Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

“Of course. Also, if there is a mass casualty event and we are not out on escort, it’s possible I can be available to assist. Mr. Vaughn is also an experienced paramedic, so you may call us both. Please understand that we must place Ms. Highland’s safety above anyone else’s.”

“That must be aggravating for you professionally, but I understand and appreciate it.”

“I hope our encounters are all this relaxed. Good day.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

He could only hope it really did work that smoothly, if needed. There were usually frictions between them and local authority, and between departments. Though Highland’s obvious status might help, since any emergency might reasonably be assumed to involve her.

It would likely be interesting, which is why he got paid.

Jason was quite glad to be back with the team. He’d been a complete pariah upon arrival, though he’d made most of the connections he needed to. Now all the planning got gutted by reality.

He, Alex and Elke sat in his room, since he could most easily clear this one against intrusion, and had done so twice today. So far, there were no signs of eavesdropping, but in this society, there would be sooner or later. Everyone wanted some kind of hold.

Alex still looked pissed from the fake attack earlier. If that’s how this bitch was going to play things, Jason didn’t blame him. He wondered if part of the reason they were hired was because BuState security had either had enough of antics like that, nixed the idea of using fake attacks for publicity, or if it was a combination of using Ripple Creek as a whipping bitch while playing for publicity at the same time.

Amusingly, if they pulled this off, they’d look even better.

However, Alex was talking and he should follow that.

Alex said, “The next problem is JessieM. Jason, we need to find a way to squelch that signal. If she won’t stop, we may have to cut it off.”

“She’ll suspect after the second time at most. I’ve already done it once.”

Elke said, “As have I.”

Alex said, “Hopefully, it won’t take more than that. If we wind up in real shit, I’m hoping it’ll be a wakeup call.”

Jason said, “Also, we’re guarding her as well. She’s a pain in the ass, not covered by contract, but I don’t see any way to argue the point.”

Alex replied, “Nope. We’ll just have to cover both. She’s secondary, though. Worst case, I suspect the b… principal will benefit from danger factor in the news.”

Jason grinned. “Are we old enough to be that cynical?”

Aramis asked, “Are we young enough to deal with the repercussions if the flaky little sidekick gets iced?”

Alex said, “We shout for Corporate and hold up the contract. I suspect she’ll be a hero of the Revolution, or whatever, we take our usual flogging in the press, and move on. Also, I don’t trust them not to be spying on us. You and Elke need to run regular checks on our commo, our encryption, and our quarters.”

“Yeah, they’d love dirt for PR, blackmail or politics.”

Elke smiled. “You said the same thing three times.” She continued, “I will keep things clear here, and will ensure we have full monitoring of our principal, for safety’s sake.”

And for intel for blackmail’s sake, he thought. They understood each other.

“Okay, break and get to it. I’ll have more in a bit.”

Jason ushered them out of the room, because it was his room at least for now, and he felt responsible for it, liked his privacy, and wanted to ensure it stayed private. That was why he’d hand-removed the vid terminal, and used only his own gear to interface with the nodes. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his own people. He just didn’t trust anyone, and if he was to be accountable he wanted as much control as possible. Professional distrust ran in all directions.

He turned toward what constituted their armory. He had weapons to prep. That, at least, was enjoyable.

Aramis saw Jason come from the conference, and head into the side room. He assumed it was to visit their armory, and he was correct. He fell-to to assist Jason with the guns.

“Can I help?”

“Please, and thanks.”

“What do you need?”

“Crates,” Jason said, and pointed.

They had a pair of two-meter cargo crates that were supposed to contain all their weapons and then some. They had to check that. The bands were keyed to Jason’s fingerprints and snapped off with the right combination of print and pull.

“Sweet,” Aramis said as he saw inside. What a reassuring crate.

There were six carbines with attached launchers, and three spares of each. Three shotguns. One autocannon that would need to be pintle mounted. Two squad weapons. One marksman rifle in 8mm. One heavy machine gun to mount on their vehicle on top of the three Jason already had attached. Spare parts. Tools. Knives. Jason’s tomahawk. Extra body armor. Smoke grenades. Flares. Batteries. Multispectrum vision units. Tactical harnesses.

“We’re short on grenades and explosives,” he said.

Jason replied, “Yeah, check the other one.”

He reached over and popped the straps on the second, smaller crate.

“Medusa!” Aramis crowed. That multibarreled, multiheaded, massive monstrosity on a backpack was instantly recognizable. “She’ll never let us carry it if she sees it.”

“That’s why she won’t see it. It was IDed in the inventory as ‘gun system, soldier portable.’ We didn’t say, ‘With four barrels of automated death ready to paint the walls with people’s livers. ’ ”

“I see bullion, cash, a bag of spangly jewelry, good cigars, enough for trade, some liquor… I’m not seeing grenades either hand or projectile.”

Jason reached past him. “Yeah, and this shotgun drum is shot, slug and recon only, no flame or explosive rounds.”

“I don’t see any explosive kits for Elke.”

“Please do not offer that information. We’ll relay it through Alex.”

“Yeah. So they shorted us on everything explosive. Does the Medusa have loads?”

“Not for the grenade launcher, no.”

“Fuckers.”

Jason indicated the crates. “They don’t seem to have been opened, so the stuff was never loaded. I don’t know if that was a military thing, a BuState thing, something personal from Highland, or just some kind of cock-up.”

Aramis shrugged. “In the meantime, we do have small arms.”

“And that,” Jason said.

“Oh?” Aramis opened the box. Harness. Nozzles…

“A jump belt?” he asked to confirm.

“Good for about thirty seconds of lift. Between the need for recon, the apartment blocks and those stupid walls they’re building between factions, I figured we might use one.”

“Heck, only one?”

“One was all I could get them to unload,” Jason said.

An hour later, Aramis was amazed. Jason knew more about small arms than any dozen armorers he’d met. He could rattle off from memory alloys, strengths, ranges, ballistic patterns, timing and torque specs, masses, generation upgrades. He could strip a carbine in twenty seconds without even looking at it. He had a small but detailed tool box, and Aramis helped him sort and lay out parts as he modded all their weapons.

“Since we have permission from the principal, money from Corporate, and the tools to do so, we’ll go with the best, personalized.”

Aramis asked, “How do you know how everyone wants them personalized?”

“From two years of operating with you,” Jason said with a grin. He slapped retaining pins on the weapon he held, cycled through a function check, and shoved it at Aramis.

Aramis took it. He checked the chamber, settled it in his grip and