The Unincorporated Woman Read online

“Yes, well, you may have misunderstood me. I suppose I should’ve been more direct. What I wanted to know was—” He paused. “—are you Jewish?”

  Agnes laughed. “Am I what?”

  “Jewish.”

  “I’m not even sure I know what that means, much less if it’s something I am.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize,” he said, exhaling heavily. “You see, it’s just that your name, Goldstein, well, it’s a very Jewish last name.”

  “I’ll have to take your word, Rabbi, but no one’s ever said anything about it to me, one way or another.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d know if anyone in your family was Jewish at some point.”

  “Again, it’s possible, but even if it were true, not really something we’d want to advertise, stigma and all.” Agnes cocked her head. “Is this going somewhere, Rabbi?”

  “Yes, but not quite how I’d planned. I’m sorry for wasting your time, Agent Goldstein. You don’t have to humor me. If you’ve got other things to do—”

  “Rabbi, my job isn’t limited to making sure no one takes you down, and I can assure you there’s a fully functioning brain between these shoulders. In the few minutes we have left before the President arrives and sucks the air out of this room, I suggest you take advantage of it.”

  Rabbi pulled at his beard and considered the offer. He looked up at Agnes and smiled sadly. “Why not?” he asked, letting his words hang. His usually inquisitive eyes were pensive. “My problem is one of survival.”

  “Get in line, Rabbi.”

  “Yes, I know, I know, but in my case, it’s not just my hide I’m worried about. It’s that of my people. There just aren’t that many of us left. Around forty thousand, to be exact.”

  “Well, I’m sure there must be more now,” offered Agnes. “From the Astral Awakening alone, the numbers of newly faithful must be in the hundreds of millions.”

  “Over a billion by last count,” confirmed Rabbi.

  “Well, some of ’em gotta be yours, right?”

  “A great deal, I suspect.”

  “So,” she said, lips slightly pursed, “problem solved.”

  “If only. The problem’s not with them, Agent Goldstein, it’s with us. We’ve never been what you’d call a proselytizing religion. Until now, that hasn’t really been a problem.”

  “Now?”

  “Alhambra.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.”

  A long silence preceded Rabbi’s words. “I … we all lost many friends that day.” He sighed heavily. “A great many friends, I’m afraid. But it was a clarion call.”

  Agnes leaned in. “For what?”

  “Asteroids can be easily obliterated. Alhambra, a single rock with more people than there are Jews in the solar system, went in seconds. Seconds!” A long silence followed as he looked down at his feet and ran his fingers through the curls of his thick black hair. When he finally looked up, his eyes were sad and his smile, forlorn. “I may be the Secretary of Relocation, Agent Goldstein, but I have yet another, more important role: that of leader of my people. And if I don’t do something about the situation soon, it’s quite possible I will be their last.”

  The two stared at each other in silent regard—the spy who’d, for a time, lost her identity and the rabbi desperately trying to save one.

  A sudden look of determination burned fiercely in Agnes’s eyes. “Listen to me, Rabbi. You’re the effective head of one of the oldest known religions in the solar system at a time of a major religious renaissance. Of the billion you mentioned, there must be millions beating down your door.”

  “Yes,” conceded Rabbi, “around ten.”

  Agnes’s relief was palpable. “So?”

  “It’s complicated. By law, if any one of those millions do decide they’d like to convert, it’s incumbent on us to dissuade them.”

  “To what? How?”

  “Well, for men, there’s the circumcision to consider. It must be done by hand, not by transformative nanobots. That usually clears out a bunch.”

  “I would imagine! Surely, there are other remedies.”

  “Yes, actually—there are. Find the Jews already out there. Jews who don’t know they already possess a birthright.”

  Agnes cinched her brow.

  “Since our law dictates the mother must be Jewish, we can determine matrilineal descent with phylogenetic testing.”

  “Great! How many have you found?”

  “One point five million, so far.”

