“How well can you take a punch?” asked Deputy Ambassador Schmidt.
Lieutenant Harry Wilson blinked and set down his drink. “You know, there are a number of places a conversation can go after a question like that,” he said. “None of them end well.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” Schmidt said. He drummed the glass of his own drink with his fingers. Harry noted the drumming, which was a favorite nervous tell of Hart Schmidt’s. It made poker games with him fun. “I have a very specific reason to ask you.”
“I would hope so,” Harry said. “Because as conversational ice breakers go, it’s not in the top ten.”
Schmidt looked around the Clarke’ s officer lounge. “Maybe this isn’t the best place to talk about it,” he said.
Harry glanced around the lounge. It was singularly unappealing; a bunch of magnetized folding chairs and equally magnetized card tables, and single porthole from which the yellowish green limb of Korba-Aty was glowing, dully. The drinks they were having came from the rack of vending machines built into the wall. The only other person in the lounge was Lieutenant Grant, the Clarke’s quartermaster; she was looking at her PDA and wearing headphones.
“It’s fine, Hart,” Harry said. “Enough with the melodrama. Spit it out already.”
“Fine,” Schmidt said, and then drummed on his drink some more. Harry waited. “Look, this mission isn’t going well,” he finally said.
“Really,” Harry said, dryly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Schmidt said.
“Don’t get defensive, Hart,” Harry said. “I’m not blaming you.”
“I just want to know how you came to that conclusion,” Schmidt said.
“You mean, how did I come to that conclusion despite the fact I’m this mission’s mushroom,” Harry said.
Schmidt frowned. “I don’t know what that means,” he said.
“It means that you keep me in the dark and feed me shit,” Harry said.
“Ah,” Schmidt said. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Harry said. “This is a Colonial Union diplomatic mission, and I’m Colonial Defense Forces, and you don’t want me seen by the Korba because you don’t want my presence to be interpreted as provocation. So while the rest of you head down to the planet, and get to breathe real air and see actual sunlight, I stay up here in this latrine of a spaceship, training your technicians to use the field generator and catching up on my reading. Which is going well, incidentally. I just finished Anna Karenina .”
“How was it?” Schmidt said.
“Not bad,” Harry said. “The moral is to stay away from trains. The point is, I know why I’m kept in the dark. Fine. Fair enough. But I’m not stupid , Hart. Even if none of you tell me anything about the mission, I can tell it’s not going well. All of you deputies and assistants come back to the Clarke looking like you’ve had the crap beat out of you all day long. It’s a subtle hint.” He picked up his drink and slugged some back.
“Hmm. Anyway, yes,” Schmidt said. “The mission isn’t going well. The Korba haven’t been nearly as receptive to our negotiations as we thought they might be. We want to try something new. A new direction. A new diplomatic tack.”
“A new tack that is somehow focused on me getting punched,” Harry said, setting his drink back down.
“Maybe,” Schmidt said.
“Once or repeatedly?” Harry asked.
“I think that would depend on your definition,” Schmidt said.
“Of ‘once’?” Harry asked.
“Of ‘punched,’ actually,” Schmidt said.
“I already have very deep reservations about this plan,” Harry said.
“Well, let me give you some context,” Schmidt said.
“Please do ,” Harry said.
Schmidt produced his PDA and began to slide it over to Harry, then stopped midway through the motion. “You know that everything I’m about to tell you is classified.”
“Good lord, Hart,” Harry said. “I’m the only person on the Clarke who doesn’t know
Lieutenant Harry Wilson blinked and set down his drink. “You know, there are a number of places a conversation can go after a question like that,” he said. “None of them end well.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” Schmidt said. He drummed the glass of his own drink with his fingers. Harry noted the drumming, which was a favorite nervous tell of Hart Schmidt’s. It made poker games with him fun. “I have a very specific reason to ask you.”
“I would hope so,” Harry said. “Because as conversational ice breakers go, it’s not in the top ten.”
Schmidt looked around the Clarke’ s officer lounge. “Maybe this isn’t the best place to talk about it,” he said.
Harry glanced around the lounge. It was singularly unappealing; a bunch of magnetized folding chairs and equally magnetized card tables, and single porthole from which the yellowish green limb of Korba-Aty was glowing, dully. The drinks they were having came from the rack of vending machines built into the wall. The only other person in the lounge was Lieutenant Grant, the Clarke’s quartermaster; she was looking at her PDA and wearing headphones.
“It’s fine, Hart,” Harry said. “Enough with the melodrama. Spit it out already.”
“Fine,” Schmidt said, and then drummed on his drink some more. Harry waited. “Look, this mission isn’t going well,” he finally said.
“Really,” Harry said, dryly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Schmidt said.
“Don’t get defensive, Hart,” Harry said. “I’m not blaming you.”
“I just want to know how you came to that conclusion,” Schmidt said.
“You mean, how did I come to that conclusion despite the fact I’m this mission’s mushroom,” Harry said.
Schmidt frowned. “I don’t know what that means,” he said.
“It means that you keep me in the dark and feed me shit,” Harry said.
“Ah,” Schmidt said. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Harry said. “This is a Colonial Union diplomatic mission, and I’m Colonial Defense Forces, and you don’t want me seen by the Korba because you don’t want my presence to be interpreted as provocation. So while the rest of you head down to the planet, and get to breathe real air and see actual sunlight, I stay up here in this latrine of a spaceship, training your technicians to use the field generator and catching up on my reading. Which is going well, incidentally. I just finished Anna Karenina .”
“How was it?” Schmidt said.
“Not bad,” Harry said. “The moral is to stay away from trains. The point is, I know why I’m kept in the dark. Fine. Fair enough. But I’m not stupid , Hart. Even if none of you tell me anything about the mission, I can tell it’s not going well. All of you deputies and assistants come back to the Clarke looking like you’ve had the crap beat out of you all day long. It’s a subtle hint.” He picked up his drink and slugged some back.
“Hmm. Anyway, yes,” Schmidt said. “The mission isn’t going well. The Korba haven’t been nearly as receptive to our negotiations as we thought they might be. We want to try something new. A new direction. A new diplomatic tack.”
“A new tack that is somehow focused on me getting punched,” Harry said, setting his drink back down.
“Maybe,” Schmidt said.
“Once or repeatedly?” Harry asked.
“I think that would depend on your definition,” Schmidt said.
“Of ‘once’?” Harry asked.
“Of ‘punched,’ actually,” Schmidt said.
“I already have very deep reservations about this plan,” Harry said.
“Well, let me give you some context,” Schmidt said.
“Please do ,” Harry said.
Schmidt produced his PDA and began to slide it over to Harry, then stopped midway through the motion. “You know that everything I’m about to tell you is classified.”
“Good lord, Hart,” Harry said. “I’m the only person on the Clarke who doesn’t know
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