When Diplomacy Fails . . .

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Keep your hands off them, please!”

  “We will. They’ll be scanned, and they won’t even notice it.”

  “Good. Does this bulletproof vest show?” Highland asked, turning her torso. Obviously used to crowd noise, she spoke loudly and clearly, over the drivetrain noise.

  “It doesn’t show, but be aware some styles of modern bullets can penetrate it, and it doesn’t cover extremities.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, though not as haughtily. “I am grateful for it.”

  She suddenly seemed quite a bit more personable. Some of that was likely stress reduction and familiarity, but some of it was most likely also part of her act. He didn’t trust anything she said or did, and it wasn’t paranoia; she’d not gotten where she was by being nice, and they already knew she’d waste them to get in a shorter line at the coffee counter.

  The city had chaotic architecture. Unlike other troubled worlds, like Salin, Mtali had been colonized by groups with money. There were religious groups with tithe support, and corporate investment to boot.

  Some of it showed.

  They drove along a main thoroughfare with a median park between the ways, and the houses were a strange blend of Western U.S., Colonial French and Arabic. They were tall, with courtyards, and overhangs, the upper levels built out.

  But just past that were classic government-architectured blocks of apartments, with laundry hung on balconies, and parted out vehicles in the dead areas below. Alex kept a scan up. It wasn’t likely this vehicle stood out from any other military transport, but that alone might draw fire.

  The commercial district next was typical of downtown. Deluxe shops and lodging in various styles from several eras spread across the blocks, but they weren’t crowded. The colonies had space from the start, and decent levels of technology. Their cities started off roomier than those on Earth and kept spreading out instead of up.

  Maharin Square was on their left, up ahead. Some of Cady’s team plus their subcontractors, some Army troops, and local cops had the area ringed. They weren’t sure the locals were safe, but that was the point. The hired goons were more reliable than the rabble, the cops more reliable than the goons, the Army better than the cops, and Ripple Creek had only to worry about any few who might manage to get within.

  The press turned toward their vehicle, probably cued by JessieM, and started their feeds. Bart pulled past, took a turn and another, and came from the cross direction. That also put the primary hatch closest to where Highland would stand. Details like this had been worked out in advance for previous clients, but were largely instinctive now. Every location was a threat zone, every person a threat, and they all planned accordingly.

  By radio, Cady said, “We’re clear.”

  Alex gestured to Bart, who popped the side door. Aramis pushed it open and stepped through. Elke followed, being about the same size physically as Highland, with her uniform coded to similar colors. There was a swell in the crowd noise that tapered off as Highland and JessieM stepped through and down. The cheers climbed again. Jason and Shaman were next, with Bart following Alex.

  Highland stepped up to the podium, waved in an arc, smiled for the vid crews, and launched into her speech.

  Aramis tuned out the blather. She was a politician, so she could say nothing and say it very well. He kept track of Cady’s men Lionel and Edge. They’d worked together before and he trusted them for backup. Or, if they led, he’d back them. It was reassuring.

  Not everyone outside the cordon was thrilled. There was a group with signs, including one very sophisticated holographic imager, showing an aerial picture of Highland with horns. This was definitely a more sophisticated dump than Salin.

  It was three minutes in when the action started.

  Something flew in a high arc and he swung toward it, opened his mouth to sound a threat, and instead said, “Eggs incoming.”

  He sighed and stepped in front of Highland, as Elke and Jason pulled her back behind the podium and threw up its shield. The egg splatted harmlessly on his helmet and dripped down his ear and neck in a cold gooey trail. A second one splashed across the crown, and he dodged a third. Elke had taken one and several others flurried around.

  Then the smell hit him. These had been left in the warm sun for a while, but not where they could actually cook, just rot.

  In his earbuds, Alex said, “We’re departing. Speech is over.”

  “Roger,” he said, and backed under the vehicle to take the lower hatch. He scrambled up from the dust, and Shaman handed him a wad of rags to clean the slimy gunk.