  “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, Rabbi, but one point five million’s a helluva lot better than forty thousand.”

  Rabbi coughed uncomfortably and shot Agnes an apologetic look.

  “What now?”

  “Matrilineal descent is only as good as the matron who passes it down. For example, if that matron has fundamentally altered her genetic makeup, she is Tuhmay’ or impure and can no longer be considered Jewish.”

  “But you said you tested them already!”

  “Phylogenetically, yes. But that can only determine the efficacy of the matrilineal line. Once descent is confirmed, we test for genetic malfeasance.”

  “To find what?”

  “Well, something like Tay-Sachs disease.”

  “Which is?”

  “A particularly horrible disease endemic to the Jewish people.”

  “Ah, I see. So if the matron didn’t remove it, you wouldn’t let her in.”

  “No, if they did remove it, we don’t let them in.”

  Agnes let out an exasperated grunt that sent Rabbi’s eyebrows flying upward.

  “Are you all right, Agent Goldstein?”

  “No,” she carped, frustration evident in her voice, “I’m not. But as Damsah is my witness, I’m not leaving here until I understand this crazy house of cards you seem to have built for yourself.”

  “I have built nothing. I am a servant of God.”

  “Fine, you’re a servant. So if you wouldn’t mind, will you please explain to me how it is that you … or God prefers to have babies born with an apparently horrible disease?”

  “Oh no, not born with. God forbid. We have no problem correcting such horrors in utero.”

  “What then?”

  “Please understand, Agent Goldstein, the malady is inconsequential. If the matron corrected for baldness in the gene pool, or poor eyesight, those, too, would render her and her descendants ineligible.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Bear with me. Nobody experiencing the Black Death in the 1400s would’ve suspected the importance of cleanliness on health, or those who experienced the Slaughterhouse Plague in the twenty-first century, the insanity of overmedicated cattle. Ignorance in both cases led to the wide-scale deaths of untold millions. Yet God’s supposedly antiquated laws on cleanliness and kashrut preserved my people from both scourges. Likewise, I don’t know what God might have in store for a human being carrying the Tay-Sachs gene. For all I know, that one gene saves humanity fifteen generations from now.”

  “But what of the child?”

  “Because his life’s in immediate danger, we can fix it. But the gene itself, it must be allowed to move on. So please understand, Agent Goldstein, this process of testing is not purity for hubris’ sake, it’s purity for modesty’s sake.”

  Agnes nodded her head and finally relaxed. “I get it.”

  Rabbi’s face lit up warmly. “Thank you, Agent Goldstein. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

  She tilted her head toward Rabbi and smiled. “So how many does that leave you?

  “Fifty thousand.”

  Agnes’s right brow rose slightly. “Okay, well, that gives you a good ninety thousand total. At a minimum, you’ve more than doubled your population.”

  “Well…”

  “Oh, for the love of Damsah. Now what?”

  “Once it was explained everything they’d have to go through in order to be Jewish, some of them backed out.” />
  “Some of them?”

  He smiled meekly. “Forty-eight thousand.”

  Agnes threw up her hands. “From ten million you end up with two thousand? Are you guys trying to become extinct?”

  Before he could answer, a ruckus was heard in the hallway. Agnes checked her DijAssist and saw that the President had arrived. Time to move her man.

  Presidential Suite, Oberon’s Palace

  The President, regal even in less-formal attire, waited a moment for the press, visitors, and mediabots to sort themselves out. When she saw that all were in place, she rose from her chair and casually made her way across the room to where Rabbi had been waiting.

  “Mr. Secretary,” she began, “it’s good to see you again. Especially in a place where your leadership has done so much good.”

  “You give me too much credit, Madam President.”

  “Perhaps.” The President brushed past his denial. “However, Oberon Settlement’s logical and orderly movement to a superior and much-needed location is because of your wise counsel and patient intervention. Both I, as representative of the Outer Alliance, and the citizens of Oberon would like to show their appreciation by giving you this key to the settlement.” Sandra held out her hand as a large key was placed into it by an unseen assistant.

