President Balaji Bishwanath. The title sounded like much more than it was. At best, he wielded the power of a midsized town's mayor on Earth. Despite its population, Celadon's economy was small.
He entered his apartment and turned to his escort. "Miss Sykora, thank you. I appreciate your efforts."
"Thank you, sir. Let us know when you need help," she said. "Delivery complete." She nodded once more and turned as he closed the door. He'd never get used to them speaking into the air. Their transmitters were dental plates that sat on the teeth and were all but invisible. The receivers were those tiny buds in their ears that also worked as amplifiers and filters. The equipment wasn't even particularly high-tech, but it was higher than anything here.
He exhaled heavily at once, and pulled his tie the rest of the way off, then started on the shirt and jacket. He needed a drink.
Bishwanath was tired. At every step, he'd had to debate not only his opponents, but his allies. It was infuriating. BuState, with good intentions and a committee of political scientists, was prepared to create his government. They were smug and not very discreetly condescending about his thoughts on the subject.
They wanted to "modernize," and in that he agreed. However, they had different definitions of "modernize." Their definition would make Celadon a molded copy of Zimbabwe, and Bolivia, and Borneo. A second-rate nation stuck with the expensive trappings of first-world pretension in the capital, with an ongoing struggle for relevance. Too, they expected that the same infrastructure would be used, which would destroy any national identity. No culture, trade, or tourism, just one more cog in the machine, providing raw materials at a horrible exchange rate, with the cost of interstellar travel.
He sat in one of the broad, stylish chairs. "Stylish" in a fashion of two decades ago. They came from no real culture, were just castoffs from the modern world. New, but not original. All of Celadon was like that. All of the planet, in fact.
It wasn't just that they were poor, uneducated, and undeveloped. They had no cultural identity. No reason to care. Each tribe had leftover scraps and machismo, and xenophobia of other tribes, from back on Earth, mixed with their development here. They all regarded it as important to keep the others down, and thus never made progress.
Earth made him think of Abirami. He'd promised to send for her soon, but he wasn't sure that would be possible. Until the threat level came down, it wouldn't be advisable. No doubt Miss Sykora would be happy to escort Rami around, but a single principal, as he was called, was easier to guard. Best she stay on Earth in the town house in Connecticut, conveniently located close to New York. Her photos showed it to be very pretty in fall, and she had things to keep her occupied, if she was lonely. Once he had things in better mettle here, then she could come home.
He needed a drink. He also needed to avoid falling into it as a trap. One double of a fine bourbon would help his tension and anger, which was tightly controlled and eating at him. He must keep his poise, invite others to see him as a voice of reason in the scrum.
Bishwanath knew the solution. He was willing to make the sacrifice that must be made to accomplish it. That would win him no friends and lose many he had. He was already seen with distaste by his would-be handlers. He would be reviled by many here, including his own people. He had no idea how history would view him, but that wasn't important. What was important was a nation, a people.
The sipping that had brought him through the first half of the fine amber liquid was not enough. The rest disappeared in a gulp. Elijah Craig probably wouldn't have approved of his whiskey being guzzled. The man had come from a culture with an identity that lived on, though its geography was now merely part of the North American urban sprawl. Celadon did not have that.
But in Balaji Bishwanath, Celadon, BuState, warring tribes, and now the Army, it seemed, had the one thing they all needed to get past the obstacles and solve problems.
They had a person to bear the blame.
"Okay, so what went right with that operation?" Alex asked.
Jason sat back in his chair and didn't put his feet up on the table. He knew where this would go, and was curious to see if the kids got it. He met Alex's eyes and both of them nodded a bare fraction of an inch.
Bart spoke first, after considering for only a moment. "It was smooth in transport. Movement on the ground was excellent." His voice was clear even from across the room, where he was guarding the other entrance to the President's quarters. As soon as possible, there would be a barricade in the hallway and any supplicants would have to come through the team first.
Alex said, "Good. Next?"
Aramis said, "I think commo was clear and concise. There was nothing confusing." He was obviously thinking about it at length, which was the point of this.
"Right. Elke?"
She stretched upright and erect and said, "I had the resources I need, a good amount of intel to start with, and our position was understood by our immediate allies."