  Highland was seated, had a bottled cocktail, and said, “The Ripple Creek guards were attacked with hurled eggs, probably by some faction angered at their status as paid contractors.”

  JessieM pressed send, and Aramis seethed. No, you bitch, they were throwing at you, because of your status. We took the hit. And fuck you very much. It was understood that “security” could be used as an excuse for a lot of things, and the company, and the team would take the heat for missed appointments, delays, intrusions. This was a new level of contemptibility.

  Highland didn’t even inquire as to how he and Elke were. All she asked was of Alex, “Can we proceed to the next location?”

  Alex kept his attention on her as he said, “I see no reason not to at this time. If the threats escalate it may be advisable to pull the plug.”

  The stench was mostly gone, or at least the egg stench. Aramis felt it get sticky and dry, then Shaman handed him a bleach wipe. A daub with that and he felt physically clean and emotionally dirtier. But he’d do his job.

  They convoyed, Cady’s team and the military in their own vehicles, split and rolled into the next location from three directions. They were a few minutes early.

  Highland said, “Early is fine. We’ll avoid some of the planned response. Is the press ready, Jessie?”

  “They were when I churped before the hatch closed.”

  “Good.”

  And there went OPSEC again. Aramis almost wished someone would shoot her, except he was contractually obligated to jump in front of the attempt.

  So here I am, protecting our principal, her pet, exceeding the contract by working on her campaign rather than her officially requested mission, getting tired, sore, pelted with rotten eggs by her detractors and taking the blame for it because we do our job well for pay.

  He’d had exciting missions and hated them at the time, but they were exhilarating, and even the roughing ups he’d taken were okay in hindsight. This, though, was dirty.

  They bailed out three ways, waited for her to step daintily down the steps, smiling and waving as people gradually realized she was someone important, and then realized who she was, before her banners unfurled. So some group of supporters had been ready.

  At no point did she mention a bid for SecGen. He’d give her that. It was blatantly obvious what she was doing, but she was sticking to the letter of that law, and only promoting her current task at this event.

  He moved out to help keep a perimeter, and between the real and intimidating camouflage, armor and weapons, the crowd assumed he was some sort of ass kicker and pulled back.

  There was no particular mood to the spectators. Some looked snarly, some thrilled, some showed that minor interest of seeing someone famous, or something different from the routine. They were probably here more to skip work than from any care about politics. He could see three types of turbans, two of keffiyeh and the bulbous knit caps that marked the Amala sect, along with the basic round caps favored generally. There were women in everything from hijab to slacks with bare midriffs. This area was mostly Muslim. He understood the Christian areas were less varied.

  “. . . what Mtali needs is a debate that treats each of its cultures with the appropriate respect . . .” Okay, that was off the environmental and trade path a bit, though certainly trade would be easier if they weren’t constantly shooting at each other. Shooting at, not shooting, the incompetent tweets.

  He kep
t an eye on the crowd. That man with the asymmetric beard was very interested, and looked hostile, but he seemed to be recording on a hat-mounted camera. He probably wasn’t a direct threat, but it was entirely possible he was feeding someone else.

  “Jason, I have a man with a cam.” He pressed the button in his hand that let the image be shared.

  “Got him,” Jason replied. “He’s recording nothing now.” Directional jamming made him smile.

  He saw that Elke had wandered several meters west and upwind. She was probably prepping smoke charges in case they had to extract in a hurry.

  Still, there was movement within the mass, as people grew bored and left, and others migrated forward. Placards and signs in English, Arabic and Turkish proclaimed support or opposition.

  Politicians, competent ones at least, always wanted to meet the public, and their guards always wanted them not to. In this case, it was even more risky. She’d had more expressed threats than the baseline, and was clearly angling for a SecGen position. There were people who’d try to preempt her.

