The Unincorporated Woman (4 page)

“And,” added Hektor, “we know that she and Cord weren’t exactly the best of friends.”

“Yes,” agreed Tricia, “we took that into consideration as well, but it wasn’t a deciding factor in our assessment.”

“But it rounds it out quite nicely, don’t you think?”

Tricia remained silent, but nodded.

“The bitch,” murmured Hektor, cracking a wide, admiring smile. “She must’ve known I’d give her almost anything to end this war sooner rather than later.”

“Of course,” added Tricia, “that works only if Trang doesn’t beat her first.”

“Yes. It does,” he replied, “but she’s a cocky SOB with a stellar résumé in kicking our butts.” Then, seconds later added, “Probably why we worked so well together.”

Tricia nodded solemnly.

Jealousy?
wondered Hektor.

“So, can he?”

“I’m sorry, what?” asked Tricia.

“Can Trang win? I hate to be less than rah-rah about it, but in the confines of this office, the truth will out.” Even Hektor had to admit Janet had become something of a mythical figure.

Tricia nodded. “He just might. In which case, Delgado’s gambit fails. Which leaves us with one outstanding issue.”

“Ah,” mused Hektor with a one-sided grin, “how best to exploit the assassination?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Since I’m gonna be blamed for this anyways…”

“Yes, sir. Let’s make it work for us.”

“Indeed.” Hektor’s face was a mask of determined resolve. “Deny everything, of course, but leave just enough evidence for our press and their intelligence service to find. It shouldn’t be conclusive, just…”

“… suspicious,” Tricia finished helpfully.

“Exactly.” Hektor seemed satisfied. He pulled a matchbox from an inner pocket, set a match aflame, and touched it to the end of the report, dropping the paper at the last second into a large ashtray already filled with the stubs of half-chewed cigars. He watched the paper burn to ash, then casually picked up his DijAssist and scanned Tricia’s other reports.

“And how,” he asked, stopping at one that caught his eye, “are we planning to exploit the opportunities that the capture of the Belt and half the Alliance population will allow us?”

And with that, Justin Cord ceased being a consideration for Hektor Sambianco and became a simple memory.

Tragedy and triumph for the Alliance has been reported today. On this the eighth day since the murder of our President, the fabled fortress of Altamont was put under siege by the forces of the UHF under the personal command of Admiral Samuel Trang. This siege completes the cracking of the asteroid belt that began four and half years ago with the Battle of Eros. It is not known how long Altamont can hold out without supply or reinforcements. It is also not known whether Trang will use a long attritional siege or attempt to storm the position. Admiral Christina Sadma has refused all offers of surrender. Her last clear communication with the Alliance stated that she will not allow Altamont to fall to the enemy under any circumstance.

In the triumph department, the massacre at Alhambra was avenged today with the complete destruction of the flotilla that committed that war crime. Admiral Omad Hassan, in a daring raid, pursued the enemy into their own space and overtook them. It’s still unclear why the enemy did not seek protection behind the orbats of Mars, but our good fortune was their bad luck. Even though Admiral Hassan’s fifteen ships were outnumbered three to one, he still emerged victorious.

“It was like watching a battle from the first year of the war,” said assault miner Eric M. Holke, a field-promoted sergeant who helped capture the flagship. Although we cannot report on the losses suffered by the Alliance, we’re given to understand that they were surprisingly light. As it now stands, thirty-one of the enemy ships were destroyed or self-destructed, with nineteen having been captured. Whether they can be returned to Alliance space from so far in UHF territory remains to be seen. Rumor has it that none of the enemy was taken alive, all having chosen to die rather than be captured and face trial for their crimes. This, however, cannot be confirmed, as some may have been suspended and stored. In an editorial aside, it is this reporter’s fervent wish that Admiral Hassan kicked open the air locks and spaced all of the bastards.

Nora Roberts

Alliance Daily News

Triangle Office, Ceres

Janet Delgado Black sat for some time, staring into the empty seat. Even unoccupied, the room, the seat,
something
in the Triangle Office allowed her to attain a measure of clarity and introspection. Sitting now in the quiet, in the dark, she opened her heart, giving quarter to unspoken heresy: She never really liked Justin Cord. The man had been too damned righteous. More than once, she’d wished she could smack the holier-than-thou attitude right off his face. And yet she wanted him back, needed him sitting behind his now undisturbed desk, telling her and the rest of the Alliance what to do. Agree with him, argue with him, worship or hate him. In the end, J. D. Black, along with everyone else in the Outer Alliance, had done what came naturally—she followed him.