"Exactly. Shaman?"
"We had control of the situation door to door." His voice boomed even when conversational.
"Jason, what about you?"
Leaning on his arms, deliberately looking casual, he said, "We had room to maneuver and the crowd was at a distance, plus we had backup."
"Right," Alex nodded. "We weren't alone in this. So then: what went wrong?"
No one spoke for a moment. He pointed and said, "Aramis?"
"Er . . . we could have had a better look at the cars ahead of time," he said. "All we had for info was 'limo' and 'enclosed estate type.' " He looked nervous, afraid of making a mistake.
"That's one. Elke?"
"We needed better planning with the facility security ahead of time. They had a very different oplan than we did." She didn't hesitate.
Nodding, Alex moved along the couch. "Shaman?"
"I would like to see a full medical kit onboard in case I need it. What was there was marginal."
"Good point. I'll make note of that." He scrawled. "Bart?"
Bart considered again. His English was excellent, but he definitely seemed to translate as he went. His grasp wasn't instinctive. He said, "I believe we could have used more gear aboard as well. Backup weapons."
"Almost got it," Jason said. "What the hell was our backup plan, and what were we going to fight with if the convoy got attacked and split up? We let someone corral us into traveling in a civil convoy, under military control, with dispute between departments over who was doing what, and all we had for ourselves and our principal was pistols." He hadn't liked it from the moment they started downstairs. He should have made a stink then, when Alex didn't.
"Right," Alex said.
After that sank in, he said, "I should have been more on top of that, and I'm sorry. Recon has a hate truck, but we don't. Six of us is almost a squad, we should be armed like it—grenades, support weapons, sensors. I'm getting with Corporate and BuState, and I've also been authorized to spend some money locally. We can 'get weapons off the street,' as the press likes to say, and use them to our advantage. I'm also going to be leaning on the military to get more independence. They seem to think contracted to their operation means we take their orders. They've got grunts for that. We're specialists."
"What are you thinking of picking up?" Jason asked.
"Machine gun or two. Repeating cannon. Couple of antiarmor rockets. Extra ammo. Shaman's field surgical kit. Barricades. Antivehicle mines. All the stuff they wouldn't let us bring in. Problem is, I have to get it without the military knowing, and through shall we say 'discreet' sources, and I'm not yet plugged in enough to know where. My possible sources of information are indirect questioning of the military, especially that nice Tech White and her office, though I don't know them and can't really trust them. I can ask the President, but his office is monitored by his people, probably BuState and the military. I can try to ask Rahul. I gather he'd have some idea."
Jason spun it over in his mind. "I can get the info and the other stuff. What do I have to work with?"
"You can?" Alex looked alert.
"Sure. You want to scrounge common weapons in a war zone. Not a problem. All I need is a clear entrance into the building when I get the stuff. I can take any vehicle. I'll buy sundries while I'm at it."
"Do it. When can you go?"
"If I have ten hours free now, I can do it now. I think I can find a dealer, with enough money. What do I have to work with?" he repeated. "Cash?"
"Some cash, some silver, some gold, and a little palladium."
He choked. "Holy shit. Palladium? Don't even bother. No one here will have change for that, if they even know what it is. It's got little industrial use in this shithole. Gold, silver, cash."
"Ten thousand."
"More than enough." Sheesh. At least Alex was bright enough to ask for help, but the man was way too honest. "I'll need good backup that's not obvious. Elke?"
She nodded. "Sure, I can come along. Should I bring my shotgun and explosive?"
"And pistols and a couple of carbines," Jason said. "ID and a vehicle and commo. Please keep the radio hot? In case of problems or questions?"
"Will do," Alex agreed. "The rest of us will make space, check the palace over again, and work on ROE and MO for tomorrow. Another conference."
"We'll leave at once," Jason said. Sweet. He liked being a tourist, and it was so much better when you had enough firepower no one wanted to fuck with you. You could really see a town then. "I'll need some stuff from Rahul."
"Go ahead."
He nodded and rose.
Rahul was in the President's apartment, and answered the door promptly. "May I help you?" he asked in mock obsequiousness.
