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 familiarization. Jason concurred. He had seen a little on his shopping trip, but there was more here than that, obviously. It was a complex nation. Primitive ones always were, and this was far more primitive than most. Social, economic, and job status could be told by clothing and mannerisms, if one knew what to look for. Tourists always found such displays "charming" and nonthreatening, and mentioned how safe they felt. That was because of different cues that didn't trigger any threat warnings. That made it even more dangerous, and this wasn't a low-threat area to start with.
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 their 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 blocks—and small businesses, now closed.
"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."
"Makes sense. Get close, slow down, blast around the side," he suggested. "Everyone else be ready to initiate hostilities."
"Sounds good."
One of the men waved them down, with an avaricious grin, apparently looking forward to a bit of looting. Rape and torture might be in there, too. Jason had experienced a lot of things in his life, and preferred to remain ignorant of those. They had to be worse than being hijacked, and it was bad enough.
Raviti was slowing, blinked the lights once in acknowledgment, and made as if to cooperate. Meanwhile, all the passenger side windows were opened enough for weapon muzzles.
Raviti nailed the throttle, steered left around the barricade. The fit was tight and he left paint on a board. One punk tried to grab hold of the roof for some stupid reason, just as Aramis and Jason stuck muzzles out the windows and hosed. His face exploded into a mist with chunks of teeth and bone sticking to the window as he tumbled off, and the rest ran for cover while pitifully returning fire.
"Got some blood on you," Aramis said, as he fumbled for a bleach wipe.
"Thanks." Aside from the disgust factor, there was no telling what pathogens lurked here. But the smell of blood, propellant, bleach, and the local air was awful enough.
Three tense hours later, they were back, comparing notes with the others who'd been on the earlier tour.
"So what do you think of my nation?" Bishwanath asked when he visited a few minutes later. He'd been announced, but walked in and started talking without preamble.
"Very colorful and rich," Aramis said as he sat back down on the couch. He even said it with a straight face, Jason noticed with amusement.
"Potentially a very strong economy," Elke put in as she ran through protocols or scans on her computer.
"They are nothing but stinking, unwashed, illiterate hicks with no drive, self-determination, or self-respect," Bishwanath replied, facing the fireplace in the corner. He turned when the silence drew out.
To their uncomfortable glances he said, "I appreciate your manners, but please be honest with me. I get all the lies and sweet talk I can handle from tribal leaders and BuState. The most important thing any leader can have is honest input from unbiased sources. That is not your job, but it won't cost you anything and it will help me."
"I'd deal with the self-respect first, sir," Jason offered. "That'll give them a reason to improve the rest. I don't know how you'd go about it, though."
Bishwanath nodded. "That, Mister Vaughn, is the problem I face. I am president of nothing, unless I can turn it into something."
Jason had met a few local politicians on Earth. Without exception, they'd been self-serving assholes, greasing him up for votes and ready to renege on any promise, or weasel-wording their promises to mean nothing. The news, biased as it was, made it obvious the politicians higher up the food chain were sharks and wolves. Jackals even. This man was a mere local mayor, who had been thrust into a national position and was determined to see the job through.
It was admirable. The only question was, would integrity matter?
"I must impose on you further," Bishwanath continued.
"Yes, sir?" Alex asked.
"I am meeting with other leaders tomorrow. The meeting is in a park, with spectators allowed."
"I saw that," Alex said. "I'm told few will actually spectate? It's just for show?"
"Largely," Bishwanath nodded. "But they may heckle and there may be threats. There will also be the competition between factions, including Mister Dhe's powerful set, and I want to look as discreet and nonthreatening as possible."
"You want us with sidearms and looking casual," Alex said.
"If you can do so."
"Of course we can," Alex said. Then he said what Jason was thinking. "Of course we don't like it, either. I must continue to recommend a strong presence and safe zones to meet. The threat level doesn't appear to be reducing as far as I'm concerned."
"I understand, and I would like to please both you and my colleagues," Bishwanath said. "You can imagine that's awkward."
"Yes, I can. We'll handle it, sir. I do appreciate your willingness to discuss it."
"This is tomorrow's meeting with Mister Dhe?" Jason asked.
"Yes, yes it is. A dangerous man. Have you heard?"
"Yes. We've heard. We'll be discreet but ready." Jason expected Dhe was several kinds of cowardly asshole. If trouble was to start, it would be now.
"I appreciate that." Bishwanath seemed scared but determined, and braced himself as he left.
They all sat for a moment, to be sure he was gone and show some respect. That was ingrained into them.
After a measured five seconds Jason said, "We need some relaxation. Aramis, find us a stupid sensie to play in the background. Where's the inside phone?" He fumbled around on the couch. The damned thing was always buried. "Here. Kitchen," he said.
"Kitchen, sah," some young woman answered.