And now he was gone, and the whole mess had somehow ended up in her lap. Technically, she was a fleet admiral who reported to a grand admiral—a superior officer in every sense of the word. Joshua Sinclair was her direct boss
and
the Defense Secretary and a Cabinet Minister, all of which gave him greater authority. But none of that meant crap.

J.D.’s recent orders to return to Ceres had been the proof of that. She’d been on her way to find and destroy the bastards who’d murdered her friends at the asteroid community of Alhambra when the mission was unexpectedly called back. Turns out it would have been impossible for her to execute. Not militarily, but rather politically. Janet hated thinking that way, but it was true. Aside from Sinclair’s direct order, she’d also received numerous back-channel communiqués from every major political and economic leader in the Alliance. Normally, she would’ve paid them scant attention, much less read them. After all, Sinclair’s order had been, with admittedly some objection on J.D.’s part, good enough. But J.D.’s trusted adjunct, Marilynn Nitelowsen, had impressed upon her boss the need for political savvy—if only for a short while, during the crisis—and responding to the communiqués had been a start. Janet didn’t know why she’d bothered. After all, they pretty much asked the same thing:
When are you getting back to Ceres, and can you get here sooner?
The government had been in a panic, which unchecked, had spread outward at an alarming rate. And now it was believed that only J. D. Black, hero of the Alliance, warrior goddess of victory, and reassuring voice in the heat of battle, could somehow manage to right the listing ship. She wanted to gag.

It was agreed that she’d send her number two, Omad Hassan, to deal with the murderers. It took J.D. a few days to get back to Ceres, and things, she soon found, had indeed gone to hell in a handbasket. The asteroid belt had cracked at the 180, its midpoint, and she couldn’t do a thing about it. Her precious Christina Sadma, an invaluable military asset, trusted friend, and an admiral generally loathed by the United Human Federation, was trapped at the asteroid fortress of Altamont. Worst of all, the Alliance’s leader and moral center, Justin Cord, was dead. J.D.’s initial assessment upon return was that there was little, if anything, she could do about it—especially as a glorified hand-waving benchwarmer on Ceres. And yet she couldn’t deny the palpable effect she had when appearing in public. Whether in front of a street urchin or before a powerful congressional committee, the effect, she noted, was always the same—the panic and fear would dissipate almost immediately. She was glad to offer them the respite, even if the power therein scared the hell out of her.

J.D. heard the door open behind her. Even though she trusted her guards implicitly, she turned around to see who’d entered.
After all,
she thought,
Justin had trusted his guards too
. The intruders, she mused, turned out to be a threat, just not to her physical safety.

“Good morning, Mr. Secretary, Congresswoman,” said J.D., getting up from her chair.

Eleanor McKenzie extended her hand. “That’s Congresswoman-Elect.” Eleanor was wearing a formal gray two-and-a-half-piece suit garnished with flecks of color, and a non-distinct matching blouse: standard government fare. Though Eleanor was well past a century, only the depth of her eyes and reserved half smile bespoke a true age greater than the forty years she was currently presenting. She had also cut her once long, amber blond hair into a short crop. But other than that, noted J.D., it was still the same woman with the same mellifluous voice and strikingly firm handshake.

“I don’t get sworn in till this afternoon,” pointed out Eleanor, acknowledging J.D.’s equally firm grip with a slight bow.

“We were hoping you’d attend,” urged Mosh, too peremptorily for Janet’s liking. Mosh, she noticed, hadn’t changed much at all: still bald, still presenting in his late forties, and still ornery. As a former board member of GCI, the largest corporation in history, and now the current Treasury Secretary, Eleanor’s husband was a powerful figure in the Alliance and, therefore, used to getting his way. There was no love lost between him and J.D.; they were adversaries before Justin arrived and turned everyone’s world upside down. But as the adage went, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” and Hektor Sambianco, President of the UHF and bane of the Alliance, had made a lot of enemies.

