The Unincorporated Woman (60 page)

Trang knew it was impossible to just come by for a quick visit, because his presence became an automatic excuse to occasion the visit with all sorts of pomp and circumstance. But at least Zenobia had been able to keep it down to one brief speech in the shuttle/assault bay. Most of the captains he met wanted him to make inspection tours—as if Trang had the time to personally inspect all 330 ships in his fleet. But they were all justifiably proud of the ships they commanded, from the commodores of the super cruisers to the commanders of the fuel transports. So Trang tried to limit his physical visits. He realized that Zenobia’s sensitivity to his time today was a result of her having had to face much the same situation whenever she visited a ship other than her own. She was the second in command of this fleet and the third-ranking officer in all the UHF. Trang had made sure that in case anything happened to him and Gupta, there would be no doubt who was to command the war effort. Secretly he suspected that Zenobia should be the next in line, but Abhay had earned his position and Zenobia still needed a little seasoning.

When the ceremony was over, Zenobia escorted Trang to her quarters. They were similar to Trang’s in that they acted both as her private room and a functioning office/command center. But there the similarities ended. Where Trang’s quarters were downright Spartan except for the addition of a library, Zenobia’s were colorful. Her walls were hung with prints of famous works of art and in well-spaced and well-lighted areas. There were sculptures as well as some works of M’art by artists completely unfamiliar to him. The place was also filled with plants. Flowering, hanging, and some even sprouting tomatoes, avocados, strawberries, and some other food he couldn’t recognize. The overall effect was one of comfort and culture. For the very first time in his life, Trang wondered what it would be like to be with a woman like Zenobia. And then just as quickly and with an utter ruthlessness that defined so much of his life, he killed the thought as improper to his subordinate, his honor as an officer, and his duty to his wife, whom he did love even if often from afar.

“Zenobia,” he finally managed to say, “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“I’m, uh … glad you like it, sir.” Zenobia too seemed flustered at the surrealism of the lone comment amidst so many conversations the two had had together, not one of which ever came close to dealing with home decor.

“I especially like the M’art. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I saw any, the markets being disrupted by the war and all. The last time I looked at mine—I’ve only ever owned one—it had lost all its color. What was supposed to be a vase of vibrant flowers looks like a charcoal drawing.”

Zenobia smiled shyly. “Well, it’s not exactly M’art, sir. I’ve taken to calling it C’art.”

Trang thought about it for a moment, “Combat Art?”

“Right on the first try, sir.” Zenobia beamed. “It occurred to me that Market Art simply had no place in my life. Art should reflect what we wish, sure, but shouldn’t it also reflect what actually is? And what are we if not warriors? Combat is our life, and so I created an art form that responds to combat information.”

“Zenobia,” beamed Trang, “that is positively brilliant.” He pointed to a picture of a man and woman working at an ancient hand loom in a cottage with wool piled on one end of the room and rough thread at the other. “What does that one represent?”

“War production in the UHF, sir. The intensity of the wool represents the state of our raw materials and the thread, our output of usable war materiel. The coloring of the workers represents labor contentment or unrest. It was really a straightforward piece once I had the layout. It took only a month to choose the inputs.”

“And that one?” he asked, pointing to a painting of two massively muscled goons beating each other with hammers.

“Combat reports,” was all she said.

Trang nodded and noticed that both figures seemed pretty beat up, but one was definitely worse for the wear. Then he noticed one in the corner. It was an animated picture of Atlas holding up not simply the world but apparently all the worlds in the solar system. Atlas was struggling, that was plainly certain, but more so than the usual rendition. This Atlas could use only one arm and shoulder, because he was using the other one to catch falling planets and return them atop his shoulders. It seemed Mars was falling and Luna was being tossed back all at the same time while Atlas balanced the rest. “And that?”

“You, sir,” Zenobia said quietly.

