When Diplomacy Fails . . . by Michael Z. Williamson Page B

you,” he said. “Right, Aramis?”
    “Understood. I speak their language. I can talk around any problems.”
    Good. The man took the hint.
    “Jason?”
    “No problem at all. I just remember that I am Aerospace Force, Grainne Colony, and therefore better than they are.”
    He grinned at the delivery. “Very good. Shaman is remaining here. Bart will simply sit quietly in the corner and drink, and no one would be stupid enough to start a fight with him.”
    Jason said, “I’m sure someone would, so watch out for idiots. The big guy is always wrong.”
    “On paper, at least,” Bart said, and cracked his knuckles. “I shall be relaxed.”
    At the gate, Alex greeted the guard. “We need to sign out.”
    The guard stared at him. “Why?”
    “So we’re accounted for. It’s policy for State and for our company.”
    The man rolled his eyes, but grabbed a screen and passed it over. They each printed it and waited for it to acknowledge, then Alex handed it back.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    The response was a mumble.
    It was less than a kilometer to the rec center, but they attracted some stares.
    “Everyone drives, even here,” Aramis noted.
    “Yes,” he agreed. “Want to go back, or remember that for next time?”
    Bart said, “Next time we shall take a limo, just to show them up.”
    “Discreet, Bart.”
    “At two meters tall?” Yes, the man was huge, but they could at least try.
    The weather was quite pleasant and the walk enjoyable. It was early enough that they were before shift change. That reminded him of the issue that presented.
    The day here was 25 hours and change. The UN ran on Earth’s 24 hour clock, “To avoid schedule-related accidents,” and ran two 12 hour shifts. That meant a steady progression across the day. However, Highland’s appearances were mostly local day, though she, or rather Jessie, had planned some so the transmission times would hit certain areas of Earth, notably North America and Coastal Asia, during prime viewer time there, after being transferred from surface to ship, through the Jump Point then down to Earth. That was going to be murder on their own schedule.
    For now, though, they should appear, participate and relax. Aramis was slightly ahead and held the door.
    There were other contractors on base, but the Ripple Creek team were certainly the highest profile. Also, they were effectively combatants, while most of the others were either strictly technical support, or guards with nonlethal weapons and no authority outside the perimeter. This had caused tension before, and they expected it now.
    It was made worse by their military non-uniforms. For now, they were wearing field pants with adjustable color, turned to dull gray, and collared sport shirts that had the obvious shine of nonnewtonian mesh. That said to everyone, “Contractors with assets.” Coupled with JessieM’s casual release of details, pretty much everyone knew they were Ripple Creek and Highland’s personal detail. It might be a good idea to not socialize until things had a chance to settle down and some favors were exchanged. Still, they were here now.
    They picked a vacant sitting area, ignored the stares and offered an occasional polite nod, and sat down. There were a couple of mutters, but nothing seemed problematic. Of course, things might be better, or worse, after some action and interaction.
    Or even right now. The lieutenant near the counter spoke loudly enough to be heard clearly.
    “That’s not your problem, soldier. Contractors are exempt from all regulations. Just ask them and they’ll tell you. In exchange, they have to put up with more pay, better quarters and get to go to political banquets. It’s a rough job.”
    Alex looked up and asked, in a quiet voice, “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”
    The officer turned, and his expression wasn’t a smirk, but was provocative.
    He said, “Pardon me for believing people like you should be under military discipline. It would change your