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out of me, I mean. Hart, I’m CDF, but I’m not a soldier. I’m a technician . I’ve spent the last several years working in the military science division of the Forces. That’s why I’m here, for God’s sake. I’m training your people to use technology we developed. I’m not training them to fight, I’m training them to twirl knobs.”
    “You’ve still got the CDF genetic engineering,” Schmidt said, and pointed to Harry’s sitting form. “Your body is still in top physical shape, whether you use it or not. Your reflexes are still fast as ever. You’re still as strong as ever. Look at you, Harry. There’s nothing flabby or squishy about you. You’re in as good a shape as any soldier on the line.”
    “That doesn’t mean anything,” Harry said.
    “Doesn’t it?” Schmidt said. “Tell me, Harry. Everyone else on this mission is an unmodified human. Is there any one of us that you couldn’t take in hand to hand combat?”
    “Well, no. But you’re all soft ,” Harry said.
    “Thanks for that,” Schmidt said. He took a sip of his drink.
    “My point is whether or not I’m engineered for combat, I haven’t been a soldier for a very long time,” Harry said. “Fighting isn’t like riding a bicycle, Hart. You can’t just pick it up without practice. If these guys are so hot to see CDF in action, send a skip drone back to Phoenix and request a squad. They could be here in a couple of days if you make it a priority request.”
    “There’s no time , Harry,” Schmidt said. “The Korba want a combat exhibition tonight. Actually,”—Schmidt checked the chronometer on his PDA—“in about four and a half hours.”
    “Oh, come on ,” Harry said.
    “They made the request this morning, Harry,” Schmidt said. “It’s not like I’ve been keeping it from you. We told them about you, they made the request and ten minutes later I was being hustled off to the shuttle back to the Clarke to tell you. And here we are.”
    “What is this ‘skill contest’ they want me to have?” Harry asked.
    “It’s a ritualized combat thing,” Schmidt said. “It’s physical combat, but it’s done as a sport. Like karate or fencing or wrestling. There are three rounds. You get scored on points. There are judges. From what I understand it’s mostly harmless. You’re not going to be in any real danger.”
    “Except for being punched,” Harry said.
    “You’ll heal,” Schmidt said. “And anyway, you can punch back.”
    “I don’t suppose I can pass,” Harry said.
    “Sure, you can pass,” Schmidt said. “And then when the mission fails and everyone on the mission is demoted into shit jobs and the Korba ally themselves with our enemies and start looking at human colonies they can pick off, you can bask in the knowledge that at least you came out of this all unbruised .”
    Harry sighed and drained his drink. “You owe me, Hart,” he said. “Not the Colonial Union. You.”
    “I can live with that,” Schmidt said.
    “Fine,” Harry said. “So the plan is to go down there, fight with one of their guys, get beat up a little, and everyone walks away happy.”
    “Mostly,” Schmidt said.
    “ Mostly ,” Harry said.
    “I have two requests for you from Ambassador Abumwe,” Schmidt said. “And she said for me to say to that by ‘request,’ she means that if you don’t do them both she will find a way to make the rest of your natural existence one of unceasing woe and misery.”
    “Really,” Harry said.
    “She was very precise about her word use,” Schmidt said.
    “Lovely,” Harry said. “What are the requests?”
    “The first is that you keep the contest close,” Schmidt said. “We need to show the Korba from the start that the reputation the CDF has is not undeserved.”
    “Not knowing what the rules of the contest are, how it’s played or whether I’m even physically capable of keeping up with it, sure, why not, I’ll keep it close,” Harry said. “What’s the other