The Unincorporated Woman (48 page)

“To more pressing matters,” prodded Admiral Sinclair. “How’s the public handling the disappearance of the fleet?”

“Amazingly well,” beamed Padamir. “They assume it’s some sort of trick J.D.’s playing to defeat the UHF. As a result, I really haven’t been inundated with any sort of outcry.”

Kirk shook his head, his mouth forming into a grin of disbelief. “They trust her that much?”

“I should think she’s earned it,” argued Sinclair in a voice that left no doubt she had.

“And the UHF?” asked Mosh.

Kirk shrugged. “Not sure what they know. It’s the nature of these things.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Kirk. I’m not complaining. I think I speak for everybody when I say these past six months may just be the closest thing to peace we’ve had in years.”

“Not everybody,” said Kirk, pointedly looking over toward Rabbi. There seemed to be malicious joy in Kirk’s reminding the Cabinet in general and Rabbi in particular what was happening now on Rabbi’s old home turf.

Rabbi met the comment with a forlorn smile.

The situation in the Belt had become truly horrific. Of the 2 billion people who lived there, 1.1 billion were now under UHF control. There had been 150 million who lived in or near enough to Ceres to be under the protection of the capital’s devastating asteroidal batteries as well as the mythic prowess of the main Alliance fleet. Another 750 million had managed to slowly but successfully flee for Alliance space primarily around Saturn, Neptune, and Uranus. Only a small fraction of the refugee asteroids had the ability to upgrade their radiation shielding to survive Jupiter’s electromagnetic belt.

Unfortunately, the UHF had started destroying settlements that had waited too long in trying to flee, and Rabbi had been forced to issue an order telling any remaining asteroid settlements that they should stay put and wait for their eventual liberation. Well, true to miner form, they stayed put, but most certainly didn’t stay inactive. Those settlements under the yoke of the occupation did everything and anything they could to disrupt the amaranthine flow of pilfered resources and goods headed back to the rapacious industries of the Core Worlds. And so it was that while most of the Alliance had been able to exhale during the six months of relative calm, that calm had been purchased on the backs of the Belters, paid for in full by an unrelenting bloodbath of attack and reprisal.

“As long as you’re not in the Belt,” agreed Rabbi wearily, looking ten years older as the words drifted sadly from his mouth.

“What I’d really like to know,” asked Tyler, breaking the moment’s solemnity, “is why hasn’t the UHF attacked?”

All heads swung around to Admiral Sinclair.

“Any number of reasons, really—all of ’em best guesses, mind you. One, as our Minister of Security has so tactfully reminded us, they’ve been having a dickens of a time dealing with the Belt. Bloodbath that it is, it’s keeping a lot of UHF resources busy. They have more marines and almost as many ships fighting there now as they did during the battles of the 180. Plus there’s tens of millions of new administrators and private occupation troops from the various corporations trying to get in on all the credits that can be made in extracting the Belt’s natural wealth. Some even believe, if I hear correctly, that those extracted resources will pay for the whole damn war.” Sinclair’s laugh was harsh and gratifying. “Far as I know, they haven’t made a fucking credit yet. Don’t think they ever will. What they do have is a supply and protection problem the likes of which humanity’s never seen. Bastards need food, air, medical care, a shitload of protection, and ships, ships, and more ships. It may very well be impossible both economically and physically to occupy a people in space that simply refuses to be occupied.” Sinclair paused; a pained expression crossed over his face like the shadow of a storm cloud. “Course, they just might end up killing the lot of ’em.”

“That’s over a billion people,” scoffed Hildegard as if the absurdity of so large a number necessarily mitigated Sinclair’s dour prophecy.

“Yes,” Sandra verified, “but we’re not just dealing with the UHF. We’re dealing with this century’s newest Stalin: Hektor Sambianco.” There were grunts of agreement as well as the nodding of a few heads. “You mentioned a number of reasons, Admiral. By my estimation, we’ve heard only one.”

“Right,” agreed Sinclair with his now familiar scowl. “Another reason they haven’t attacked, far as I can tell, is because they needed to get their fleet outfitted with some ass-firing … uh, reverse-fire rail guns.”

“Needed?” asked Padamir, looking up from his DijAssist.