  “Thank you, Madam President.” Rabbi took the key and held it up high for the press to see.

  “Keep up the good work, Rabbi. And you might want to consider getting yourself a bigger key rack.”

  There was a smattering of laughter.

  Sergeant Holke appeared at the President’s side, leaned in, and whispered into her ear. The President nodded dutifully as she took in the information. She whispered something to the sergeant, who nodded and then turned around to impassively face the audience.

  “Well, friends, it appears that the UHF Fleet, under the command of Admiral Trang, has just left Mars orbit.”

  The room came to life in a flurry of gasps and whispers.

  “Information is currently limited,” she added in a voice devoid of any panic, “but rest assured, the Blessed One, our very own Admiral Black, has the situation well in hand and, I’m informed, is within intercept distance. I realize it’s probably out of form to say this, but you’ll just have to chalk it up to my learning curve—Admiral Black, it is with great honor and pride that I say, go kick some UHF ass!” The room broke out into applause at a smiling President O’Toole. Sergeant Holke, in a calm but firm voice, informed the room that they would have to clear out immediately and further that anyone caught out of an approved sector would be considered an enemy and dealt with as such. The room cleared fast.

  En Route to Ceres, Alliance One

  Commodore Marilynn Nitelowsen sat opposite Agent Agnes Goldstein, her current contact to the office of the Secretary of Relocation. She, like Agnes, had been called into the impromptu meeting by the President. Marilynn watched in utter fascination as the President activated her secure DijAssist and sent over a prepared file to a slightly bewildered-looking Rabbi.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Rabbi,” said the President, “but despite my high office, there really isn’t a lot of thinking I get to do.”

  “Of course, Madam President.”

  “I realize my doctorates are a good three hundred years out of date, but that doesn’t stop my desire to feel useful. I’m sure it’s probably ridiculous, but I’d consider it a favor if you looked some of my ideas over.”

  Rabbi’s eyes flittered over the table of contents the President had just sent over and then looked back up, teeth glinting in a wide, bright smile. “You know, Madam President, I never ask my children what they’ve learned in school.”

  “No?”

  “I ask them, ‘Have you asked any good questions today?’”

  The President, noted Marilynn, blushed slightly.

  “Your desire to contribute is laudable, whether the suggestions are used or not.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” asked the President, “since we’re all here now, giving it a quick once-over. I’d like your take on some of the overall suggestions.”

  “Not at all.” Rabbi picked his DijAssist up off the table and continued to scan the document, slowly stroking his beard as he did so. After about ten minutes, he finally looked up. “Madam President, after a cursory review I can honestly say that the ideas here are solid.”

  The President’s response came in the flash of a grin.

  “Are you sure,” asked Rabbi, “that perhaps you shouldn’t be running this department?”

  “Now you’re just buttering me up, Rabbi. And I thought lying was against your religion.”

  “It is—as it is with most—and no, I wasn’t buttering you up. Really, Madam President, there appear to be some very good suggestions in here—though I’m no expert—and I’d be more than happy to review them with my staff.” His eyes twinkled humorously, “You know, the people who actually do the work.”

  “Very well, then,” accepted the President, getting to her feet. “If you or anyone on your staff ever needs to ask my advice on anything, I’m just down the hall, possibly twiddling my thumbs.” The President smiled brightly, all sugar and charm as she escorted Rabbi and Goldstein out the door.

  But Marilynn Nitelowsen was not fooled for a moment. She just took over the Relocation Department, mused the commodore.