Trang stayed silent for a moment. It occurred to him that Zenobia might have had thoughts not appropriate for an officer in combat. He tried to think of the best way to deal with what could be a ticklish situation and decided a strategic retreat would be in order. He gave her and the C’art painting a respectful nod and moved on, changing the subject to the odd fruits and vegetables she’d been growing.

After a couple of more minutes, they sat near her coffee table. Trang picked up an avocado from a bowl and using a provided knife and spoon, cut it in half, removed the pit, and started scooping out the middle.

Zenobia noted how much pleasure he seemed to be deriving from this simple snack. “I can send you a basket of them, sir. I grow more than I need.”

“I’d like that,” he said between bites, “but I could accept only if you could send a basket to every spacer and marine in the fleet.”

Zenobia’s lips formed into a perfect smile. “That would be difficult, sir. But there will always be an avocado waiting for you if you visit.”

“As good a reason to visit as any, and probably better than the one I have come for.”

Although Zenobia was sitting down, she snapped to attention, no longer a woman showing off her apartment to a man she admired but rather an admiral of the UHF with a job to do. “How can I be of assistance?”

“What do you think of what Gupta is doing at Jupiter?”

Trang was referring to the past week’s news about how Gupta’s fleet had been destroying everything in Jupiter’s outer orbits. The press from the UHF had been overwhelmingly positive, with the harshest general criticism that Trang could find being that it was a shame that the Alliance made the actions necessary.

Zenobia’s response was swift and severe. “These are the bastards who started murdering unarmed crews on UHF ships
after
they’d surrendered.”

“Allow me to correct you,” Trang said with an appraising voice. “One, we started this when we destroyed Alhambra.”

“A mistake from an overzealous flotilla commander,” proffered Zenobia, repeating verbatim what had been the UHF media-saturated response.

Trang lowered his eyes and kept them locked on his subordinate until she could no longer look at his face. “I’m glad you don’t believe Sobbelgé either,” he finally allowed. “But even if our Minister of Lies was telling the absolute truth, J.D. got the Alliance fleet to stop their murderous policy almost as soon as it started. Legless took a lot of supply ships during the six months after the Long Battle. How many crews did he execute?”

“None … that we know of.”

“Come off it, Zenobia. Knowing the truth and accepting it will ultimately inform your decisions and make you the leader I hope you’ll one day turn out to be.”

Zenobia bowed her head in submission. “Of course, sir. Please continue.”

“Would you like to know what makes this week’s action the worst?”

“I’m afraid to answer that question, sir.”

A faint smile twitched on Trang’s face. “Good. Now you’re at least being honest with yourself. I’ll tell you, Zenobia, what the worst thing about all this is. The Alliance has not murdered men, women, and children in their homes. But
we have
, Zenobia.”

Zenobia’s bottom lip dropped as her eyes widened in confusion. “Sir, are … are you saying that we’re wrong?”

Trang’s face now betrayed his irritation. “Of course we’re wrong!”

Zenobia shifted uneasily in her seat as Trang collected himself.

“Of course we’re wrong, Zenobia,” he repeated, only this time more softly. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

“We can’t turn against the UHF.”

“No, we bloody well can’t. The incorporated system is the last hope of every human being in the solar system. But now we have blood on our hands that will be generations in washing off.”

“What can we do, then?”

Trang sat motionless for a few seconds in intense concentration. “We must win this war as quickly as possible, and when it is won, must punish those responsible for causing this horror—” He paused. “—on both sides. This war is a crime against humanity, all humanity, and if the human race is to have a future, we will have to own up to that.”

“I don’t see Sambianco allowing something like that.”

“Who said anything about Sambianco, Zenobia? You forget, there will be elections after the war.”

Executive offices, UHF Capitol, Burroughs, Mars

“There will be elections after the war.”

Trang’s voice came through loud and clear from Tricia Pakagopolis’s DijAssist. Hektor Sambianco listened to it with a surprising amount of regret. He’d liked the old boy.

“No one else has heard this?” he asked.

“No one even knows it exists. I placed the listening device in her quarters myself—as they were being built. It’s literally a part of her ship.”

“It’s a shame there’s no visual.”

