Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

Elke looked unhappy, but she checked over her hardware and very politely said, “Thank you, Jason, the customizing is excellent. I’m going to retire early.” She slung them carefully and walked out silently.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen her that pissed the entire time they’d worked together.

Bart broke the uncomfortable silence by saying, “I would like that beer now.”

Alex was mostly satisfied. Elke’s gear and the heavier weapons were an issue, but almost everything else had been resolved, though not the way channels would approve.

That’s their own damned fault for refusing to cooperate, he thought. When they’d first started this outfit, the military had been competitors and eventually the enemy. However, they’d never until now been hostile.

The medics and intel were cordial and professional, at least as far as they saw mutual benefit. The rest of the base so far was actively antagonistic. They’d have to find some way to smooth that out.

Their quarters were quite comfortable for the field. They had billets on par with officers or other high-end contractors: hard buildings, private rooms where enlisted personnel would have three to five, basic bunks and lockable closets. The problem, of course, was the weapons, which in theory were supposed to be secured whenever they were not on escort, which would mean a lot of back and forth to the armory. In practice, they usually left someone in the billet to watch things, armed. He also knew Aramis concealed a small pistol when out. He was sure Jason did, too, though he’d never seen it. He made do with a knife.

Elke was ostensibly sleeping, and certainly fuming about her mistreatment. The explosives were a necessary component, and he’d talk to Das about that in the morning. For now, they could use a nonalcoholic beverage on the military side, and a little noise and camaraderie.

“Just keep the attitudes from bothering you,” he said. “Right, Aramis?”

“Understood. I speak their language. I can talk around any problems.”

Good. The man took the hint.

“Jason?”

“No problem at all. I just remember that I am Aerospace Force, Grainne Colony, and therefore better than they are.”

He grinned at the delivery. “Very good. Shaman is remaining here. Bart will simply sit quietly in the corner and drink, and no one would be stupid enough to start a fight with him.”

Jason said, “I’m sure someone would, so watch out for idiots. The big guy is always wrong.”

“On paper, at least,” Bart said, and cracked his knuckles. “I shall be relaxed.”

At the gate, Alex greeted the guard. “We need to sign out.”

The guard stared at him. “Why?”

“So we’re accounted for. It’s policy for State and for our company.”

The man rolled his eyes, but grabbed a screen and passed it over. They each printed it and waited for it to acknowledge, then Alex handed it back.

“Thank you,” he said.

The response was a mumble.

It was less than a kilometer to the rec center, but they attracted some stares.

“Everyone drives, even here,” Aramis noted.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Want to go back, or remember that for next time?”

Bart said, “Next time we shall take a limo, just to show them up.”

“Discreet, Bart.”

“At two meters tall?” Yes, the man was huge, but they could at least try.

The weather was quite pleasant and the walk enjoyable. It was early enough that they were before shift change. That reminded him of the issue that presented.

The day here was 25 hours and change. The UN ran on Earth’s 24 hour clock, “To avoid schedule-related accidents,” and ran two 12 hour shifts. That meant a steady progression across the day. However, Highland’s appearances were mostly local day, though she, or rather Jessie, had planned some so the transmission times would hit certain areas of Earth, notably North America and Coastal Asia, during prime viewer time there, after being transferred from surface to ship, through the Jump Point then down to Earth. That was going to be murder on their own schedule.

For now, though, they should appear, participate and relax. Aramis was slightly ahead and held the door.

There were other contractors on base, but the Ripple Creek team were certainly the highest profile. Also, they were effectively combatants, while most of the others were either strictly technical support, or guards with nonlethal weapons and no authority outside the perimeter. This had caused tension before, and they expected it now.

It was made worse by their military non-uniforms. For now, they were wearing field pants with adjustable color, turned to dull gray, and collared sport shirts that had the obvious shine of nonnewtonian mesh. That said to everyone, “Contractors with assets.” Coupled with JessieM’s casual release of details, pretty much everyone knew they were Ripple Creek and Highland’s personal detail. It might be a good idea to not socialize until things had a chance to settle down and some favors were exchanged. Still, they were here now.

They picked a vacant sitting area, ignored the stares and offered an occasional polite nod, and sat down. There were a couple of mutters, but nothing seemed problematic. Of course, things might be better, or worse, after some action and interaction.

Or even right now. The lieutenant near the counter spoke loudly enough to be heard clearly.

“That’s not your problem, soldier. Contractors are exempt from all regulations. Just ask them and they’ll tell you. In exchange, they have to put up with more pay, better quarters and get to go to political banquets. It’s a rough job.”

Alex looked up and asked, in a quiet voice, “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

The officer turned, and his expression wasn’t a smirk, but was provocative.

He said, “Pardon me for believing people like you should be under military discipline. It would change your attitude.”

Alex said, “We’re all veterans. It’s company policy.” He was irritated. Even a lieutenant should know better than to provoke a fight, though Alex wasn’t going to mention so, because that would be provocative.

“Yeah, I understand you left under questionable circumstances.” He pointed at Aramis and continued, “Anderson was asked to leave due to conflict of interest with your employer. Weil’s a surface sailor, which stopped being militarily relevant a century ago.”

Jason did smirk and said, “Want to say something about me, next?”

The lieutenant turned. “Yeah, you’re a colonial wannabe. It’s not like your forces will ever amount to anything. As to the others, Sykora is a glorified bureaucrat who joined a pseudo police force, and Mbuto’s ‘army’ doesn’t even exist anymore, nor does the second rate excuse of a nation it belonged to.”

Alex was still ticked, but Jason took over and flashed a big grin.

“Thanks. It’s always good to know where someone stands.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

Jason shrugged. “There’s not much to say. You didn’t offer anything to really argue about.”

Alex came out of it. Jason had defused that brilliantly. The lieutenant stood looking quizzical, then turned and walked off.

After he was gone, Jason said, “I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, and I think that was brain smoke trickling from his ears.”

“Thanks for doing that.”

Jason said, “No problem. We’re going to get more of that, though.”

“Yes, I believe we are.”

“I’m also disturbed that he had that much background on us. It’s searchable, if you know our names or get good face shots. Now, of course, we’re outed forever. If he can search us, so can any threats.”

“Yup. Thanks, JessieM.”