“Been six months,” confirmed Sinclair.

Kirk rolled his eyes. “It’s been Intelligence’s view from the outset that it would take the UHF
nine
months to refit their fleet. Six months was a worst-case scenario.”

“Why not plan on that, then?” asked Padamir, eyes scanning information in his DijAssist. Padamir hadn’t even bothered to make eye contact with Kirk—or anyone else, for that matter.

“Because the UHF auxiliary services have never moved with the speed and efficiency that would make six months a likely deadline. If we weren’t erring on the side of caution, the Intelligence outlook woulda been more like twelve.”

“That’s a load of shitfloat,” groused Sinclair. “Trang is now in overall command of the UHF forces, including the auxiliaries. If he says six months, his people will deliver. The Alliance fleet and its entire support staff have been ordered to assume that as the operative number.”

Kirk opened his mouth to argue but was cut off by Tyler.

“Which means what, exactly?”

“Which means,” postulated Sinclair, leaning forward while slowly turning his head to ensure eye contact with everyone in the room, “that in all likelihood, the UHF fleet is now prepared
and
able to engage us without a significant tactical disadvantage.”

“That it?” asked Eleanor McKenzie, voice subdued.

“Nah. There is
one
more reason.”

A brief silence hung in the air as everyone waited for the admiral to deliver it.

“J.D.’s disappearance,” asserted Sandra, eyes glinting mischievously.

“Yup,” confirmed the admiral with a Cheshire grin, “and it’s gotta be scaring the hell out of ’em.”

UHF Capitol, Burroughs, Mars

Neela Harper was worried about Hektor, and the only one left she could talk to just so happened to be the one person she felt the most guilty being around. With the defection of Thaddeus Gillette—and Neela could no longer pretend it was anything but—Amanda Snow was it. They were set to meet in a popular café near the executive offices of the capitol. Neela looked around and noticed that it was practically deserted. She wasn’t sure if the reason had to do with timing—perhaps it was a slow period—or because her security detail had removed everyone from the scene.

She didn’t get the time to ponder the question, as Amanda Snow had finally arrived. Today’s ensemble consisted of a loose-fitting chiffon jumpsuit programmed to throw suggestive shadows all over Amanda’s exquisite figure. It was provocative to say the least, made even more so by Amanda’s undulatory grace. Neela knew without asking that the outfit had been programmed by the very best tailors on Mars, who, over the course of the past few years and massive influx of the elite, had grown expert at their trade.

Surrounding Amanda were three bag-laden assistants. Upon closer inspection, though, Neela noted that it was really only two assistants Amanda had gotten to trawl along with her. The third person was clearly a bedraggled security agent corralled into a job that went well beyond, and below, his required duties. Amanda had entered the café, thumb held firmly to her ear, talking into her pinkie. The second she spotted Neela, Amanda somehow managed an ecstatic wave and concomitant smile, all while attempting to wrap up her conversation.

“I don’t care that you’re not open on weekends,” purred Amanda into her pinkie while rolling her eyes at Neela, begging forbearance. Neela gladly obliged—it was the least she could do. “No,
you
listen to me,” bellowed Amanda as she plopped down in a chair opposite her friend. “I don’t care that the manager who can approve this is on the other side of Mars visiting the Niven Museum.… What? Sorry, the
Willis
Museum. Nor that your store is by appointment only. I’m here at—” Amanda started looking around for the name of the establishment. Neela came to her aid by sliding a coaster across the small circular table. “—at Babette’s Feast having coffee with my good friend, Neela Harper.” The security agent holding the mountain of shopping bags winced at Amanda’s security breach. Amanda, of course, remained wholly oblivious. “If you’re not open and waiting for me by the time I arrive, it will be
my mission,
which I can assure you I’ll throw myself into like an OA-bred religious freak, to see that your store is reduced to selling trinkets to tourists at the orport from a cart!” Amanda’s face did a rumba dance of emotions as the person on the other end of the line pleaded their case. It was impossible for Neela to ascertain which way the conversation was going until Amanda’s face lit up and her voice took on a sonorous purr. “Yes, forty-five minutes should be more than sufficient. No, I do not need you to send a car. Of course. Good-bye.”

