Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

Highland stepped forward, and he noticed she was wearing a glove. She wasn’t going to actually touch his hand.

“Mister Bawani, thank you for meeting me,” she said as she offered her hand.

He reached out and shook it long enough for the photographer to get a grip and grin shot, then said, “Madam Minister, you honor us with your presence.”

“I’m glad to be able to visit such a forward-looking facility.. ” she said, and Bart tuned it out. He would listen for keywords relevant to her safety. The political talking was not of interest.

An honest assessment of the factory was that it was decades out of date. Colony worlds either had substantial investment backing, or lacked. This one lacked. There were still advantages to being off Earth, but they faded against the negatives.

In this case, JessieM’s constant feed of content probably helped. Highland’s supporters and fans, for she had both, could see the equipment, see her interaction, and the small scatterers they all wore now should prevent anyone seeing them clearly. The major risk would be a disgruntled employee, probably easy to stop, since the details of this event had not been promoted. It was unlikely anyone would blow up others to get her, though anything was possible.

“If you will all come this way,” the production manager said in reasonable English, “We can show Minister Highland the production floor. You will all need protective wear.”

Jason tapped his ear and said, “That’s covered, but we would appreciate head protection.”

“Of course.”

The hats were bump caps only, and Bart had to completely unfasten the tensioner to fit it on his head. He suspected most of the safety, and likely the security, was similar. Visible, but not substantive. That was notable.

As they walked along the floor, the workers paused and looked to see who the VIP was. Most of them wore basic coveralls, a few supervisors wore robes. It was probably as caste-ridden here as anywhere else they’d been, but it was harder to tell, except for the management in suits.

Most line workers seemed happy enough for either the distraction of the visit or the presence of the Minister. He didn’t foresee any serious threat.

A tiny window opened on his glasses. He reached up and made the slight adjustment that broadened it. It was a note from Jason and a news load, that showed a crowd gathering outside. It probably wasn’t JessieM’s fault. The word would have gotten out anyway. Still, crowds were problematic at best. He wondered what their instructions would be, when Highland said to the work group, “It’s been very nice to talk to you, and I welcome your inputs. But I must reluctantly beg your indulgence for another meeting.”

Some of them understood the English, others waited for the interpreter.

They formed back around her, as much to protect her from adoration and delay as potential threats. He and Aramis took point, both as meat shields, and because Aramis had his own map, in case of any issues.

Roger Edge and the NCOIC of the military detail stood near the front door.

Edge said, “There’s a sizeable crowd out there. A hundred or more. Some are friendly, some antagonistic.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Highland said.

Bart thought that completely stupid. He glanced back at Alex.

Alex said, “Ma’am, that isn’t necessarily going to be positive. It depends on-”

“-on demographics,” she cut in. “I have some experience with this, Agent Marlow.”

“‘-so we’ll give you some space and be prepared if you need us,’ I was going to say,” he said.

“Very well.”

That established, Bart waited for the door, then led the entourage outside.

The exit was greeted with cheers and calls. The banners were mostly Arabic, though a couple looked Turkish, and one in English read, “Back to Earth with the Harlot of Babylon.” He had no idea what that was about. The crowd didn’t seem violent, but there were surges and ripples, and clutching hands from those closest to the police line. Three press people had cameras in a prime location, clearly having prepared for this eventuality, and Highland approached them. It might be okay. It certainly seemed routine to her and them.

“Thank you for coming out today,” she said into an offered mic, which was wired into a PA. “I’m glad to see my supporters, but I am also glad to see those with concerns and issues. This is the type of interest and activism we need, if we are to progress…”

This speech sounded much more earnest and productive than the canned platitudes inside. She might pull this off. He waited and watched his sector, though the police seemed to have most of the eager crowd controlled and restrained. Some of these people were aggravated, but none of them seemed violent enough for an immediate threat.

Then he heard a pistol shot.

Yes, one never could predict.

Elke heard the report. This time it was real gunfire. She identified it as a pistol, and swung her shotgun up as Shaman and Alex shoved a gawking Highland down the sidewalk and under the vehicle skirt. The principal was covered, so she dialed for recon, shot a round over the crowd, and ducked and rolled.

Three rounds had been fired so far. Bart was in the vehicle and sparking it. Aramis and Jason flanked her behind the shield, close together and spilling out. She drew back a bit so they could get friendlier, trusting on her earbuds to have correctly reported direction.

The crowd was in chaos, running in all directions. That was mostly good. They’d disrupt a gunman. However, they would also conceal him if he ran, as he probably was.

The image flashed up on her glasses and showed nothing useful in that small format. It did, however, show the local police well-mixed with the crowd and subduing apparently at random. Clicking off the image, she could see it live. They had stunners, obviously scaled up to maximum, old-fashioned batons, and boots. There were a lot of them.

A faint smile crossed her face while she scanned for active threats. This wouldn’t do Highland’s image any good at all. She wondered, in fact, if it were deliberate.

It had been an entire nine seconds since the shooting started, and Alex’s voice said, “Withdraw.”

She replied, “Babs moving,” and skittered back, with the shield between her and the last known threat direction.

She reached the skirt, swung behind the ladder’s plate and said, “Babs covering.” Jason acknowledged, rose to a crouch without using his hands, then did that silly-looking dance step to slip back, feet never leaving contact with the ground. Silly looking, but very effective.

“Argo covering.”

“Musketeer moving,” Aramis said, and bounded back holding the shield. They scurried up the ramp in turn, though Elke found herself very clumsy moving backward. The steps were serrated for traction, and caught on her boot sole pattern. She noted that for followup.

They boxed around Highland and coaxed her into the vehicle. As soon as they were inside, Bart engaged the drive and they rolled away, as another platoon of police arrived to break heads.

Elke shrugged to herself. She’d seen it in so many places she couldn’t keep track. The only difference was how the power was applied. In some places they used hands, fists, sticks and stunners. Some used incapacitance gas and blinding lights. If need be, they had stun fields and pain stimulators. In the nicest societies, it was all done with money and political power without the need for violence.

But the peasants were always kept in line.

As hirelings, they had many of the advantages of the upper castes, without most of the ties. It was a system that worked for her.

The cops here popped some kind of clear gas that emanated in shimmery waves. Ahead of it, people clutched at their faces. It seemed to be some kind of sulfide thiol that carried a tremendous stench, similar though less potent than their own variety. Then the cops waded in swinging sjambok style whips, using the stinging, flicking tips to herd people, slowly at first, but faster. A second echelon had stunners set to a strong tingle. They did seem trying to avoid actual injury.