“The people,” argued Mosh, “should see that our government’s still functioning.”

“Oh, is it, now?” J.D. asked, eyebrow cocked.

“—and,” pressed Mosh, refusing to take the bait, “you and I both know that your presence will certainly help.”

“So,” J.D. scoffed, “you need my blessing.” She shook her head in disbelief.

“Yes, Janet,” replied Mosh—being one of the few who’d known her long enough to address her on a first-name basis. “That is exactly what
we
need.”

“Where does it stop, Mosh?” blared J.D. “Am I to christen every ship, cut the ribbon at every porta-potty?”

“Don’t get smart with me, Janet. You and I—”

Eleanor placed a firm hand on her husband’s shoulder, shooting him a
cease and desist
glance. She then set her gaze on J.D. “I would want you to be there regardless, dear, but whether you like it or not, Mosh is correct. Your presence will help with my new and more experienced colleagues, and frankly I could use all the help I can get.”

J.D.’s upper lip twitched. She finally nodded her head more in defeat than in acceptance. Something about Eleanor reminded her of Fawa Hamdi, the woman who’d sheltered her when she’d first arrived in the Belt and the same woman who’d helped her find faith in God. Both Eleanor and Fawa had a mothering or perhaps even a smothering quality, mused J.D., that made resistance almost futile.

J.D. inclined her head. “Of course I’ll come.”

Eleanor smiled approvingly. “Thank you, dear.”

“Speaking of swearing-in ceremonies…” began Mosh.

Eleanor’s even gaze returned. “This is neither the time nor place, dear.”

J.D. remained silent, preferring the matter be closed without her intercession, and with Eleanor as an ally, she was quite confident it would be.

“The President,” said Mosh, choosing to ignore the forces aligned against him, “is dead, and in case either of you missed it, we do not have a successor. So this is most definitely the time. As for the place—” Mosh did a quick and purposeful scan of the Triangle Office. “—we will not find one better. I actually thought you came here because you were ready to accept what must be done.”

J.D. brought up her hand to rub the scarred half of her forehead. “I came here,” she said, voice raised in anger, “to … to say good-bye.” She glanced over her shoulder at the desk, then back to Mosh and Eleanor.

“I keep expecting him to be here. I know he’s gone. I’ve read the reports and talked with the commanding officers leading the search. The overall probability is he perished with the rest of the Nerid station. But every time that door opens”—her eyes focused on the space behind Mosh and Eleanor—“I expect him to be here. I expect to hear his always sarcastic, ‘J.D., so glad you could make the time to talk with your commander in chief.’”

Mosh and Eleanor let out a laugh tinged with sadness.

J.D. once again looked over at the chair. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“You’re the
only one
who’s supposed to be here … the only one who
can
be here,” insisted Mosh.

Desperation and agitation crossed her face like leaves tossed to and fro by the wind. “What about Sinclair?” she blurted.

“Saturnian,” thwarted Mosh, “and therefore not acceptable to the Jovians. Plus the rest of the Alliance doesn’t really know him well enough to trust him—not in a time like this.”

“Cyrus, then.”

Mosh shook his head. “Besides being Jovian which makes the Erisians and Saturnians nervous, the rest of the Alliance knows about him
all too well
.”

J.D.’s lips parted wide enough to reveal her clenched teeth. “I can’t believe I’m suggesting this, but … what about you?”

Mosh was taken aback. It was clear he hadn’t bothered to add himself to his own list.

“She must be desperate, dear,” joked Eleanor.

Mosh smiled thinly at his wife then turned towards J.D. “I’d like to think I’m President material, Janet. Damsah knows I’ve been in the thick of it longer than most.” Mosh, they both knew, wasn’t only referring to his current job, but also to his previous one on the board of GCI.

“You’re also from Earth,” added J.D., a glimmer of hope discernible in her voice, “like Justin and me, so all the provincial crap you’re talking about goes away.”

“Yes, Janet, all well and true. But for the fact that I’m the effective head of the Shareholder faction, you might’ve had a leg to stand on. A faction,” explained Mosh, “that is now in the minority and as such would be completely unacceptable to the NoShares.”