The Unincorporated Woman (21 page)

*   *   *

During the standing ovation Fleet Admiral J. D. Black, waving to the crowd, leaned over to Captain Nitelowsen. “So,” she said, out of the corner of her mouth, “exactly how much of your speech did she use?”

“I’m pretty sure,” answered Marilynn through the cacophony, “I heard most of the vowels.”

J.D. nodded, her suspicions confirmed.

“What are we going to do about it?” asked Marilynn.

“For now,” answered J.D., smiling stiffly at the crowd and pantheon of mediabots hovering nearby, “nothing. We’re going to smile, wave and show complete support for our brave, new President.” After a moment’s pause she added, “You know what galls?”

“That it was one heck of a speech?”

J.D. allowed a brief nod. “And that’s what really worries me.”

NEW ALLIANCE PRESIDENT ADMITS WAR IS LOST AND CALLS FOR JIHAD.

Terran Daily News
, day of the inauguration

UHFS
Liddel

Admiral Zenobia Jackson watched in utter disbelief as large misshapen chunks of rock drifted aimlessly by the viewport. These newest members of the asteroid belt were all that remained of a once mighty fortress that had beguiled the UHF for so long. A part of her was enraged at the fanatics of Altamont who’d killed themselves, taking more than twenty-five thousand UHF marines with them, and she was even more incensed at the murders of the ten thousand civilians trapped inside. To add salt to the wound, she’d so desperately wanted to meet Christina Sadma, the admiral who’d caused their fleet so much heartache for so very long. Three years of hard fighting and countless deaths had come crashing to a halt in the bright and quite unexpected explosion of a nuclear blast.

The sad truth was that the fortress’s destruction was only a political victory and not a tactical one. The UHF politicians could shout from the satellites all they wanted about “open lanes from the Core to the Belt,” but both she and Trang knew better. True, all large-scale resistance to UHF rule had mostly been destroyed or marginalized, but therein was the problem. “Mostly” meant “not entirely,” and if there was one thing Zenobia had learned in her few short years in the battle zone, when dealing with Belters, it was “entirely” or nothing. And true to form, the small-scale resistance, both organized and disorganized, had been making movement in the 180 particularly hazardous. Rather ingeniously, the Belters had carved out small rocks and suspended assault miners inside. The rocks were shielded and therefore virtually undetectable as a threat. The UHF had already lost an unreported eleven ships with forty-seven incapacitated as a result of the floating menace. Any rock the size of an average human would have to be treated as suspect, and there were literally millions of rocks that size floating in the Belt.

In territory the UHF supposedly controlled, ships smaller than cruisers now had to travel in convoy. There was also the problem of the Belters who’d opted to stay and be “liberated” by the UHF. Even with the Alliance pulling out hundreds of millions of its citizens in their so-called Diaspora, there were still a huge number of civilians for the terrorists to hide among and strike from, once again putting entire communities at risk. What was the UHF supposed to do when a convoy ran into a newly set minefield near a supposedly liberated settlement of a few thousand? The idea that made the most sense—go around the Belt in order to avoid more losses—found no purchase with the Martian cabinet. “How would it look,” they’d asked, “if the UHF, having conquered most of the Belt, now had to abandon it due to lawlessness and instability?” Not too good. Even Zenobia, not often in agreement with the Cabinet, could see the logic of that argument.

As she stared at the remnants of Altamont, she couldn’t help but feel what a horrible mess they’d all gotten themselves into and how glad she’d be to finally get out of a wretched part of space that had taken years of her life and buried so many of her comrades, including the namesake of the ship she was currently traveling on. She almost felt sorry for the liberated Belters who’d be left in the wake of Tricia Pakagopolis’s Internal Affairs goons … almost.

“What have you been asking me since we surrounded Altamont?”

Zenobia swung around, and though she wasn’t surprised to see Trang standing in his own observation deck, she was certainly surprised to have been caught so off guard.

“Damsah,” she said, recovering quickly, “they actually approved the attack?”

Trang was all smiles. “How could they refuse the savior of the UHF and victor of Altamont?” But just as quickly, the smile faded. “You, of course, realize what that means.”

