Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

The window was gone, the frame was not. He crashed through and felt splinters, but it wasn’t critical and he slammed stingingly onto the balls of his feet, tumbled, rolled over his pack, came up with more abrasions and ran for the stairs. He did feel some of the splinters dragging on the fabric of his pants. They must have been heavy pieces to do that.

He went through the outside door fast, weapon ready, right into a group of six locals. He fired bursts right, forward and left, sprinted across the line of the alley, and heard the sound of rocks smacking into walls. They were trying to stone the guy to death ten meters in the air. It might have been kinder to shoot him. They most likely couldn’t touch the goo, but it would weaken in a few hours, if he hadn’t succumbed to cranial pressure by then.

Well, that wasn’t his problem either. However, he wasn’t sure even Caron’s pull could prevent a brain wiping if word of this leaked out. They had to eliminate every one of these fuckers, without a lot of credible or even not so credible witnesses, and play stupid.

He had at least one jump left in the harness, and now was the time to use it. The bladers had correctly decided Aramis was less relevant than whatever they planned to do to Highland.

Stupid fuckers. Had they asked, there was a good chance he’d give them five minutes with her. Actually, no there wasn’t. She might be a sociopathic bitch, but she hadn’t directly tried to kill him, just to use him as a tool.

Still, both of them thought of him as something they could use and discard. That had to be discouraged.

The window ahead was open, or rather, missing, save for a couple of dull shards, and how long had they been here for that weak sun to dull that plastic? He adjusted his run, leapt through, dropped free, and felt the jets engage. He landed in a crouch, stood and ran.

With those damnable peace walls, they should have all had these things from the start. It would have made scaling unnecessary.

Ahead was the waypoint, and between him and it, a crowd. He hoped for one last thrust, sprinted toward them and clutched for the trigger.

One saw him, then ten, then all of them, pointing and shouting and milling about, then moving. He judged the distance, waited until he was sure they were going to tackle him, a half second longer, and punched it while leaping.

Close. Fingers plucked at his boot as he rose, then a cacophony of small arms fire crashed in his ears. He clenched in on himself, knowing they were untrained and incompetent and the odds of them hitting him were astronomical, while his hindbrain feared it anyway. He clutched at something on his harness and dropped it. A stink gas grenade. He underhanded it ahead of himself.

He was starting to arc down, and hoped to make that window. He snapped down the aiming ring, pointed that way and pressed the button again. He raised his carbine, shattered the glass with three shots, and slung it back down.

The jets burped, coughed, sputtered and hissed, and he was in free trajectory.

The wall came toward him and up dizzyingly fast, and he knew he was going to miss the window, but if he was lucky…

He slammed ribs-first into the frame, cracking his chin and knees, and his elbows as they hooked the frame. Crying and tearing and with shocks of pain burning nausea into him, he scrambled up, every touch of his elbows causing him to clench. He thought his sphincters were going to release, and he almost hoped they would. Perhaps that would reduce the nausea.

He tumbled over the sill as more fire was directed his way, some few rounds of hundreds actually making it through the outline of the window.

Inside, eyes peeked from behind a couch, and an elderly couple rose, hands up.

“You’re safe,” he said. From him they were.

He slowed for a moment, took deep drafts of air, swallowed two “instant” analgesics with two swallows of water, and limp-sprinted for the far side, waving to the seniors as he passed through their door. With amusement, he noted the prayer box on the door sill, meant to keep threats out. So much for that myth.

There were certainly a confusing number of these standard pattern colonial buildings around. The locals would know their way, however. He needed speed. He unsnapped the harness and pulled his pack off, too. What was in his pockets would have to do.

He staggered down stairs, ignoring people who ignored him. It seemed all the violent-minded were outside, and the ones inside were meek and fearful.

However, the violent ones were on the far side, so for now he was safe, and the team should be meeting a klick away.

Those apartment blocks made great cover and boundaries. There was no fighting or rioting on this side. People noticed his gear and guns and shied away, but it was unlikely any of them would either start trouble or say anything. He walked briskly but without racing, kept his ears open for any pursuit but deliberately did not look back. He tried to blend in, as best he could in battle gear. Though the Catafract camo would help with that, since it had no color of its own.

He avoided shoving, stepped aside when possible, and most people were surprised to encounter him, which meant he was doing his job right. He knew he was close when the crowd thinned rapidly and disappeared, while the buildings turned drab, damaged, cratered. Just like that. This was an abandoned zone.

He got a very faint ping from Elke. She had power dialed way down, which meant they still expected active threats. The Bladers were somewhere nearby, and were both a direct threat and an intel leak.

He saw Elke ahead, just peeking from a corner. He made the hand signal that he was not under duress, and went past. It didn’t matter much; the next doorway entered the same space, but it was habit. You never went straight to your cover.

“Got one,” he said as he dodged in.

“At least two left then,” Shaman said.

“How are we doing?”

Jason said, “How are you doing? You’re as much of a mess as I am.” Jason was bandaged and sprayed. Wow. It looked like impact trauma and rock rash, though. A fall, probably.

“Ran out of fuel, crashed into building. On with the show.”

Alex said, “We plan to stage from here, and get to that point you noted, three blocks from here. Shoot a lot, hard cover, wait for fight. What’s the plan after that?”

“Kill them all,” Elke said.

“Who are we staging with?” he asked.

Right then, a voice came through his headset on company freq.

“Welcome, welcome, Playwright, to the show that never ends.”

Alex breathed relief. That was good news.

“Jacqueline, where are you?”

She giggled in his ears. “Really? I can see you. We’ll be over in a few moments.”

From outside he heard a hum, and looked out the window, startled. Cady and her team zipped around the corner in a beat up Mercedes. She waved with her left hand out the passenger window, while her right held a machine pistol, probably an iOrd.

The odds were still ridiculous, but with backup, he felt better. Though he blushed at not having tagged them as they came into the area. The locals might be incompetent, but Highland’s foes were not. They had to know everything that went down.

Cady bounced out like a dancer, followed by two of her team, Lionel and Marlin.

“Okay, so now we have twelve. That’s only half as pathetic.”

Aramis said, “There are only two of the Agency guys on Springblades now.”

She raised her eyebrows and said, “That doesn’t mean there aren’t others somewhere, on or off Springblades. And where did they come from?”

Alex said, “True, but those were a fantastic recon advantage, and intended to corral us. Now we are corralling the opposition, or will be shortly. As to where, we figure the administration sent them.”