“It would not be certain to escape detection, Mr. President. I’m sorry Trang proved to be traitor.”

Hektor laughed. “Tricia, you amaze me. All that intelligence and all the resources of the UHF, and you still don’t understand the people you most need to watch.” Hektor saw by her confusion that she perceived his comment as an insult. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be rude. Trang is not a traitor. In this he’s being absolutely true to himself. That’s what makes him so dangerous.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to let him get away with that.”

Now it was Hektor’s turn to look insulted. “That overgrown recruiting poster on steroids would lose everything we’ve fought to achieve, and just after we’ll have won the war. If he was President, he’d undo all the work we’ve accomplished to create a perpetual incorporated system. And he
would
win, thanks to all the billions of people who’ll now have majority as a result of the war.” Hektor sighed. “No, I am afraid our glorious grand admiral is going to have a successful assassination by the Alliance. Vengeance for Fleet Order 8645.”

Tricia’s catlike eyes brightened with anticipation. “I can’t help but feel we should suffer the grievous loss of Admiral Jackson as well. It’s obvious she loves Trang and may try to continue his misguided dreams without him.”

“Agreed,” said Hektor as casually as if he were pulling lint off a jacket. “Admiral Gupta seems to have a much better understanding of the realities of the situation. Once he’s destroyed Jupiter and crushed the refugee convoys, the war will be effectively won. Trang can live until then.”

“As you wish, Mr. President,” bowed Tricia, already ruminating on how best to bring about the deaths of two out of three of the UHF’s greatest heroes.

Somewhere in the asteroid belt, AWS
Spartacus

Marilynn walked to Omad’s quarters confused by the summons. She’d yet to be invited there, as Omad had chosen to keep their association formal. Which meant mostly meeting her in the two places on his ship that served alcohol. But now he’d insisted on meeting her at once. When she entered, Omad was reading a message on paper, meaning that the information on that paper had been scrubbed from all data systems. The only copy left would be the piece of paper currently being held in Omad’s hand.

“That can’t be good,” impugned Marilynn.

Omad gave her a tight, grim smile. “We’ve been ordered to do the impossible.”

“Is that all? What’s the nature of the impossible this time?”

“The UHF has been murdering our people,” seethed Omad with barely contained fury. “It makes what happened at Alhambra seem like a rock thrown through a window.”

“But we’re nowhere near Jupiter,” countered Marilynn, “and even if we were, what could we do?”

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that. We’re going to make them realize that there’s a price for their evil.” Omad set an unflinching gaze on Marilynn. “I haven’t asked you about your new intelligence-gathering skills, Commodore. It’s not that I don’t care; it’s simply that I have far too many other things to care about.” He held up his hand to quell any protest. “I don’t want to know specifics, but what I
need
to know is, can you do the seemingly impossible?”

“How impossible?” she asked carefully, afraid of the answer.

“Can you screw with their scanners for a period of twenty minutes?”

Marilynn’s mind reeled at the difficulty his request would pose, but given what she and her NITES were trained to do in Neuro space—especially if Al infested—she was finally forced to answer. “Maybe.”

Omad’s grim mien finally loosened a bit. “Now
that
I can work with. Put on your best suit and dust off your dancing shoes, Commodore. The tunnel rat’s going home.”

20 Called to Accounts

Cliff House

Sandra was walking on a cobblestone path recently painted over by an amalgam of fine metals. This enabled the nanites that coursed through her, as well as every other Cerean’s, body to keep her attached to the ground. Metallic bonders, paints, and anything that could add a metallic veneer to formerly unmetallic surfaces were in great demand and short supply in the Alliance capital. Much had quite literally come undone in the days since the planetoid began its odd journey. Moreso, since they had slowed the rotation of the asteroid. Many a potted plant had joined the detritus of loose objects slowly drifting back toward the thrust of acceleration. But at least the vast lakes and pools had been sent back to the ice shell from which they came in order to power the ionized thrusts that had Ceres accelerating at almost 0.01 g.