"Rahul, let's be honest. We need more hardware. I need some supplemental trade goods. Here's a list." He handed over a scrawled sheet, then reached over to jot one more item down. "The first section I need right now. The rest later."
The bulky man scanned the list, clearly literate in English, and said, "I will need a couple of minutes." His face bore a grin that was knowing and deadly.
A few minutes later, Jason and Elke were in an open bay of the "carriage barn" looking at a large Volvo estate wagon. He liked Volvos. Reliable, classy, and tough as hell. This one had moderate armor upgrades and a couple of largely useless gun ports. It was far too clean and nice to be unobtrusive, but some dust and mud would fix that. He put down the box he was carrying and drew two bottles from it. Rahul had found everything on the "now" list, including a case of wine, easily.
"Elke, can I ask you to get dirty for me?"
"As long as I don't have to get on my knees," she replied with a smile. "Yes, I can muck up the truck. Is that what you want?" Damn, she was perceptive. That was why he'd recommended her, and was glad to have her along.
"You are no fun to tease. Yes, please do. I'm going to ask some questions."
She nodded and sought dirt in an abandoned flower bed just outside the huge garage. This time of year it was all dry and crumbly.
Meanwhile, he sauntered over to the gaggle of local troops ostensibly guarding this area. They looked uniform from a distance, but up close, it was obvious their maroon jackets came from several sources, and varied in fit and repair. Their pants were black but not standard, and they didn't look and obviously didn't feel professional. As he approached, they nudged each other alert, rose to their feet, and turned to face him.
"Hot out here?" he asked.
"Sher be. You need we help wut?" one asked. He appeared a bit more alert and observant than the others.
"I think you need a drink," he said, raising two bottles of wine. It was a mass-produced Earth brand, but he suspected they cared more about proof than robust complexity with a well-worn bootlike finish, or whatever terms the wine snobs used.
"Yar, we cud. Tank and cheer." The man took the bottle, glanced at the label long enough to show he could read, and said, "Help you we?"
The local dialect was English, but God, it was a barely comprehensible mess.
"I could use an extra gun," he said. "No, not one of yours," he said to their shying movements. "I want to buy one for my collection. Where would I find one locally?"
"Ah, you want Jim. Cuzzin mine. Look for le harweer sto at Fitty Nye an Gee."
Jason translated that and noted it. "Should I tell him you sent me? Send a message?"
"Shi, not. I boom his wive las mont."
The delivery was deadpan, but the whole squad started giggling. Jason settled for a smile and said, "I'll look for him. Need anything brought back?"
"Yea, we gots no rifle bults. Pistole, do sho, but no rifle."
"I'll see what I can do," he lied. If they only had pistol, and none of them had rifle ammo, it was probably on purpose and he agreed with the probable reason. He'd weasel around that. "Thanks for the help."
"Ya, no probum."
Alex took a quick tour of the floor. It gave him time to think, and it let him keep apprised of any changes. There'd been some cleaning, and a couple of the rugs had been removed, presumably to be cleaned or replaced. The bare areas of inset wood were dusty from a history of improper cleaning, and paler and less worn. That said something about the past. Everything here was façade, but no substance, a pattern of laziness.
There was almost no one about. One staffer had wandered past, a woman he recognized vaguely and who was older and not a credible threat herself. Of course, she could still carry a bomb or pass information, but she was approved and checked. Harinder? Was that her name? Likely. He'd have to memorize all that data.
He snapped a quick photo and let the computer scan. It confirmed. Harinder, no last name, cleaner on this floor. He nodded and she smiled faintly without a word.
One soldier, with badge, walked down a crossing corridor. At the far end, he saw Weilhung, in the combat casual wear that was apparently standard in the palace. Alex ignored him and headed for the rear corridor.
"Agent Marlow, I need to speak to you now," Weilhung said loudly, as soon as eye contact was made.
Alex sighed. It had to be administrative. Had to.
"Yes, how can I help you, Major?" he replied as he turned back.
Weilhung thumbed back over his shoulder, gesturing down the hallway to the rich atrium.
"It's generally considered a hostile act to plant explosives inside your own perimeter," he said while glowering, almost snarling.
Oh, the stairwell.