  Jason muttered back, “There are so many damned things that present as possible weapons I’m getting twitchy. ‘Anything longer than it is wide’ is a fine definition for a Freudian, but too broad for physical threats.”

  He chuckled back. “As long as we only have to look at weapons and not dicks.”

  “Depends on if they’re pump action or single shot.”

  Aramis faked surprise and said, “Woah, that’s between you and the goat, man.”

  The jokes broke the boredom, but they were on duty and resumed silence. The important message was that eyeballs would have to do more work than the electronics.

  Right then, Shaman said, “Incoming.” His voice was trained, and conversational. The team triggered on it and moved. Aramis jumped forward with Bart. He heard Elke tackle Highland, Jason open the door, and Alex call for backup as Elke stuffed the principal into the ARPAC.

  He could see the projectile falling, and his sphincter puckered. From its trajectory, it was dense and brick-sized. Then he caught a slight reflection off a protrusion, probably a fuze. So it was more than a brick. It was a large grenade or small block charge.

  Once the hatch closed he leapt over to the front wheel, rolled backward while tucking his carbine, and dropped behind the mass of the engine and wheel. Bart chewed up dust to his right with a thump of a landing.

  Whatever the projectile was, it far overshot and went behind something, then popped with a cracking noise. Had it squibbed and failed? Or was it gas? There were two more in the air, and he’d IDed the point of origin, even as his goggles blinked a location. There was the dirtsucker.

  That detached feeling hit him as he stood, clambered up the ladder and switched the cannon to manual. It was more important to take out the source than hide. Someone was starting to move the vehicle, so he swung the gun, splayed his legs, guessed at point of aim and cut loose a burst. It was high, he adjusted, and shot again.

  The shooters realized he was targeting them and dodged, first back, then upon realizing the first burst was overhead, toward him, and right into the second spray. Three bodies tore, disconnected limbs flailing, and their launcher shattered.

  Jason fired a long, stuttering string that crossed both remaining projectiles. They broke up and fell . . . oddly. Liquid? Green?

  He kicked the hatch and dropped inside, as Bart shimmied up through the rear hatch, cursing in German. At least he presumed so. He didn’t speak German, and he couldn’t hear the man anyway, over Highland’s total meltdown.

  “You murderous fucking mercenary retards! You egotistical male jerkers! And you . . . AFRICAN! You worthless bunch of—”

  She was cut off as Shaman slapped a contact patch on her throat. She turned and smacked, connected only with his armor and harness, and started to slur.

  “You weren’th hiredh to dop me, youuu . . .” and trailed off. She was still awake, but very lethargic. It must be a fast-acting tranquilizer.

  Jason said, “Jessie, I’ll connect the external antenna to your MoodMod in a moment. What are you going to send?”

  Her voice trembled and cracked as she said, “Uh, that we were attacked and had to defend ourselves, but no one is hurt.”

  “Very good. It’s important that you send that message first.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, sounding unsure. She waited for his nod of assent, and loaded the comment.

  Aramis sweated and buzzed from adrenaline and leftover fear. It was always a rush to survive combat, even when it was one-sided. He looked quizzically at Jason, who signaled over to Alex, who looked around at everyone and replied.

  “They were shooting paint canisters with bursting caps. Green paint.”

  Oh, shit.

  “They were political agitators?” Aramis asked.

  “Yes. And you opened fire with an autocannon.”

  In half a second, scenarios ran through his head. Jason or Elke had enough connections to get him out of the system fast. Caron would stand up for him. He wouldn’t get brain wiped. He might do a decade in prison. He did have that stash of money for emergencies that they couldn’t seize because he’d hidden it on Salin and Grainne. The company would back him up; he’d acted in good faith.

  Alex said, “You acted in good faith, and fast. It’ll take paperwork and lawyers. You’re covered.”

  Under his breath, Bart muttered, “And maybe the stupid hippies won’t do that again.”

  From the driver’s compartment, Elke said, “Don’t hurt my hopes.”

