Michael Williamson: When Diplomacy Fails…

“No, she apparently had a nuke at the Prescot mine on Govannon. All she’s asking for now is half a tonne of Composition G, Orbitol and Smithereen.”

That was impressive in its arrogance. “What a bloodthirsty bitch. Maybe I can get her vote. But no, I don’t need some militaristic nutjob with explosives. The guns will work better for visibility. We don’t want to actually hurt potential voters, just make it obvious I’m actually in a hostile zone.”

“Should I relay that message?”

“It’s probably better to let them think it’s agreeable, and stall until they accept it.”

“They won’t be loaded on the transport, then.”

“Is there any way we can let… no, the stuff is traced, dammit. It will just have to get forgotten.”

On Sunday morning, Alex was almost too content to be happy. Shaman-their nickname for Horace Mbuto-had arrived the night before, and rose early. He made smoked Scotch Eggs for breakfast. Everyone was accounted for. Transport was ready, and it was military-managed, with their client part of the same government. That meant there were standard protocols for safety and transfer. Highland’s existing security detail would see her to the ship, they’d transfer responsibility in transit.

It seemed too good.

He chalked it up to nerves. They’d had easy missions, though eventually they always earned their pay.

A message chimed in, and he scanned it. Subject: security detail weapons. Requested: a long list of stuff they optimistically hoped would be one third approved. Approval: everything.

Everything.

Pistols, carbines with grenade launchers, a sharpshooter’s rifle, two squad weapons, an autocannon, a Medusa system, ammunition, hand grenades, Jason’s tomahawk, knives, demolition hammers, stunners, stun batons, stickybombs… ah, there. “Authorization for incapacitance gas denied.” Fine. He could live with that. Someone had either been very agreeable, slightly greased, or smart, and they had all the firepower they needed to hold off an angry mob with torches. Possibly due to the fact that once they had fought an angry mob with torches.

No mention of explosives yea or nay. He frowned, sent a query back, and decided not to mention that to Elke just yet.

Elke was slicing up a Scotch Egg with a surgically sharp knife, and fork. “These are fantastic,” she said. “Though I’ll need something vegetable to go with it. It’s just too much by itself.”

“Peasant food,” Shaman said. “For very rich peasants. Such a marvelous world we live in.”

“Caron’s people are doing very well with the vats. It even tastes like it was well-exercised range meat.”

Bart said, “I will be happy to assist her in testing any food, liquor or beer she wishes before the market. All they care to send.”

Shaman said, “You know, I’m fairly sure she’d take you up on that. You are a connoisseur of beer, and reasonably experienced with liquor. You’d give her people honest feedback, which is a problem she always has.”

“It will not be a new job, but it might be a nice hobby,” the big man said with a slow nod. “I will suggest it to someone.”

It had been a good day, Aramis reflected. He wasn’t really a garden person, but Caron’s groundskeepers did some amazing things with plants, rocks, flowers and trees. It was done in part under her direction, a hobby to keep her sane. She’d devised digital machines to dig and plant according to a map. They already existed for agriculture, she’d just modified one for decorative landscaping. She’d probably get a few million more dollars she didn’t need from that, too.

Fine weather, if a little gray early on, but sunny with puffy cumulus clouds now, had helped. Caron’s domestic staff were the same, and Joanne had brought regular drinks, cocktails, hors d’oeuvres and other snacks. It was hard not to eat too much.

Ayisha had the same problem, but was delighted, and seemed comfortable enough, once over the shock of Caron’s insane wealth.

And here it was, evening, they were inside Caron’s huge apartment with a real wood fire in a fireplace. It crackled and popped, and the broad couch he sprawled on was very comfortable. He could sleep here. Ayisha made a good pillow, too. His head was cradled on her middle, with her hips and chest in an arch around him.

The wood smoke was pleasant, and the sherry was delicious. He didn’t inquire as to brand. There was no way he could afford a single bottle.

Caron’s family were dead, her immediate friends gone in a scandal. Now that she was alone except for staff members, the house had been rebuilt inside, into a couple of large apartments in this wing, with the other wing set for visiting guests. He wondered if Ayisha realized that they were staying in the personal and family wing, not the guest wing. He also wondered if something might actually happen. Caron seemed relaxed, and she had put Ayisha’s and his rooms adjoining. They connected, too.

Ayisha did seem to agree. She had her fingers inside his shirt and one of the buttons was undone. Well. It seemed it might be a good weekend after all.

Caron sat back with a coy smile, watching.

“You’ll probably find the bed more comfortable,” she said, and waved at the far end of the great room she used as bedroom, office and lounge.

Well, that was obvious consent. She didn’t seem offended, and that was good.

Ayisha giggled as he lifted her over his shoulder, swatted her ass and carried her up the broad risers.

Her blouse and bra yielded without struggle, and he enveloped her in a kiss and embrace, warm flesh against him.

They were naked and tingly when he felt a familiar sensation. An amazing set of boobs against his shoulders.

“Caron?” he said in surprise. Dammit, he should have been more alert, too. He hadn’t noticed her undressing and coming over. Yes, she’d dropped the gown, and her underwear.

“You can’t imagine I’m just watching, can you? I expect equal attention.”

Oh, the bitch. Already he was clinging desperately to self control.

In moments, her mouth was on his, her warm, supple breasts against him, and Ayisha shifted so her body was all over his lower half. He kept a steely grip on his nerves as they moved about, straddling and using him. The panting he heard wasn’t entirely them.

He focused on one thing at a time, ignoring sensations, or trying to. Silken sheets, sweat-cooled skin, tumbling hair, and Ayisha, soft and slick and shivering in response to him.

Her hips were very nice, rounded rather than oval, her thighs supple, and her skin wore a hint of spice. It was much easier to give than receive like this. Much easier.

He reached out for Caron, who was next to him and waiting patiently for him. He ran a hand down her flank and rose to look across.

Caron was…

Yes, she really was. Her fingers and lips were on Ayisha’s skin, and…

Holy shit.

He clamped down on every fiber in his body, and the rush that hit him was as intense as an adrenaline dump in combat, but far, far more pleasant. Endorphins ripped through him like never before. It was like falling off a cliff.

He slid his hand up, and traced her lips with a finger, a physical confirmation for his eyes, while trying to decide what to do.

Ayisha wrapped an arm around Caron and clenched, and clutched for him with the other. With the taboo broken, he collapsed on them and stopped thinking, in a burning, melting rush. He was beyond drunk, beyond lost, and only a thread of control remained, a glowing, sparkling line amidst the waves of fog in his brain.

Then two warm mouths collided on him and his brain jolted in disconnect.

He wasn’t sure if he was the first to scream.

It didn’t end with that, and he never got past it all feeling like a dream, an hallucination, an unreality that he couldn’t wake up from and didn’t want to.