"Yes, this is us." There really wasn't any other name for them. They weren't staff and weren't the President. "I need some fresh vegetables and six large steaks."
"Would you like them with dip?" the cook asked. She was likely deputy cook, not the chef.
"No, I want raw vegetables, raw meat, and a rack of spices. We've got a kitchen up here and I'm going to use it. Bring us some Coke and a few other drinks, too, please."
Aramis punched up something on the vidwall. "That's more like it," he agreed, grinning.
It was obvious everyone liked the atavistic idea of just scorching some meat and eating, without any fine china or nicely laid out platters of anything.
Jason had landed his wife in part because he could cook. It also made him popular at unit parties. Anyone could apply heat, but to season properly and maintain juiciness and tenderness took skill. The food arrived already peeled and cleaned, which he appreciated, wheeled in by the elfin cook he'd spoken to. Tipping was considered gauche, but they thanked her graciously as she left.
In the kitchen behind the parlor he filled a pan with onion and mushroom as fast as he could chop them. They'd given him a good kitchen knife, too, almost as good as his set at home. With butter and beef fat to cook in, and garlic and a splash of honey to season those, he got to work on the steaks.
It felt great. It also reminded him of how much he missed Raquel, Quentin, and Rowan. The kids always loved helping serve, running around like little waiters with towels over their arms, taking drink orders. He and Raquel always included the kids in their life, and he couldn't even dwell on them now or he'd have trouble sleeping later. He let the memory linger for a moment and then squashed it.
"Aramis, how would you like your steak cooked?" he asked as fragrant fumes filled the area.
"Sure, why not?" the kid shouted back. Good answer.
"Elke, how do you like your meat?"
"Hot and naked, just like my men!" she called. Damn, she didn't need to go there. Sadistic bitch.
"Bart?"
"Trot it through the kitchen. I'll chop off some bits for Alex and ride the rest home."
"Shaman?"
"Whole. I need to practice my surgery."
"So now we know your secret. Alex?"
"Damn, I was hoping to shoot my own, then sacrifice it to Odin."
It was spur-of-the-moment joking, and great stress relief. It was one of those moments you could never tell as a story to anyone who hadn't been there themselves, and that was what made it great. They'd get through this and go home rich, and not just financially.
* * *
Nighttime, and quiet, apart from distant fire that never stopped, and the buzz of aircraft. That was fine, and soothing, even. Elke kept her curtains open, the optical grid angled skyward, and lights off. There was nothing within weapons range that could see into the window from above, and staying away from it prevented targeting from below, in addition to the polarized grid. She liked the open feel of sky and stars.
Elke was not sexless, nor did she really get aroused by explosives. Well, not most of the time. However, she was not going to be a woman around some of the elements she had to deal with here. Aramis Anderson was a potential problem, though mostly tame. Some of the military and civvies, though . . .
She was not a woman when on contract. She was a shooter and an explosives expert, nothing more. But because she was as well trained as her comrades, but obviously not male, she was hard for the civvies to comprehend. That was an additional tactic in her arsenal.
Off duty, she did have a personal life. Currently, no one was in it, but it existed, and it needed to be fed for her emotional health. There were high-tech gadgets for that, too.
Her door was locked. She double-checked that. Both Jason and Aramis had been caught stroking off, and it was understood though still a little uncomfortable for the others. She was going to keep her aloofness as another defensive mechanism.
Unconsciously, she went through a checklist and prepared gear. Weapons and armor just in case. Computer. Goggles. Software. Files. Earbuds. Neural stimulators. Contacts and dildo. Bed cover. Pillow. Lie down there, with a translucent view of the window through the images that would follow.
The program was her own. Music and natural sounds and images flowed through a sunset and starscape, with a roiling gas giant and moons. The broad, paned window behind them made it that much more surrealistic.
The stimulators started on her muscles, relaxing tension away, then lightening to caresses on her nerves, whispery thin and ghostly. She clutched at the cluster of hardware between her thighs and held her breath tightly as her reactions climbed sharply. Tendrils on her breasts and sides and thighs resolved to fingers, if cybernetic, and the pressure throbbed and buzzed inside her as she spiked several times, surrounded by starlight and jazz and wafting scents of jasmine, shesham and cedar and a pulsing, throbbing urgency in her loins that rose to a level that made all her muscles taut and tense again, shoulders and heels driving into the bed as her hands grabbed at air and her abs and inner muscles locked tight, as tight as her lips and teeth clenched to avoid crying out.
The earthquake tremor aftershocks coursed through her for minutes, her entire body sensitized so even the cool air from the vents was a palpable touch.
It took five minutes to clean up and pack the gear in her private case while she pondered that all of them were performing some variation on the ritual, and would never discuss it.
Then she checked her weapons again and lay down for sleep.