think. Though I prefer not to."

"You know, there are two types of people on this world," Elke was heard to say.

"Yeah. Those we're going to shoot now, and those we'll have to shoot later," Jason replied.

"You don't have that much ammo," deWitt said. "And just keep the sentiment quiet. The less the Skinnies know about how low we regard most of them, the better."

"Of course," Jason said. "I was thinking more of politicians and mob organizers."

"Them, too," deWitt agreed.

"Any trouble with unions?" Alex asked.

"Heh. No," deWitt said on a turn, his head shake matching up so it looked as if his body pivoted under it. "This place is so far down in the shit that unions would help. They'd create some income, some incentive, and some kind of training program. As it is, the local operations hire ten times as many as they need, figuring to get one who wants more than drinking money, short-term rent, or who lied about skills and can't do it. And that's in regard to mostly unskilled farm and loading labor."

"Damn."

"How are threats?" Bart asked.

"Another good question." DeWitt seemed glad of it. "You can expect mobs anywhere for any reason. No pay, no water, blocked road, not enough jobs. They'll sit and sing and chant and yell until someone gives them money or shows enough force. They don't usually riot like chimps, but that can happen. Arson. Rape. Theft."

"Good, clean family fun." Shaman didn't sound surprised either.

"Yes. Mobs with clubs, machetes, and brush hooks, even hoes and spades. Rifles as far back as the twentieth century are out there, and even revolving pistols. Modern stuff you know about. Comes in by the shipload. Mostly projectiles. Explosives aren't common. Not reliable ones."

"No vehicular IEDs?" Elke asked, stumbling slightly over the long word.

"Not much anymore. They dropped below that level of technology about six months back. Trying to find anyone with a working phone is problematical. Finding anyone who knows the fundamentals of marksmanship is almost as hard."

"Good news."

"Mostly. There are still some bombs here and there, and mortars. If they can buy it they'll use it."

"No domestic production though?" Jason asked.

"Nope. Not even close. They did have a factory producing rifles under contract from Sulawan Industries. Closed. Ammo was coming, and still is in lower volume, from Olin's plant in Kaporta. They never produced any heavier weapons. They didn't need many support weapons and had a whopping six tanks and four howitzers. What fighting they did do was infantry backed with mortars and machine guns on light vehicles."

"And what about our window shields and an emergency exit for the President?" Alex asked. "Any word?"

"Only that it's pending." Alex started to fuss, but deWitt continued with a raised hand, "I even asked about an emergency elastic chute. Nothing yet."

Alex nodded. The man was trying. They had one ally, at least. "Thanks," he said.

"No problem. I'll keep on it."

Jason, at the wheel, was tired when the briefing ended, and not just from the information load. Even dirtied up, the vehicle was obviously in better repair than others—it had all its windows. The dome marked it as something luxury. He didn't mind getting screwed on the price of weapons based on that perception, because he would, even without being seen as rich. The attention and possible rumors he could do without.

The fatigue came from being hair-trigger alert for hours. He had to be prepared for any attack that might happen. Someone could figure him for wealthy, important enough to kidnap, want to steal the vehicle . . . the temperature was set at a cool eighteen degrees Celsius, but he was sweating, sour, flushed sweat. His eyes were gritty.

Elke was sweating, too, hair plastered on her head and stuck at odd angles. She had the entire arc from 90 to 270 to watch, and her fingers twitched on her carbine. Not dangerously; she wasn't near the trigger. More a case of caressing it and checking function. In the footwell was her riot gun, which was damned near a cannon for close range, with a selectable twenty-round cassette. She'd loaded it with buckshot for antipersonnel, compressed slugs for breaching doors, impact frags, and even finned reconnaissance rounds in case they needed aerial images. She loved it and even slept with it. He wondered if she slept with it in that way, too, the way she hugged it so much.

"Let me know if you see anything interesting," he said.

"Yes," she replied. Neither of them needed to say what they did. They were just confirming they were both together on the job.

"Hell of a situation, eh?" he mumbled, trying to keep alert with conversation. This all seemed so unreal.

"Very. Mobs with clubs and hoes. Sounds like a bad zombie sensie."

"About right, I think. They believe in zombies here."

"I believe in zombies," she said. "Drugs can do it. They don't have much else here."

Something heavy banged on the roof. Jason goosed the throttle and gripped the wheel during the downshift. Civilians learned to stop when unsure. Soldiers learned to nail it. He changed into the far lane, into oncoming traffic, and honked loudly as he accelerated around a slower sedan. Luckily, there wasn't that much traffic.

