When Diplomacy Fails . . .

Baen Books

by Michael Z. Williamson

Freehold

Contact with Chaos

The Weapon

Rogue

Better to Beg Forgiveness . . .

Do Unto Others . . .

When Diplomacy Fails . . .

The Hero
(with John Ringo)

WHEN DIPLOMACY FAILS . . .

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Michael Z. Williamson

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Book

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403 Riverdale, NY 10471 www.baen.com

ISBN: 978-1-4516-3790-8

Cover art by Kurt Miller

First Baen printing, August 2012

Distributed by Simon & Schuster 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

 Williamson, Michael Z. When diplomacy fails-- / by Michael Z. Williamson.

    p. cm.

 ISBN 978-1-4165-3790-8 (hc)

1. Mercenary troops--Fiction. 2. Politicians--Fiction. I. Title. PS3623.I573W47 2012 813'.6--dc23

2012022344

Printed in the United States of America

10    9    8    7    6    5    4    3    2    1

For Jessica Schlenker

Webninja, sounding board, pack mule, event assistant and general dogsbody. Sucker.

CHAPTER 1

ALEX MARLOW
acknowledged that he was one of the best bodyguards in the galaxy. “Best” was a relative term, but he and his team had managed to keep principals alive through battles, riots, poisonings with neural toxins and even nuclear attack. The company charged accordingly for their services, and they were paid concordantly. The company also covered the insurance, because no sane underwriter would take their odds.

In a matter of days, they’d be guarding someone again. They took short-term, high-risk assignments that would cause any other company to shriek. Ripple Creek would take the jobs, then present a contract rate that would cause most principals’ accountants to shriek, and the rest to faint. Ripple Creek did, however, keep people alive, which was cheaper than the alternative.

He and his team were on down time after their last contract. Jason Vaughn was outsystem at Grainne Colony, his home, with his wife and kids. Eleanora Sykora was in the Czech Constituency of Europe, not far from Bart Weil in Germany. Horace Mbuto was from West Africa, but had moved to Hawaii and had a nice patch of property on the side of an extinct volcano. That left Aramis Anderson, who was in Wales, though there were reasons no one would mention that.

Alex was in New York. The company wasn’t based in New York, but the fastest way for a face to face with the CEO had been for the two of them to meet there.

The café was right on Times Square, which had to cost a fortune in rent. It was an independent, not a chain. However, it had plenty of staff and machines to keep juice, pastries, soups and sandwiches moving to the steady influx of customers. It was 0730, and only a handful of people were present so far. The smell of pastries and bacon hit him. It was even real bacon.

CEO Don Meyer sat at a booth in the rear, facing the door. He had a fliptop comm out, and a doc case. Alex walked in, wove past four tables, and took a seat to Meyer’s right. His back was to the hallway, but he could watch window and door. It was a professional paranoia in the industry and the military.

“Greetings,” he offered.

“Hello,” Meyer agreed. The ersatz office he sat in was reasonably safe, since there was a planter to his left and his doc case was layered with armor. It also offered some concealment to his wrestlerlike frame. That classy-looking suit was laced with shear armor as well. He had half an omelet on a plate to his right. Half a very large omelet.

On the screen of his fliptop, was a news load about Bureau of State Minister Joy Herman Highland. Once Alex made eye contact with it, and back to Meyer, Meyer switched loads to the stock market, clearing that story, and her image, from the screen.

Christ. They actually had an assignment involving
her
? It seemed hard to believe.

“I’ve got something for you, and you’ll need to leave shortly. How fast can Vaughn get back?”

“It’s probably better to have him meet us at the work location.”

“Noted. The client would like discretion and to make releases on their own schedule.”

Alex nodded. “This client didn’t like us much last time.” Actually, when they’d rescued a man that certain elements wanted and had declared as good as dead, it had caused a furor. Going back to work for that same government smelled of setup.

“No. However, different departments operate differently. Higher profile also gives a different outlook.”

“You certainly know how to challenge us.”

“Only the best.”

The exchange had taken less than a minute. A human server, young and cute if a little pale, arrived with a menu screen for him. He glanced over it.

“I’ll take the toasted ham and cheese pocket, please, with guava juice.”

She smiled and departed.

Meyer asked, “What’s Vaughn’s travel time to location?”