  Jessie at least seemed sympathetic.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “Oh, my. This is not going to be good for . . . anyone. Was anyone hurt?”

  Aramis decided he shouldn’t answer that question. He was surprised to realize he really didn’t give a shit about the fucking morons who’d put pyro charges on projectiles and thrown them at a cabinet member. Pyro. Projectiles. That’s what he needed to ensure was in any statement. He’d feared for her life and acted to protect it. Damn the bitch for attracting such idiots, either for or against.

  Jessie said, “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “The Minister is unharmed. You can say that. Don’t say where we’re going next.”

  “I don’t know where we’re going,” she protested.

  Yeah, that was probably intentional, Aramis thought with an inward smirk.

  Pyro. Projectiles. Potentially explosive threat.

  Did Caron have that much political pull, and would she use it? She did owe him her life, but she’d paid in cash for that service. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her, but was she willing to spend that kind of political capital for a boink buddy?

  Could he egress the system alone if it went sour?

  Jessie stuttered as she very quietly said, “I need to find a restroom. Is there . . . ?”

  Alex said, “No, there is no bucket aboard. I can pick one up for next time. You’ll need to hold it another ten minutes.”

  She nodded. Then they hit a bump and she flinched.

  Alex pulled a hush hood. He was probably talking to the military, or relaying a message to Corporate first, to get the lawyers primed. There’d be an investigation. At least Elke would have video for his side of things.

  Alex pulled the hood and said, “We’re going straight back.”

  Elke said, “Understood.”

  “We will unload before the gate, and the guards will inspect our weapons. Drop me at Base Operations. I need to talk to them.”

  Aramis didn’t like the sound of that.

  The rest of the ride was smooth enough, but just the hammering dread he felt made it feel worse than actually getting wounded. Chills, shivers, flushes, roiling bloodflow in his ears—massive shock.

  Politics was scarier than combat.

  He followed Jason’s lead and slipped out magazines, cycled the actions and locked them open. He carefully started to rise for the autocannon, but Bart reached up and took care of it for him.

  At
the gate, Elke lowered the ramp. The sentry was three steps up before it clattered on the ground.

  “Show me clear weapons,” he said, very firmly, very intently, with his right hand on the grip of his carbine and his finger twitching near the trigger. Aramis cautiously bent both weapons to show the open chambers.

  “Do not load them again without orders,” he said, and crabbed down the ramp sideways, keeping an eye on the team.

  Through all this, Highland sat silently, but not tranked. It had obviously worn off.

  Elke rolled up in front of Base Operations, and Alex slipped out the side hatch. Jessie looked very miserable and very uncomfortable. Highland looked furious.

  Elke maintained exact base speed limit as she rolled into the diplomatic compound. Jessie looked almost nauseated as she staggered, body clutched tightly, toward the latrine. Aramis felt nauseated. He needed to drain, too, but that wasn’t it.

  CHAPTER 8

  ALEX STEPPED INTO THE OPS BUILDING. He had legality on his side, but that rarely mattered to military officers, especially Infantry officers or Staff officers, and this would involve both.

  A master sergeant stood waiting, and said, “In there, sir,” while pointing. He was polite enough, and didn’t sound any more bothered than any NCO whose bosses were pissed, so this was probably just a staff matter. That helped, a little.

  He knocked on the door twice, firmly, waited three seconds, and walked in.

  Captain Das was seated there, and seemed neutral enough. With him were Colonel Stack, the Facility Commander, and Colonel Andronov, the Operations Officer. They both bore professionally blank expressions, the kind that presaged formal actions. Stack was barrel chested and clearly a bred soldier. Andronov lean and bald.

  Stack said, “Agent Marlow, you had a rather interesting day. In fact, it became interesting for a lot of people.”

  That was a fair enough opening. He had not been asked to sit, though.

  “It did, sir. The tactical situation differs from our original terms, and our client is making additional trips we had not counted on.”