"Rock," he heard Elke say. "Thrown from a third floor. I see the man."

"Threat now?"

"No."

"Check." He braked carefully and slid back into traffic. "Asshole."

"Yes. Grinning. He wanted attention. It's a shame I can't give him some." She was twisted around backward in the passenger seat, one foot up, ready to pop through the roof if needed.

"So note the address. We'll be back this way." He shot a glance in the mirror but didn't see anything.

"Thank you. You are a gentleman."

"I try to always please my partner," he said. The banter wasn't sexual, wasn't even humorous. It was just contact. "Wish we had a drone overhead," he complained.

"It would be obvious we were important," she said. "This is an all-or-nothing environment."

"Yeah," he replied. "Don't stick it out unless you're ready to back it up big. And that's just against the peasants."

The streets varied. There was a grid, but it was overlaid with multiple local mazes of alleys and twisting side streets. Some even redrew existing streets, where there were vacant lots. Some of those larger lots had been broken up by squatters into several smaller parcels with odd geometry, and paths wended through the chaos, over what had been curbs and sometimes foundation blocks. As they bumped and careened, Jason was glad of the armored, resealing, and reinflating tires.

Some surfaces were glazed, some hardpan, some paved, some cobbled, and some mixed. Others were rutted, dried mud. Many of them were broad, like most colonial roads. Obstacles included running and broken vehicles and stripped hulks, pedestrians, bodies in the roadway that might be dead, drunk, or just fucking stupid, and God help you if you ran over them anyway. There were random cats and dogs, some ungainly ostrich-looking thing, chickens, draft animals—mostly mules—random men, boys, and gangs with guns . . . 

"Not like Grainne," he commented, to himself but aloud. "We've got cities, the Hinterlands, the Habitats, and some slums, but I don't see anything here that is above slum, including the palace."

"No, nothing like this in Europe," Elke replied. "The worst areas of Bosnia or France aren't even close. Well, maybe the nastier parts of Paris."

They found the hardware store, or at least what should be the hardware store. The painted sign said so, and there were some tools and supplies stacked outside, but nothing to suggest it was doing real business. No one had money, and there was enough rubble to scavenge for building materials. Tools not already in circulation were likely stolen as opportunities presented. People loitered outside the store, either employees or day hires, to make sure nothing went missing. There was a donkey-drawn cart tied up to a rail.

"Dare we get out?" he asked.

"I think we have to," she sighed. "Park so we can run if we must?"

"Yeah, I'll back in," he said. They were taking delivery, offering good terms, and wanted invisibility. There were alleys on each side of the building, likely for that purpose.

"Arriving to shop," he said into his phone. It cost a lot to keep the circuit open, and he didn't care; it wouldn't be his bill.

"Location noted." Aramis had the duty.

"Roger," he said.

"Look at that place," he said in awe. It looked a lot like an American Old West store, complete to the deck and rail that the cart was hitched to.

"I'll get a snapshot," she said. Her camera was built into her belt pouch, and aimed by "eyeglasses" that offered no correction but acted as polarizing shields and ballistic armor. She'd been in this field a while and that was a ten to twelve thousand UN mark setup. Of the money contractors got paid, quite a bit came out of pocket for extra gear.

She was by far the most mature of the three younger operators. She had a lot of experience, even if she'd only been on contract for six months, with this as her second assignment. Not being military, Ripple Creek had no double standards. Elke wasn't small for a woman, but not imposing either. She was titanium under the slim outside, though. Jason was comfortable with her demeanor. She'd done well coming in, with the borrowed grenade launcher, even though on paper she'd seen little combat.

"Got it," she said. "Shall we go in?"

"Yup. Taking the keys, leaving it unlocked, got the wand if we need it." He'd lock it, remote start it, or trigger tear gas if needed; being a palace vehicle, it had several built-in features not found on standard models. But this looked to be a fairly safe location. Just smugglers and illicit arms dealers. No real threat.

There were four men lolling outside the hardware store. Lolling seemed to be the national position. None of them rose, even though at least two were armed. Were the rifles mere status symbols? Or enough of a threat to dispel plans of attack? The lazy attitude didn't mix well with the concept of ongoing tribal war. Though there were probably multiple nuances to the disputes. All four were skinny and pale, wrinkled and aged. They might have been anywhere north of forty, but were probably in their twenties.

"Good morning," he said. "I'm told Jim can help me shop."

No one moved. They watched him, and didn't appear threatening or threatened, but there was no response.