When Diplomacy Fails . . . by Michael Z. Williamson

them, he could at least read and hear them.
    We’re down on Mtali. Ms. Highland will start her greeting momentarily. Sorry for the delay. It was necessary for safety in this action zone.
    “Action zone” was code for “war zone.” It wasn’t polite to use that word anymore. It was interesting, he reflected, how custom tailored language. Words came and went based on perception.
    He reached the bottom as Aramis and Bart reached the podium and stepped aside. They had to leave her exposed in front for the cameras. They’d shield the rest, even though the bulk of the lander did much of that. The time you didn’t was the time someone exploited it.
    The rain shield overhead was also ballistic protection. Between that and the mass of the crowd was a very small window she might be attacked through, and no buildings that had line of sight within three kilometers. They’d chosen this position to maximize safety, and of course, to have natural sunlight, or whatever it was called here, on her best angle. People imagined he was overpaid. They had no idea what this job entailed.
    There was still the small chance of a remotely piloted vehicle. Any engine signature should be noted, but gliders were also possible, so they had jamming . . .
    They didn’t think anyone hated her enough to shell the entire apron with artillery or rockets.
    Cady’s men kept up a steady patrol and scan. Outside that perimeter, the military had a Recon unit watching things. Recon and Ripple Creek didn’t get along very well, but they could work together. Outside that, the Aerospace Force had a security and marshal squadron. Outside that, the locals had whatever security they wanted, and good luck to them.
    The polished podium had been placed just so, for their security concerns, and for her presentation. The press were in a controlled area for safety, and to ensure they caught her at just the right angle of profile. Had politicians always been celebrities?
    She stepped up, looked in exactly the right direction, and read from the scroll on the one-way screen in front of her.
    “Thank you. It’s wonderful to be here, as we try to resolve differences in policies on a galactic matter, and between neighbors locally.” She paused, nodded slightly to acknowledge the applause that was being inserted electronically. There was no one close enough to be heard or seen. A camera pan of the spectators, watching her on remote video, would be merged in also.
    “I look forward to meeting with all the factions, as we explore our common ground . . .”
    He tuned her out. She was going to say absolutely nothing with a lot of words.
    She didn’t take long. At least she was a professional speaker, and knew to stick to high points and a simple message. Or maybe it was the baking heat of the flightline. Either way, she finished, stepped back, and paused for a few photos from the hovering drones.
    Those were a serious point of contention. Any drone was a potential bomb. Neither Ripple Creek nor BuState Security approved of them, or wanted to allow them. It was simply impossible to ascertain safety on them. However, media was a practical necessity, and a matter of Charter Freedoms. Instead, these were owned by BuState itself, controlled by one of Cady’s team, and the feed available to any news outlet. There was always a legal challenge demanding individual access, and it always failed, and the media always tried anyway.
    Alex’s professional paranoia didn’t even like these. He had no direct control over them, so they were a potential threat, given the status of the principal.
    In this case, they were safe. This time. They filled in around her.
    He heard Jason in his earbuds. “Arriving, twenty.” He saw the vehicle and acknowledged.
    “Roger.” Then, “Ma’am, our transport is over to the left.”
    “I see it. I’m ready when you are.” It was nice having a principal experienced with security details. It simplified some things.
    The ARPAC pulled up at the edge of