Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

“Shit, that was from street level,” he said. He was observant.

“Stand by,” she replied, while digging in the front of her vest. Somewhere there… got it. She held it out the window, snapped loose the lanyard, snapped the lanyard free, and tossed.

“Faster,” she said.

He clenched and stomped and they accelerated at the best rate the lugging old vehicle could manage.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Distraction. Check behind.”

She couldn’t see much from where she sat, but she knew what it was doing. It was flammable gel with a surfactant to disperse it. It wouldn’t burn for long, but it would cover most of the width of the street while it did, and of course, lead to injuries and possible ignition of other items. The popping of ammunition cooking off seemed to suggest so.

“Very nice,” he said. “Revolting, even.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll slow at this corner. You bail out, cover me as I bail out, we’ll proceed across and down that alley.”

“Understood. I have an alley load ready.”

“Good. Hopefully we won’t need it.”

“Well, you hope so.” She most certainly wanted to use it. It might be unnecessary, or even a bad idea, but she hoped otherwise.

“Turning, braking,” he said.

She popped the door latch as he came out of the turn, and brake momentum threw the door forward to slam against its detents. She hopped out at a sprint, dug her heels in to slow, and swung in an arc checking for threats.

He jumped out, stumbled, cracked his chin on his knee, stumbled again, rolled and recovered. She charged out, snagged him by an elbow and guided him at a full combat run.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

In the alley, she sought a nice pile of debris and pulled him down next to it. She twisted and sat hard, put a hand under his thigh, and let him fall almost to the ground before snatching her arm out. He grunted and starred with glassy eyes. He had a bad abrasion on his right cheek, blood seeping around grit. There was bruising underneath.

“Will you be okay?”

“Yes, I can move now,” he said.

“We’re fine for a few seconds. The crashed truck is drawing attention.”

“How far do we have to go?”

“A few blocks, depending on where they took cover.”

“Then let’s at least walk. I want distance from our last known location.”

“Good.” She helped him to his feet and they started a brisk stride.

Joy Highland should not be in this position. Here she was, dependent on armed thugs who enjoyed violence, and considered her voters expendable.

What was frustrating, aggravating, irritating was that they had been, and were, right. Her own party had turned on her. Her choices were to be a martyr physically and politically, just politically if she wanted to throw herself in front of the train, or trust these contemptuous troglodytes to drag her through a developing nation hellhole, and hope their body count was low enough, and the headlines big enough, to give her the edge. They represented corporate excess, the uncooperation of outsiders, smug elitism, everything her platform stood against. And she was dependent upon them to save her life and her career.

Poor Jessie was cut off from all her resources, and that directly affected Joy’s campaign, too. They were going to take Jessie’s career down with her. Joy didn’t mind playing off against Ripple Creek. That’s what they were for. But her own party, Cruk that slimy fucker, planned to not only take them down, but kill them in the process, and make her a shill.

It couldn’t be Cruk. It had to be Lezt. She’d always suspected Champion’s flyer crash was no accident. If she won this, she’d have him taken behind the Mansion and shot. No, she’d arrange a flyer accident. Perhaps that scary, flaky Sykora could be persuaded to stage it.

She should not be wading through rubble and trash, pulled by the arm like a detainee or child, and cowering from rioting underclasses. She was their savior.

Gunfire made her flinch and whimper. Jessie tried to grip her hand, but she shook it off.

I will not show fear in front of rabble, she thought. Except she was. The German, Bart, pushed ahead with Marlow. That doctor they called Shaman was right behind. The others were somewhere. She wanted all six around her.

She realized she’d completely forgotten her gun. Had they anticipated that? Were they snickering at the politician who wanted to play soldier? Did they know she’d served slop in a mine and minced fish guts to pay for school promotions? Everyone focused on the fact she’d had to pay, rather than earning her schooling on scores, but she’d earned it as much as anyone, with real work.

Another shot jarred her senses, and she realized she had a blister on her left foot. The ball stung and felt wet where it had burst.

She growled and pushed faster. She’d be damned if she’d give up now.

Jason was right, Aramis thought. Once they were in trajectory, they had no way to maneuver. The first one sailed cleanly overhead, about ten degrees down from his view. He raised the web gun, angled it for a good lead, and waited.

A moment later the second came into view, higher up but at the same speed. He shifted, snapped the trigger, realized the slow speed weapon needed more lead, and tried to shift.

The figure hissed out of sight, and the third one arched over before he could make ready.

He sighed, snarled and grumbled, poked his pistol over the ledge and fired, stood, fired again, jumped right, fired again, just to keep their heads down if they’d decided to pause for him.

Two of them kept right on bounding across the roofs. He didn’t see the middle one, and from the spacing of the two remaining, he just might have gotten that one.

He took a wide arc toward the building’s edge, raising his carbine, slinging the web gun, then holstering his pistol. He kept a good point in case of threat, and eased up to the edge.

The shot had caught the man on one of his Springblades, and he’d tumbled over the side while the goo caught on the roof and guttering. It appeared he’d smacked into the wall, but was conscious if a bit disoriented. Hanging upside down by one foot couldn’t help.

The man had dropped any weapon he might have in hand, though appeared to have other stuff harnessed or packed. He was attempting to maneuver a foot into place, probably to try to bounce back up. He might even have a counter agent for the goo, but while hanging over the edge was not the time to use it.

His gyrations brought him eye to eye with Aramis, and he froze. Then he seemed to realize there were spectators below as well. Some of them pointed and cheered, or jeered, and a few small pebbles flew up to rattle against the wall.

“Help me up,” the man asked.

“I don’t think so.” Dammit, why couldn’t he have just fallen and finished it?

“I’m out of the fight and I’m your prisoner.”

“I’m not a combatant and have no way to deal with prisoners.” He really was in an awkward legal position. He was a bodyguard, so armed, but not a combatant, so the Law of Armed Conflict only applied in certain ways. He couldn’t take a prisoner, but killing the man now would probably constitute a war crime.

That voice. Could he…?

“Then just cut me free. I’ll take my chances.”

This… person… was probably one of the ones who’d had him tortured. His voice was familiar, but Aramis had been barely conscious. False memory? Real?

It wasn’t Aramis’s problem and he wasn’t going to shoot the man in cold blood. What the spectators below might do was not his concern.

He turned, located a window on the floor below, and jumped in a dizzying arc, praying the window was open or of breakable paning. The jets did cut in for just a moment, flattening his trajectory.