“Indeed, I do, Admiral. We’ll finally get to battle the war goddess herself.”

*   *   *

Trang studied his former aide and now one of his most trusted warlords. He was very pleased by her eagerness to take on Admiral Black. Too few of his officers showed such zeal. Black had never lost a fight in open battle, and unfortunately for Trang, most of his subordinate officers felt she never would. But Zenobia, he now realized, might have the opposite problem.

“It won’t be as easy … as—” He looked out the port window at the drifting rocks: the culmination of hundreds of thousands of lives lost, three years of utter hell, and one too many brushes with his own mortality. “—that.”

“If you’re trying to scare me, sir, you needn’t bother. I fully understand what lies ahead. Besides,” she added, as an impish grin formed, “how could we ever immortalize you if it were easy?”

“Right,” he said, acknowledging the playful banter at the expense of the Martian cabinet. It seemed everything Trang did had to be bathed in some sort of ethereal glow. His officers all had fun parsing out the propaganda from the facts. More often than not, he’d be passed by someone in the hall congratulating him on some new miracle he was purported to have accomplished. So far his “saving of a thousand babies from a burning frigate” had yet to be topped in terms of preposterousness. “Save me, Trang!” was still on a piece of paper tacked to the chest of a singed rubber baby doll prominently displayed in the mess hall.

“And just so you know,” added Zenobia, “if
I
had to fight her, I would be nervous. Fortunately, all I have to do is run the supply lines. It’s you and Gupta who have to do the heavy lifting.”

Trang’s eyes moved from the debris field back to his subordinate. “About those lines, Admiral.”

“Yes?”

“You might want to start getting nervous.”

“Why, is there something—?” She stopped midsentence as she realized what her boss was getting at. Trang could see the warring emotions of hope and fear fly across her face.

“You’re too damn useful to leave funneling supplies on this one, Zenobia. If I’m to take on Black that close to Ceres, I’ll need every advantage I have, and you, my dear friend, are one of them.”

Zenobia tipped her head slightly. “Thank you for your confidence in me, sir. I’ll try to live up to it.”

“I’m sure you will. With that in mind, I’ve decided to reorganize the Martian battle fleet into three flotillas with every experienced ship and crew I have. I’ll command the Alpha, Gupta the Beta, and you the Delta. Unfortunately, we won’t have the advantage of having the Blessed One distracted. I must admit, installing that new woman President was a stroke of genius.”

“Sir?”

“If Black had to run the Alliance as President
and
prepare for us, it would’ve split her attention at just the time I was concentrating mine. At least that was my original plan. I didn’t see O’Toole coming by a kilometer. Of course, no one did.”

“Doesn’t that suppose this Unincorporated Woman is competent?”

“You saw the inauguration on vid, Zenobia. Did she look incompetent?”

“No sir, she didn’t. But I assumed every line of that farce was rehearsed.”

“As did I. But damned if O’Toole didn’t sell it lock, stock, and barrel. Which is all she really had to do. Still, I wonder if the Alliance has bitten off more than it can chew.”

“In what way, sir?”

“Our society woke up the Unincorporated Man and never once questioned the ramifications of doing so. Well, we’re right in the middle of the answer, aren’t we? Now you and I both saw their new President. She’s going to be their leader whether they like it or not. So maybe, just maybe she’ll make them as miserable as Justin made us.”

AWS
Dolphin

Sergeant Eric M. Holke was checking every part of his battle gear for the umpteenth time and enjoying the back-and-forth banter among his men as he made sure that every one of them was doing the same. It was never a problem with the vets. But his unit had recently gotten a large number of new recruits to replace the losses they’d taken after their latest battle. That battle didn’t have a fancy operative name as so many others had, but it did have one simple impetus—revenge. His crew had been charged with the destruction of the murderers of Alhambra, and they’d done their job with ruthless abandon.