“Sorry, sweetie.” Once again, Amanda’s face situated itself, this time into a mask of perfect concern. “Now, what’s the big emergency?”

“It’s Hektor,” pouted Neela. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Like what?”

“Weary to the point of lethargy.”

“It’s the war, honey.”

“And the economy, and the politicians, and the daily demands incumbent of a President—”

“And, and, and,” prattled Amanda, already bored.

“I’m serious, Amanda.”

“So am I, Neela. I just don’t know how I can help.
You
would know more about what’s going on with him than
I
.”

Neela fell back into her chair as if shoved by an unseen force. Amanda knew. Neela felt her throat constrict and heart launch into a fearful gallop. Her mind raced as the awfulness of her sin was exposed. She’d kept Amanda at a distance in order to protect herself. But that withdrawal, Neela only now realized, had been in vain because only guilt remained where a wall was supposed to have been erected.

All the jocularity left Amanda’s face as she watched Neela’s sudden change of mood. Amanda snapped her fingers, and one of the harried aides immediately dropped the packages he’d been holding and instantly produced a small black box, which he deftly placed on the table between the two women. The aide then backed up about ten feet, sweeping the rest of Amanda’s small entourage into his retreat.

When the little box emitted a faint hum, Amanda leaned over the table and took Neela’s hand, placing it between her own. “Oh you poor dear, I thought you knew I knew. Had I thought for a moment you didn’t, I would not have been so callous.”

Amanda’s outpouring of sympathy succeeded only in exacerbating Neela’s guilt. In moments, Neela’s tears were pouring forth in an unrelenting stream. Amanda deftly moved her chair around the table so that she could gather her friend in her arms.

“It’s all right, Neels. I’ve known for quite a while now, and I wasn’t even upset when I found out.”

Neela pulled back momentarily, fixing her water-glazed eyes on Amanda. They asked the question her mouth seemed incapable of uttering.

“
Really,
Neela,” professed Amanda. “I couldn’t be happier.”

It took nearly ten minutes before Amanda was able to calm Neela enough for normal conversation.

“You must hate me for what I did. I’m a
horrible
friend.”

Amanda issued Neela a look of opprobrium. “You are no such thing.” She then leaned over and gave Neela another hug. “
You
are my friend, and Hektor is
not
.”

“But he’s—”

“Not my fiancé or my boyfriend.”

“Then what?”

Amanda’s mouth formed into a calculating grin. “Why, my bank account, of course.”

Neela’s jaw dropped.

“Oh, baby,” comforted Amanda, “I don’t love him. For Damsah’s sake, most of the time, I don’t even like him. But I do respect him, and I love what he’s given me.”

“You mean the money?”

A small giggle escaped Amanda’s lips. “Sure, the money’s good. But I had lots of credits of my own before I became the ‘great’ Hektor Sambianco’s love interest.”

Neela’s brow furrowed.

“Majority, sweetie. Not by much, but certainly enough to take care of myself.”

“But you said it was the bank account.”

“It helps, I won’t lie. But truly, Neela, it’s the power I crave. I’m at the top of the UHF’s social circle. My parties are the ones everyone just
has
to attend. My fashion sense has become
the
fashion sense of a new era. Venerable matrons of the most powerful families cannot embark on a social season without my approval.”

“But what about Hektor?”

“What about him?”

“Doesn’t he … doesn’t he love you?”

Amanda suppressed a burst of laughter. “Oh, Neels. Now
that
is an emotion I can assure you our dear Hektor is not well acquainted with.”

Neela straightened her shoulders, her chin jutting out defiantly. “He loves me.”

Amanda studied her friend with stoic regard. “Maybe he does. I certainly hope so. But Hektor does not keep
me
around for love, that’s for sure.”

“Then for what? To throw fabulous parties?”

“Yes, actually. There’s power in the world of charity balls and fashion houses, and with me around as Hektor’s de facto proxy, he can send clear messages to the targeted elite. Hektor tells me who’s to be courted and who’s to be snubbed, which loyal member of the Assembly’s husband or wife to apply pressure to and which member or members to bribe with an invitation.”

“I … I had no idea,” sputtered Neela, shaking her head. “And here I am, supposed psychological adviser to the President, yet apparently a clueless misanthrope when it comes to an entire subculture.”