  10 Whispers in the Dark

  Half-Day Standard Boost from Mars in the Direction of Ceres

  Admiral Omad Hassan stood, arms crossed, gazing out a port window. His eyes were pensive and probed about as if watching a battle and not the busy crew of the mobile repair vessel now making quick repairs to his ship. He knew he’d become withdrawn since the assassination of his best friend, Justin, and the murder of his fiancée, Christina, and knew also that that withdrawal was a preparation for his eventual death. The rage, the loss, the fire all stewed comfortably within. Waiting. He’d learned to feed silently off his own bitterness of heart. He could not be frightened, because there was no longer anything to fear. Could not be wounded, because he no longer bled. There was only the waiting. He’d disengaged from his crew, his friends, his life because he’d already gone on, and would go on alone, until the true and pure ferocity of his rage could be spent. For Omad Hassan, every battle, every fight was only kindling toward a final and spectacular pyre that held within it the promise of release.

  His flotilla had been in active combat since the battle began, four days earlier, and they—like the man who led them—had been merciless and unrelenting. Omad obeyed the order to return only because his original force of fifteen ships had been whittled down to nine, all significantly damaged to one degree or another with even his own having to be towed.

  For its part, the enemy paid a heavy price for the damage exacted: thirty-one ships lost, including eight cruisers and one battle cruiser, plus four ships captured—all at the hands of a bunch of frigates. Under almost any other circumstance, that loss ratio would’ve put Omad’s fleet firmly in the “W” column—but this was not a typical circumstance, because Omad had been forced to retreat. That meant that the left wing of the fleet also had to retreat. And when that happened, the rest of the fleet had to follow. The UHF should have broken. At the very least, paused to regroup, but they hadn’t. They just kept on attacking. And Omad and every other member of the Alliance fleet knew why: Samuel U. Trang.

  Cabinet Room, Ceres

  “I don’t see why she needs to be here,” snapped Mosh.

  The focus of his ire was President Sandra O’Toole, now standing at the end of the table closest to the door. By common agreement, the best use of her time was to be in visiting the wounded, making condolence calls, and launching ships, not sitting in on mundane Cabinet meetings. There was simply no political or economic advantage to having her there. What she’d done at Oberon was, all agreed, exactly what Admiral Black and her supporters had hoped for. It even made a supporter out of Mosh. Now, more convinced than ever of the idea’s efficacy, he was
perplexed that she would be anywhere near the Cabinet Room, much less in it.

  “Perhaps I overstepped, Mr. Secretary,” said Rabbi. “I was on my way here, saw her in the Triangle Office, and invited her to join.”

  Mosh looked at him quizzically. “What on Ceres for?”

  “To learn, of course.” Rabbi’s explanation was delivered as if the answer should have been patently obvious.

  “I thought it would make for some good PR,” added Sandra, “but clearly I was mistaken. I’m sorry to have bothered you all.” She turned to leave but was stopped by the loud clearing of a throat.

  It was Padamir Singh. “Madam President, if you wouldn’t mind staying for a moment.” Padamir looked directly at Mosh. “She can’t leave.”

  “Why not?”

  “Bad press. I’m sure you’ve noticed the mediabots and reporters following the President around quite a bit these days.”

  Mosh nodded by way of a grunt. Under Justin, the Cliff House had been media sparse, but not now. Sandra understood her job and had insisted that openness be part of it. As long as a person could pass the security check, they could visit, within reason, the Cliff House and see the new President in action—Sergeant Holke permitting.

  “If she leaves now,” questioned Padamir, “what will the press observe?”

  “That she came into a Cabinet meeting,” stated Mosh, annoyed, “and that she left. What am I missing?”

  “That she’s here,” interjected Rabbi, “at the invitation of the Cabinet—by way of me, of course.”

  “While it’s true Madam President is a figurehead,” added Padamir, “it’s also true that if we throw her out now after having issued the invitation,” he paused briefly, tipping his head towards Rabbi, “they’ll be reminded that this whole thing’s a sham.”

  “But it is a sham by her own public admission,” barked Mosh, then more calmly, “admittedly, one that’s working pretty well.”

  “Only as long as we maintain the illusion that Madam President has some authority. Kicking her out now … when everyone knows our meeting has just begun, will help destroy that illusion. I move we spin this as an informal briefing. They’ll eat it up.”