And as far as Sergeant Holke was concerned, even that devastating victory was not enough to avenge the Alhambra travesty. It wouldn’t be enough until those who ordered it too lay buried under a pile of rubble and twisted metal. If he were lucky, he’d even be there to watch when it happened. And finally he hoped God would understand his feelings and support such a view. Sergeant Holke was one of the newly religious, although not a member of the larger faiths of Islam and Christianity. He knew he had faith but kept on wavering between Buddhism and Judaism. In the end, he also knew it was pointless. His wife would choose one of the new faiths, and he’d most likely give that more of his attention.

His DijAssist and the PA system began squawking simultaneously. He could hear his name and rank echoed through the halls of the ship and realized that he’d need to bend the rules of time and space in order to get to the admiral’s cabin … five minutes ago. Without a thought he dropped his weapon into the hands of the nearest assault miner, his tool belt on the floor and ran out of the maintenance bay in his work attire, comprised of a thin, grimy shirt, mended pants, and polished boots. He knew that when he returned, his equipment would be checked and repaired and his tools stowed as if he’d done it himself. He also knew that not one of his men would claim credit for it. That thought brought an appreciative smile to his smudged face as he tore through the cramped corridors.

One of the advantages of having your name announced over the PA was that everyone knew you had to move quickly. Lifts would remain blissfully empty, doors would be held open and passageways cleared—all of which occurred with almost perfect synchronicity as the sergeant passed through the ship. Holke was pleased to see that the admiral’s door was open, and dispensing with any “needing to be announced” protocol, he headed right in past the admiral’s orderly, who didn’t bother to look up from his desk.

Admiral Omad Hassan was holding a round disk about six centimeters across and tapped the top of it when Holke came to a crashing halt in front of his desk.

“Buddha’s brass balls, Sergeant,” Omad said as the corners of his mouth curved into a sly grin, “that may very well be a record. It took you less than a minute to traverse two thirds of the ship.”

“Thank you, Admiral. I saw no reason to waste your time.”

“To be honest, Sergeant, I was hoping you’d be a bit slower. It would make what I have to do easier.”

“Sir?”

“Effective immediately, you’re relieved of combat duty and are to report back to Ceres—”

“Fuck that,” Sergeant Holke said, and then added, “sir.”

“—for Presidential guard detail.”

Holke’s face registered absolute confusion. “Sir?”

“Normally I’d agree with your assessment, Sergeant. But things have changed.”

“When?”

“When the grenade that took out half your platoon put you in command.”

“Not my fault, sir.”

“Well, damn it, Eric, then why the hell didja have to go and capture the enemy ship?”

“It seemed the right thing to do, sir.”

“With half a platoon? I gave you a direct order to break off the attack and evacuate your men.”

“I apologize for the equipment failure, sir,” Sergeant Holke prevaricated.

“The hell you do,” groused Omad. “You disobeyed a direct order and were proved right. What choice did I have but to promote your sorry ass?”

On Holke’s confused look, Omad nodded sympathetically. “How the hell do you think promotion works?”

“But, Admiral, I’ve just started integrating the new recruits and … and,” he said, grasping at straws, “I’ll need to familiarize them with Gedretar’s new ARGs.”

“All of which Lieutenant Villa is more than capable of doing, even the assault rail guns.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, and meaning no undue disrespect to the lieutenant, unless you can find a sergeant who can do the job half as well as me, I’m afraid I’m going to have to refuse … the promotion.”

“You’re not making this easy, son.”

“No, sir.”

Omad sighed. “Sergeant, I’m not sending you back because you’re not a success as an assault miner. Jesus H. tap-dancing Christ, son, you might be one of the best assault miners I’ve seen, and think about how many I’ve seen in the last five years. You lead with your heart and think with your head. But it still doesn’t change the fact that I’m sending you back.”

“I still don’t understand why, sir. Because I succeeded?”

“No, Sergeant.” Omad shook his head. “Because you failed.”

“Sir?”

“The moment you came to this ship,” Omad said in a somber voice that cut more deeply than any shout or insult could have. “And I failed because I let you.” He then pulled a folder out from beneath his desk and dropped it on the desktop. “I’m going to allow you to see something that could get my ass demoted all the way back to ensign, so do me the favor of one day acting surprised when by chance you see it again.” Holke nodded, and with that, Omad slid the file across the desk.