When Diplomacy Fails . . . Read Online Free Page A

morning, Alex was almost too content to be happy. Shaman—their nickname for Horace Mbuto—had arrived the night before, and rose early. He made smoked Scotch Eggs for breakfast. Everyone was accounted for. Transport was ready, and it was military-managed, with their client part of the same government. That meant there were standard protocols for safety and transfer. Highland’s existing security detail would see her to the ship; they’d transfer responsibility in transit.
    It seemed too good.
    He chalked it up to nerves. They’d had easy missions, though eventually they always earned their pay.
    A message chimed in, and he scanned it. Subject: security detail weapons. Requested: a long list of stuff they optimistically hoped would be one third approved. Approval: everything.
    Everything.
    Pistols, carbines with grenade launchers, a sharpshooter’s rifle, two squad weapons, an autocannon, a Medusa system, ammunition, hand grenades, Jason’s tomahawk, knives, demolition hammers, stunners, stun batons, stickybombs . . . ah, there. “Authorization for incapacitance gas denied.” Fine. He could live with that. Someone had either been very agreeable, slightly greased, or smart, and they had all the firepower they needed to hold off an angry mob with torches. Possibly due to the fact that once they had fought an angry mob with torches.
    No mention of explosives yea or nay. He frowned, sent a query back, and decided not to mention that to Elke just yet.
    Elke was slicing up a Scotch Egg with a surgically sharp knife, and fork. “These are fantastic,” she said. “Though I’ll need something vegetable to go with it. It’s just too much by itself.”
    “Peasant food,” Shaman said. “For very rich peasants. Such a marvelous world we live in.”
    “Caron’s people are doing very well with the vats. It even tastes like it was well-exercised range meat.”
    Bart said, “I will be happy to assist her in testing any food, liquor or beer she wishes before the market. All they care to send.”
    Shaman said, “You know, I’m fairly sure she’d take you up on that. You are a connoisseur of beer, and reasonably experienced with liquor. You’d give her people honest feedback, which is a problem she always has.”
    “It will not be a new job, but it might be a nice hobby,” the big man said with a slow nod. “I will suggest it to someone.”

    It had been a good day, Aramis reflected. He wasn’t really a garden person, but Caron’s groundskeepers did some amazing things with plants, rocks, flowers and trees. It was done in part under her direction, a hobby to keep her sane. She’d devised digital machines to dig and plant according to a map. They already existed for agriculture, she’d just modified one for decorative landscaping. She’d probably get a few million more dollars she didn’t need from that, too.
    Fine weather, if a little gray early on, but sunny with puffy cumulus clouds now, had helped. Caron’s domestic staff members were the same, and Joanne had brought regular drinks, cocktails, hors d’oeuvres and other snacks. It was hard not to eat too much.
    Ayisha had the same problem, but was delighted, and seemed comfortable enough, once over the shock of Caron’s insane wealth.
    And here it was, evening, they were inside Caron’s huge apartment with a real wood fire in a fireplace. It crackled and popped, and the broad couch he sprawled on was very comfortable. He could sleep here. Ayisha made a good pillow, too. His head was cradled on her middle, with her hips and chest in an arch around him.
    The wood smoke was pleasant, and the sherry was delicious. He didn’t inquire as to brand. There was no way he could afford a single bottle.
    Caron’s family were dead, her immediate friends gone in a scandal. Now that she was alone except for staff members, the house had been rebuilt inside, into a couple of large apartments in this wing, with the other wing set for visiting guests. He wondered if Ayisha