Schmidt nodded, and then ducked his head a little, which Harry took as something akin to an apology. “When we told them about you, they got very excited, and we were asked by the Korbans’ new leader—a direct request from the head of state, Harry—if we would be willing to pit you against one of their soldiers in a contest of skills,” Schmidt said. “It was strongly implied it would make a real difference in the tenor of the negotiations.”

“So of course you said yes,” Harry said.

“Let me remind you of the part where I said the mission is going into the crapper,” Schmidt said.

“There is a small flaw in this plan,” Harry said. “Besides the part where I get the crap kicked 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.