Better to Beg Forgiveness (22 page)

"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 from Earth, a good number from America, and even those from elsewhere were part of the military team. Of course, a lot of them no longer considered him to be part of that team. The stigma of being freelance. Though he wasn't really free. To get an assignment like this meant working for the UN government, and the same regulations as applied to the military applied to him.

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 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.

"Threat?"

"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.

"Okay, what kind of gear?"

"I need to sign out a couple of carbines, some flechette canisters and AP grenade mags for my team," Fife said. "Anything will help."

"Who are you with, exactly?" Borrow weapons. Not likely.

"I'm with a contractor tac team assigned to City Center."

"The mall?"

"Yeah, the mall." His expression seemed as serious as his buzzed hair.

"You want carbines and grenades?" Aramis could barely believe he was hearing this.

"Did I stutter? The lockdown has hurt my deliveries. I'm short on gear I need for my job. The Army's useless. I figured you might be able to help."

"What are you guarding in a shopping center that takes grenades?" Bart asked, sounding amazed.

Fife drew himself up. "It's not just a shopping center. It's a major threat point for terrorism. You'd be amazed what goes on there. Kidnappings, some of them VIPs, black market gang deals. Assault and rape in the bathrooms."

"I can believe that," Bart said. "It is the 'mall tac team' concept I am having trouble with." He was smirking.

Fife got belligerent. "Go ahead, laugh, asshole. You have that luxury. Who do you think's going to respond if you're in trouble there? The police? Have you seen the police around here? The store security or any of the corp crowd? They'd not only wet their pants, they're terrified of a lawsuit or counterstrike. It's up to me and my team to keep order and peace. With the collapse of this society and the decay of morality this world is getting more and more dangerous daily."

"Wow. I don't know what to say," Aramis said. Diplomacy was essential when dealing with a potential loon. He was pretty sure this was a loon, but he wanted to be sure.

"Yeah, it's a pretty heavy job. I mean, I get paid for it, but you can imagine the responsibility."

"I'm just trying to figure out how you use this stuff amongst crowds of shoppers," Bart said.

"If we're discreet, no one notices. We have electric carts to cut response time, and two marksmen for backup. But it can get hairy fast. I'm wearing double plates in the armor"—he rapped his chest—"in case of multiple eight millimeter rifle strikes."

" 'Multiple eight millimeter,' " Aramis echoed.

"Yeah, that's what I said."

There was no restraining it. He started to snicker, Bart joined, and in moments they were gasping with laughter.

Aramis choked through the laughing, "Dude, that's one hell of a story . . . but I'm sorry, I can't give out corp-owned HE and weapons to another agency without it being approved . . . and definitely not from RC to mall security."

"Yeah. I guessed as much. Thanks, assholes." He turned to leave. Over his shoulder he offered, "Just remember, I'll back you up when you need it, because that's what professionals do. I don't need your attitude."

"Sorry we can't help you," Aramis said as he closed the door.

Aramis stared at Bart, Bart stared back, and then they were sagging against the seats laughing.

"Oh, man, that's just bizarre . . ."

"Double plated armor for a
mall
?" Bart asked. "That is the same mall I'm thinking, yes?"

"Only one type of mall around here, yup. Question is, is he just a loon, or is he trying to black market?"

"Dunno, but a fucking rent-a-cop, as you say.
Gott.
"

"How do we even write that one up?" Aramis asked.

"I wouldn't. We won't be believed."

"You're telling me. I'll call the boss, let's head back."

Horace checked over his supplies. He'd used a few on escort, a few more for minor injuries the team had acquired here and there, working and exercising, and quite a few additional on staff and guests of the palace. Technically, that wasn't allowed, but people needed help and no one had been inclined to complain. Certainly not either Mister deWitt nor Alex, and what anyone else thought wasn't really relevant.

He barely noticed when Aramis and Bart returned. Aramis was as excited as he usually was, and relayed a loud after-action to Alex. It jarred Horace from his concentration when Aramis slapped a package down next to him. He twitched slightly.

"Thank you. Is that everything off the list?" he said as he looked up.

"And then some." Aramis was grinning.