Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

Jessie looked quizzical for a moment and then said, “Oh. No. I wish there were. She’s so powerful and exciting.” Horace said nothing, shivered slightly, and considered that everyone had at least one unique taste. “I think she knows that, but she really is a very dedicated wife.”

It was hard to believe, but if even a close confidant thought so, and there were no rumors from reliable sources, it must be true. That aside, however, there was another point.

“That’s fine. But you are a close acquaintance. She can confide in you, and it will do her good to have close contact with someone.”

Jessie shook her head sadly. “I suggested that. She’s always been very much alone. Even at home, they sleep, actually sleep, in separate rooms. She’s almost pathological about her privacy.”

“We noticed. Well, I can talk. Have you considered a stuffed toy?”

She stared at nothing and shook her head. “No.”

“It does help. Quite a few of the soldiers here have them.”

She looked up and said, “I’ll try it. I don’t regard it as immature.”

It occurred to Horace that with the background she was getting here and now, the young woman might be a serious contender for politics herself in a couple of decades. It disturbed him to realize he’d be more likely to vote for her than any of the current thieves.

Of course, in two decades, this young lady might be a jaded political whore herself.

“Go rest,” he told her, and took a look around at the others. She nodded and went to a cot, curled up and closed her eyes. She actually did sleep as exhaustion overcame stress.

Horace didn’t sleep. He’d have to be more wrung out. He wished he could, though.

He saw Highland shifting, fidgeting, and eventually, she sat up.

“I can’t sleep,” she said.

“I understand, but you should keep trying if you can.”

“It’s not going to happen.” She swung off the cot and stood up.

“As you wish. I wouldn’t recommend a sedative anyway.”

“Due to the need to move?”

“Exactly that. When you are tired enough, you will sleep.”

“Or go insane,” she said with an honest smile.

“We deal with fatigue a lot.”

“Why do you do it?” she asked quietly.

“The fatigue?”

“No, the mercenary work.”

“We’re not precisely mercenaries. We don’t take just any money, and we do stick to missions that are legal and ethical.”

“Really? Are you saying that?”

“Exigencies can force us to be violent, but we engage very little, preferring to use evasion. We rarely act except in response.”

She looked quizzical, probably considering their actions over the past few weeks.

“But, in answer to your question, ma’am, it’s a challenge, it’s well-paid, and it’s rewarding to keep someone alive. Doubly so for me.”

She nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. But why not a regular detail with someone?”

He had to think about that. “This is more honest, really. We don’t have to like or pretend to like our principal, just do our job. That gives us more freedom than staff security have.”

“You don’t like me.”

“I didn’t say that, ma’am, only that we don’t have to.”

“You don’t need to say it. None of you like me.”

“There are numerous issues of personality and politics.”

“And I’m a whore for taking practicality, compromise and yes, money, over ideology.” She sighed. “When I first ran for local judge, I was so earnest and clean myself. I accomplished nothing, but I felt very good about myself.”

She sighed again. “As time went on, I accomplished more and felt worse. Constituents and now the public at large vote for me, so regardless of anyone’s thoughts about integrity, the Charter of Freedoms or equality, I represent what people want.”

“It bothers you, ma’am?”

“Oh, yes it does. Look, I personally have nothing against you, and yes, I think of the resource potential of anyone, any group, any business. I was not in BuState when you rescued Mr. Bishwanath. But it most certainly annoyed certain factions. Ironically, in the same Traditionalist party that your CEO favors. They’d planned on parting out the system as ‘recolonies,’ with ownership of resources passing to them.”

“Predictable enough,” Horace said.

“Then, most recently, you protected and made friends with Caron Prescot. Very close friends, I’m led to understand.”

Horace reflected it was a good thing Aramis was out shopping. The man would be flushing and stuttering at this point.

He offered, “So the ability to do our job well threatens certain elements, yes. However, if they’re in the opposition party, that doesn’t explain how your party ties in. It reinforces what some people say, that there’s no real difference.”

She looked up. “We have weird supporters. Jankin is worth a tenth what Prescot is worth. He’s more into politics, though. She has no need to be. No one can touch her, and she’s not petty, I have to say. He is. He purports to support the liberals because it’s advantageous. You also may have noticed that a lot of our supporters are… below average. That’s our appeal, to the common person. He milks that, and profits from it, and he gets a perverse glee out of it. But I can’t see him killing over it.”

“Is there some deal pending that you oppose him on?”

“Everyone winds up opposing and supporting him on many issues. He has fingers in everything.”

“That’s hardly what I’d call liberal.”

“Of course not. He wants what’s best for him. You don’t get to that position by caring about anyone except yourself. It’s a constant struggle for me-where’s the line between protecting myself so I can do the right thing, and being a petty elitist?”

Horace twitched his eyebrows slightly, but she didn’t see it.

Alex woke as Elke returned, carrying a canvas bag. He’d had twenty minutes of nap. It would have to do. It was probably a good thing. His spine didn’t like cots. He rolled off gingerly and stood.

She said, “I have a basic, reliable Road Cruiser.”

“Not bad. How did you get that?”

“I found an ad for a widow needing to sell property for living expenses. I was able to play the pity card and didn’t haggle over price, and also bought two pairs of work boots and some shirts. They may be a bit large for the ladies, but should make it easier to travel.” She tumbled them out of the bag. The boots were spattered with paint and grease, well broken in and wearing cracks. The shirts were sweat-stained and distressed.

Highland wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Those cannot be sanitary,” she said.

“We have disinfectant spray.”

JessieM slipped her shoes off, waited for Shaman to spray a pair, and slipped them on. Her expression was a neutral mask. She didn’t like this, but wasn’t going to complain. She pulled a khaki shirt over her blouse and became much less noticeable, even here.

Highland wasn’t disposed to argue. She shook her head and shrugged, and followed suit.

“What’s that?” Aramis asked, and pointed. It was a small wooden carving of a penguin.

“She graciously included that as a gift for my son.”

“Son?”

“She assumed I had offspring and I saw no point in correcting her, for either time constraints or camouflage.”

“Very good. It’s a cute figure.”

“He’s our mascot for now. The Evil Penguin.”

Shaman said, “Jessie, carry the penguin.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

What was that about?

Alex asked, “Does anyone have a reason to remain here?”

There were negatives all around.

“Then let’s take the valuables and the gear and vacate. Jason, Aramis, what do we have?”