Michael Williamson: When Diplomacy Fails…

“We’re going.”

“Your troops must drop their lethal weapons. Now.”

Rowe seethed openly, but he seemed to understand the rule. Frankly, Alex didn’t need them except as bullet stoppers. He turned and pointed. His troops very clearly did not like it at all, but complied. They clutched their nonlethal weapons and looked ready to use them.

“Aramis, where do we go?”

“There’s a substantial bazaar three kilometers west.”

Rowe said, “Yes, we patrol there.”

Alex looked around. “Good place for a handoff?”

Aramis said, “It’s public. Start with that.”

Cady said, “There’ll be lots of witnesses, if we can avoid scaring them. Keep Ms. Highland masked until we’re ready? Then we have instant video attention.”

“I like it. Let’s move. Captain, I would like troops in the rear.” He started walking, and signed for the others to fall in to formation.

“In the rear?” Rowe seemed surprised but gratified.

“This is executive protection. We want not to get in a fight if we can avoid it, and to be discreet.”

“I do not believe that you are lecturing me on discretion.”

Alex didn’t either.

“There are different levels of discretion. But we may need backup.”

“With nonlethal weapons,” Rowe clarified. Or was he complaining?

He shrugged. “Yeah, it’s fucked up.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but you guys don’t get paid enough.”

“Remember that in three thousand meters.”

Ahead, Bart and Aramis broke trail, Lionel and Marlin flanked, Jason did overwatch, Alex and Cady brought up the rear. Alex could see all that, and Elke helping the two women scarve their faces as they moved. Shaman was nearby and ready. Behind, twenty angry young men were ready to shoot anything that annoyed them, including Alex.

The sporadic fire dropped behind, encouraged to do so by Jason and Cady. Cady was one hell of a marksman, possibly almost as good as Jason.

However, the horrifically bright uniforms marked the unit clearly, and even without that, a platoon-sized group of armed adults was clearly a platoon-sized group of armed adults. It dissuaded random potshots, but it meant they were certainly being tracked. That was fine for now.

It was hazy and hot. Slightly lower gravity didn’t help much. There was an increasing amount of dust and other pollutants clogging the air, then the nostrils. Alex’s straps cut into him, and his feet were sweating lumps. He pushed on.

The streets resumed habitation in this area. There were little shops and some larger businesses in random assortment, with two large apartment blocks ahead. Small dwellings were above the shops, some with laundry out to dry, dosses and cooking grills on small balconies. The vehicles varied from average to scrap, with some obviously mobile lodging.

Still, no one wanted a fight, or perhaps the following uniforms actually helped. They strode briskly along, crossing an intersection in bunches at a jog, then waiting, weapons low ready, for the rest.

That was when they were attacked. Bunching couldn’t be helped, and in fact, offered offensive advantage. But they started taking fire from one of the blocks, and from across the street.

There was little cover, so four mercs clutched around Highland and ducked behind a car. The rest swarmed around and returned fire.

Jason said, “LMG in the building, fourth floor, second window west. Got him distracted.”

“Pin them down, Elke, make them scared.”

She already had a grenadelike thing in hand and arced it up and out. It flashed into howling, screaming, spinning pyrotechnics that tumbled down nice and pretty, then cracked out neural tingles and, apparently, light frag. The group of young males departed in several directions.

“Mudslimes are Satan’s whores!” one of them shouted.

Alex muttered, “Well, good thing none of us are Muslim.”

Another burst from the building made him duck and flinch. Whoever was up there was a respectable operator.

Next to him, one of the soldiers, looking inordinately mean for someone wearing neon colors, shouted, “If I had my grenade launcher, that asshole would not be a problem!”

“Noted,” was all Alex could say. “Jason, paint it, all troops, fire on his mark.”

Jason stood, snap shot and continued. Puffs indicated bullets cracking on the extruded concrete. Four others joined in, along with Highland, and two of the troops had apparently completely disregarded the order and brought carbines from their gear. Jason shrugged, capped off ten quick shots, raised a hand and shouted, “ Cease fire! ” He tapped Cady, then Shaman, and the code propagated out. In two seconds, the mercenaries moved with Highland secure in the middle, and the troops tapered off fire and fell in behind.

Rowe said, “I have two light casualties, detailing two to drop out with them and follow, or shelter in a building.”

Alex said, “Noted. Aramis, tag it.”

“Marked.”

“We’ll have someone sent, too.”

He wasn’t sure if anyone had hit the gunner, but the volume of fire seemed to have chilled his ardor. Nothing further came from there.

They crossed another street. The thoroughfare they followed tangled up after the gunfight. Cross traffic came in

Bart swore in German.

“Talk to me.”

“ Hurrensohne springbladers. Two. Forward left forward high.”

He looked forward and slightly left, on roofs. Yes, there they were.

Highland said, “They’re supposed to be called off! He lied again!”

“Keep going,” Alex ordered at once. “Move now, talk later. Ma’am, I think it’s a last gasp attempt. If they kill you, they deny it and blame anyone they wish. If they don’t, they meet as planned. With churps reporting you’re about to meet with rescue, they can’t openly drop you.”

A flash and a dot turned into a woosh, into an incoming mini missile.

“Scatter!” he shouted and dove to cover Highland, along with Lionel and Aramis.

He realized his ears were ringing and that blast had been all concussion, not far away. His vision was blurry, his ears numb and his body tingled.

“Track them,” he mumbled. “What do we have?”

“Casualties,” someone replied, sounding tinny.

“Elke, Jason, Bart, someone…”

“On your feet, Alex,” Shaman said. He felt a sting that turned into coolness trickling through his neck. His brain thrummed, his skin burned, but he resumed functionality.

“Let’s move fast,” he said.

Rowe said, “Chief Marlow, we have several casualties.”

He looked around and saw Rowe referred to the troops specifically. Several had taken frag or been slammed by percussion.

“Elke, cut them a door.”

She snagged a charge, slapped it on a doorplate, rolled aside and thumbed her detonator.

It was a small charge, but after the previous one had shaken him up, it still hurt. However, they had an open building of some kind in which to shelter.

“Good luck,” he said. “We’re moving. Help Witch.”

A moment later he said, “Oh, and Jessie.”

Yeah, the young woman was holding up well. And at least the publicity paid off in the end. So far.

“Where’d the son of a bitch go?” he asked.

Aramis said, “Unknown. They headed south and kept going.”

“They’ll be back. What do we have for long range?”

Jason said, “I can possibly make three hundred meters.”

“Do it if you can. Hostile to be shot on sight.”

“Will do, and I’ll call for volley fire.”

“Right, can’t hurt.”

He thumbed his phone and said, “Last contact.”

The connection beeped and at once he heard, “This is Machac.” The man still sounded cultured and unhurried.