“Fourteen days, that I recall. He’s braced for departure, though he doesn’t get much time with his family.”

“Then he can meet you there. You’ll be DAIC.” District Agent in Charge. That meant there’d be other teams to coordinate with, under his guidance.

“I’ll get on it. Can you send a schedule?”

“Yes, and of course the client wants discretion,” Meyer repeated. The client wanted secrecy until she decided to say otherwise. Marlow understood that.

“Absolutely. I’ll arrange transport.”

Meyer moved to close things down. The meeting was done. “That only leaves the question of Anderson,” he said.

“Not a question. I’ll message him and he’ll be en route.”

“A debrief would be in order, just for formality’s sake.”

“Of course,” he agreed. Aramis was playing with fire, but it wasn’t their fire, and Alex rather suspected they were safer with it than without.

Then after breakfast he’d have a day to sight see and act nonchalant, before flying out to round up his motley band of bruisers.

Jason Vaughn swung the gun smoothly after the birds, fired, fired again. The first round hit, the second missed.

“Nice looking front sight, isn’t it?” his coach chuckled. Scott Vir was possibly the best action shooter alive. The second of the two targets faded from looking like a bird back to a small drone and settled from the sky into the weeds.

Jason grinned back. “Yes, I’m a rifleman first.” His wife giggled, too.

He was spending a bit of money to learn sport shooting for birds and other fast targets, rabbits and bounders and such. The classic over and under shotgun was dissimilar from the combat shotguns he used for work, or carbines or pistols. One didn’t aim. One watched the target, aligned the body and the gun, and slathered pellets in its path. Two to three seconds was a long, relaxed time, far more than one usually got in combat. At the same time, there were definitely aspects of this he could take to the job. They’d apply even better when he used the optics functions of his “shooting glasses.” They were turned off for now, but once activated they added to the spectra he could use, and offered some highlight and tracking functions.

Likewise, no one was shooting back at him, the day was warm with a sultry cloy of humidity, and shooting stuff was fun. Having Marisa along made it even better.

Each lesson was a div, a tenth of a local day. He liked Grainne’s longer cycle, and the primal rawness. There were fewer than one percent of the people here than on Earth. It was more free, and more comfortable. In that context, he couldn’t explain why he kept taking jobs in restrictive systems.

Two more birds erupted from the brush, rose and angled left. Marisa pivoted, pointed and shot. Even with damping weights, the recoil caused her slim frame to stagger a half step.

“Holy hell, I got them!” she exclaimed.

“Nicely done,” he said. There was something exciting about a woman shooting, and he couldn’t let it affect him on the job. Here, though . . .

In twenty segs he’d have her home. Now, if he could get the daughter to go see friends for a div or so, it would be a perfect day.

“And that’s it,” Vir said. “Twenty-five frames. What do you think of your movements?”

Jason switched his attention back to business and debriefed himself, with Vir’s feedback.

Just as they were wrapping up, a triple beep told him he had a priority message, which he threw on his glasses to read while walking back to the car. Ah, work. The Earth pay rates went a long way toward basics here, and allowed him quite a few imported luxuries. So it was a mixed blessing, because he’d bring back another huge deposit, but he’d be leaving a few days earlier than he’d expected.

Well, it was a warm day, and he could afford to fly and set it on auto.

*  *  *  *

Aramis Anderson had a life most men his age would kill for, and he knew it. That didn’t make it easier to juggle.

In the recent past, he’d been contracted to protect Caron Prescot, heiress and now, tragically, the richest person in the universe, who personally owned a controlling interest in an entire star system of mineral wealth and the intellectual property on all modern space mining gear.

It was impossible for her to have a normal life. As a rebellious young principal, denied any real social interaction, she’d drunkenly propositioned him while he was on duty alone. Against every fiber of his hormones he’d refused, and been the ultimate professional. He’d helped her sprawl into bed, folded her clothes, and sat on the couch until his relief showed up.

Any typical relationship she might have would be tainted by distrust. She had trillions of dollars of personal wealth, substantial industrial knowledge worth stealing, and of course, there were major bragging rights to bagging her. She knew for certain she could trust him, that he wasn’t after the money, and not an industrial spy. He was also a very effective bodyguard, even if not contracted to her, and she found him “decently attractive.” By turning her down when she was stressed and drunk, he’d won gentleman points. All he had to do now was keep them.

