Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

“I wanted to catch you before you got too far on tomorrow’s preparations,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“We’re meeting with several contingents, and we’ve agreed to show respect to the host nation.”

“Of course. What do you need from us?”

“For this, women need to wear traditional garb.”

Elke asked, “What do you mean by ‘traditional’?”

“A basic hijab or long skirt with long tunic, and head scarf.”

Elke raised her eyebrows slightly and said, “I’m sorry, I will not be able to.”

Highland seemed flabbergasted that anyone would refuse her orders. “But you must! They’ll be insulted if they see a woman in Earth Western dress.”

“I am unable to perform my functions in such clothing. If you wish, I will style my hair back and present as male. If a swap can be arranged with Cady’s demolition technician, Adam Helas, I am agreeable if Alex is.”

“I am not,” Alex said. “I have a team that works and no need nor desire to break it.”

“This isn’t subject to debate,” Highland said haughtily. “It’s a polite order.”

Well, this was getting tense.

“Unfortunately, ma’am, our contract and policy states that I decide operations and have override if I feel our capabilities are hindered. That mode of dress will hinder Agent Sykora. That hinders the team, and our ability to protect you. Additionally, while you may identify the level of dress, you may not dictate specific outfits. You are describing an informal public event. Sykora’s garb will meet that standard, as will all of ours.”

The woman flushed deeper and deeper purple in rage as he spoke. Her voice was only snappish, but it seemed to rise as she replied.

“Listen, you, I am the minister. I am the candidate. This mission is about me. You’re paid well and we all know what for. So don’t give me that letter of contract bullshit.” She paused and heaved for a breath.

Alex said, “Elke, can you do the weekly inventory on our batteries and cells, please?” He pointed at the storeroom while doing so.

“Of course,” she said, and walked that way. There was no such inventory. He just figured she’d appreciate the escape. Jason was in the armory already. Aramis wandered off, looking ill. It was probably an act, but Shaman went with him. Bart waited silently at the door.

Highland continued, “You can expect I’ll have a call out at once. The response will be after this event, but you can expect it will support me. What you think as a contractor means little enough, and it’s about time you egotistical strokeoffs got that through your skulls.”

“I will await that reply, ma’am. In the meantime, I will need to review routes. You have my codes if you need to relay details.”

He nodded politely, letting it be an abbreviated bow by way of diplomacy, then turned and left the room himself.

Behind him, Highland kept talking, to the air. That was just a little bit creepy.

She tried to follow him, but he’d latched the security bar and it beeped and tingled as she approached. She apparently then turned her attention on Bart. He deserved some kind of bonus for that. It took five minutes before she ran out of steam and left.

Aramis left the room faking a headache. Shaman followed him.

“Are you allright, Aramis?”

“Yes. Faking. It didn’t seem healthy to stick around.”

“Indeed. She is hard on my blood pressure. As long as you’re okay.”

“I am,” he lied. His head wasn’t going to explode, but it was aching at every impact site. That meant ongoing healing, he hoped.

Shaman nodded and checked out the door. Highland was facing Bart and berating him, and with a shift of feet, the surgeon danced between doorways. Aramis barely heard that door close.

Aramis didn’t sleep well, from a combination of pain, nightmares, worry and anxiety. That, and not taking his prescribed medication, but dammit, it made him groggy and hungover, and he had work to do. He wasn’t going to admit it to anyone, though Shaman probably could read him, and it wasn’t as if they didn’t all know each other very well by now.

The escort mission started badly and decayed rapidly. Alex didn’t seem to have slept much, either. Elke seemed a bit more relaxed. She had explosives, because nothing else would make her jacket that lumpy. She had pockets sewn to her armor, full of a variety of nasties. He was glad to see that.

Bart seemed fit enough, and Shaman. Aramis was worried because Alex was ragged, and would probably take lead for most of the mission.

Sure enough, he did.

“Aramis, how’s your range of motion?”

“Good.”

“Pain?”

“Some, but it won’t slow me.”

“Good. The military finally relented, so we can test weapons as we leave.”

“Oh. Excellent.” Wow. What had accomplished that? Had enough shooting changed their moods?

He felt as if he was the new guy all over again. What had gone on in those two weeks? He’d seen the after action reviews, but they didn’t suggest any real problems. He’d have to read between the lines, or ask once they were back. But no one had said anything to him.

This was an indoor appearance in a “Safe” area, so they wore light armor under suits. Elke always looked a few kilos bulkier from her vest full of toys. He wished he could do that, only it would all be armor.

They carried carbines and Elke’s shotgun, which would stay stowed in the limo. They wore easy to access holsters for their pistols, which looked intact, even though Jason had very carefully disabled every safety circuit in them. Lionel, from Cady’s team, was designated driver. Aramis gladly took right wing position as they formed up, fired one test round into the clearing drum, then waited for Highland and Jessie.

They were prompt, dressed in long skirts and high collars, and made a point of not looking at Elke’s suit. Yes, it might piss off certain factions to be aware that she had legs. That wasn’t his concern, or hers. Doing their job right was their concern. He was also surprised that such a vocal proponent of female superiority would deign to dress to suit the locals, whose culture was diametrical to one another.

It might be one of those diplomacy things. Or it might just be true that politicians were whores.

It wasn’t his problem. All he had to do was keep her safe.

They boxed around her, Alex and Shaman first, Elke and he on the flanks, and Bart and Jason bringing up the rear. Alex got the door, and they climbed in. Jason closed it behind them and took shotgun seat.

They only had the one limo, which was disturbing, though they were supposed to have a military escort. That gray area Highland lived in was very annoying.

It wasn’t nearly as annoying as what happened next.

They rolled forward, around the compound, while they stowed their carbines. Aramis propped his behind him and left, in a thoughtfully provided clip added by the manufacturer. In moments they all looked like suited assistants, though that would only fool the lower half of society. Anyone with a brain knew they were muscle.

They made a final turn onto the exit road out the BuState gate, and grated to a stop.

Aramis clutched at his pistol, then realized they were still inside, and that it was a blockage. He looked at Alex, wondering if they were safer where they were, or needed to unass with the principal and sprint back to cover.

Lionel said, “We’re caught on the goddam speed bump. They built it up to meet the new standards, and it’s taller than ground clearance on this beast.”

“Didn’t we do this once already?”

“Yes. New standards, poor communication.”

“I’ll clear it,” Elke said.