Alex realized it had been several seconds and Weilhung was waiting for a response. There wasn't really an answer he could give. They weren't contracted to care about anyone except the President, they couldn't trust anyone anywhere under the circumstances, as either a threat or a leak, and, the embarrassing part, it hadn't occurred to him it might be a problem. The explosives had been an answer to a problem, so he'd let it happen and agreed.
Weilhung took the silence as a cue to keep talking, hand resting on his weapon but not threatening. "I believe I can figure out your intentions with that. I sure as hell would like to be in the loop so my people don't wind up dead. I don't have to tell them if you're paranoid about it, but I am also tasked with the President's safety, and I need to know."
Weilhung was pissed, and had every right to be. Alex had insulted his professionalism and placed him at risk because he'd been thoughtless.
"Major, it was a slip caused by being busy, and it won't happen again. Besides the stairs, you'll find charges inside the elevator panels on each floor, and inside the window of the President's office." That should do it.
Weilhung was obviously still pissed, but nodded.
"Thanks. I'll note that privately and I won't tell anyone unless the mission dictates, said mission being protecting that same President. Are we agreed?"
"We are. I'll keep you informed."
Weilhung let his displeasure be known by nodding once again, curtly, and turning without a further word.
Alex turned and headed back for their dorm. He hadn't mentioned the charges under the floor in front of the President's apartment and office doors, or the ones in the basement elevator alcove. He didn't want to explain another discrepancy, and he'd play BuState against MilBu if need be. He couldn't trust anyone. Anyone.
There was a stranger in the room when he returned. He was standing, the team was sitting and no one seemed worried.
"Ah, Agent Marlow. Doug deWitt, BuState," the man said, offering his hand. Alex looked him over. He was tall, balding, and had a no-nonsense presence and was possibly former military.
"Good to meet you, sir. How can I help you?"
DeWitt smiled. "I'd give you a list of people to shoot, but if you actually did it, my ass would be in a bind. However, I thought you could use a sitrep."
"That, sir, will be very much appreciated. Please have a seat."
"Thanks, but if you don't mind, I prefer to pace."
"Suit yourself. Mind if I get others in on radio?"
"Please do."
DeWitt was a serious pacer. Back and forth between one of the couches and the coffee table, sideways to face his audience, he never stopped moving. He strode around looking at artwork, examining frames and tables, until Alex had Elke and Jason on a speaker. Their radios were quite decent even at this range, though much of that was the base station Jason had set up, wired into the mast antenna assembly on the roof. That was a military grade system, but Ripple Creek had its own encryption algorithms in addition to the factory codes.
"We're here," Elke said.
"Okay, we have an interaction problem with the Army and with the local palace guards. Each wants to be in charge. With the Army, they want total control of anything to do with the President."
"They likely figure they'll take the blame if something happens," Shaman said.
"Right." DeWitt nodded as he moved. "And we're the ones who have to cover the problem, which is why we hired you. At the same time, there are various elements in BuState playing this off against each other for advantage. I don't know who ultimately will be running the show here."
"As long as you'll back us up as you have, we'll manage," Alex said. "Let us know if we can smooth anything out and we'll see what we can do."
"Well, try not to borrow weapons from soldiers on patrol anymore," he chuckled. "Hey, I agree completely, but dammit, that made some sores."
"Perhaps we could offer some classes on weapon retention?" Elke snickered through the speaker.
DeWitt sighed. Obviously he wasn't getting the results he wanted.
"Okay," he said. "Look, I know you guys are way better than the average bullet catcher. I know you're the best there is at this. I expect you to do what it takes to keep yourself and the President alive. I know that means friction, but keep it to a minimum. I don't want any pissing contests, any dick measuring, or whose fart stinks more."
"Sorry, sir," she said, sounding remorseful. "I wasn't being entirely humorous."
"Yeah, I know," he said. "It's a sucky situation."
Alex said, "Can you tell us more about the parties we'll be meeting as we escort the President?"
"You don't have that long," deWitt said. "There are twenty-three registered political parties, most of which have some variation of people's, progressive, democratic, workers, or some other euphemism for 'property-stealing communist' in their name. Sorry, did I say that out loud?"
"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."