There were unspoken but ironclad rules to their relationship. Eventually, he thought those rules might cause it to fail. For now, they added tension.

First, he could never, ever tell even his closest friends, “I’m banging the trillionaire.” It would be disastrous for his career to be identified, because the public perception would be that he’d used his contracted position to go after her. The company wouldn’t risk it, nor would any future employers. Career ending mistake. If he said such a thing publicly, Caron would believe she was just a prize to him, as she was to everyone else. Relationship ending mistake.

When out with her, he wore a suit and shades like her current security detail. He was just part of the entourage as far as anyone with a camera was concerned. The same rule applied when he was outside on her mansion grounds. No one must identify him.

To that end, he appreciated his own company’s professionalism. The current security detail knew who he was, of course, as did Caron’s own staff, and neither would ever comment.

Nor could he ask for money. That wasn’t really a problem. His income was quite impressive for what he did. She treated him to numerous meals and events and occasional gifts. He was grateful once per treat, and appreciative on the rare occasions she asked if he was happy. He didn’t make a big deal out of it, and that kept things safe in that arena.

He understood he was with her at her sufferance. She ran, and owned, the largest corporation in history. When she was busy, he stayed out of the way. He was part of her life, she not part of his. His job was to provide her release, whether she wanted to bitch and scream, drink and have her back rubbed, go out for dinner, or have screaming, orgiastic sex.

Most men might think they’d kill for such a deal, but it was work. Challenging and rewarding work, but very much work, beyond that of a normal relationship. He was part friend, part assistant and part gigolo. If he tired of that, he could leave. For now, he thought he could handle it.

The only part he really had trouble with was the stress relief. Sex he was fine with, and quite a few variations. However, sometimes she wanted someone to consensually abuse. That wasn’t particularly his thing, but if it involved her, he wasn’t
un
willing. He could handle quite a bit without suffering.

Sometimes, though, she wanted to be the one abused. Nothing life threatening, but she liked being forced, choked, bruised. He’d had to do some reading on that subject to wrap his brain around it. A person with a lot of responsibilities might like to create a fantasy of being utterly controlled, to de-stress. The ironic counterpoint was that she dictated how it was to happen, so she was still very much in control. It was merely fantasy, but it kept her sane. He just had a hell of a hard time choking or causing pain even when he knew she wanted, craved, needed it. It was worse that she was a devastating actress who really got into the role, and he had to constantly remind himself she had safewords if he went too far, except she insisted he was just starting to get to where she really got the release she needed. Then, of course, his comrades on contract as her current security detail knew most of the details and monitored that, for her safety. He knew intellectually they’d never share that information in public, but he was now in the position he’d had her in last year, of being repressed by the presence of bodyguards.

The rules. They’d actually had to discuss the intimate details with the Agent In Charge. She had to tell them ahead of time she would be engaging in that kind of activity, so they’d know it wasn’t a threat. They got more details than he did, and other safewords or unsafewords, because it just might turn out to be an assassination attempt. Then there were the cameras. It was like being a fucking porn star.

With all that, it was still worth it. She was a hell of a woman in every way, and he still felt sorry for her, because her wealth, looks and brilliance were a prison she could never escape from. He just hoped they could remain friends regardless of what turns life took.

Which bemused him that he was actually becoming a gentleman, not just faking it.

Well, sort of. He wasn’t Caron’s full time, and he made a point not to lurk too much. He had his own place, his own bills, and sometimes dates. Like Ayisha. And if he intended to go out with her this weekend, he should be thinking about her, and that. Then he needed to get in some exercise to keep his fitness up.

When his phone chirped, he wasn’t too surprised to see Alex on screen, but even more than usual it caused him to tense up. It was hard not to feel guilty when one was in fact guilty.

Alex asked at once, “Are you being discreet?”

That caused a flush. Had something come out?

“As discreet as I can be.”

“Then are you available for assignment?”

Damn. Work called. Still, disappointing as it was, he did enjoy his job, and that’s what paid the bills. Being a kept man could only be a hobby.

“I am. Do I have transport?”

“You do now. Monday at oh six hundred.”

He glanced at the itinerary that flashed on one side of the screen. He’d meet most of them in orbit. Where was Jason? Oh, right. And Cady was along again. Just like old times.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

“Later.”