The Unincorporated Woman Read online

  Mosh’s pale gray eyes darted from face to face, searching for support. Seeing none, he sighed and then turned his attention back to Padamir. “Fine, she stays, but we don’t discuss anything critical while she’s here.”

  Padamir looked toward Sandra. “Won’t you please join us, Madam President?”

  “I’d be delighted.” Sandra saw that there wasn’t a chair at her end of the table but that there were some lining the wall. They were mainly for advisers, none of which were present. Sandra promptly found the one closest to where she was standing and settled in.

  Mosh’s stiff attitude had now softened. “Since we have the President here,” he said, glancing over to Sandra, “I move we take the Anjou issue to the top of the agenda.”

  There were no objections.

  “Very well. Cyrus feels he can no longer serve as Chief of Staff to the new President and has accepted the Jovian assembly’s appointment to become governor of the Jovian system. That may upset you, Madam President—”

  “Not at all, Mr. Secretary,” Sandra interjected. “Mr. Anjou’s done an amazing job during this transition, but it was obvious he was ready to move on. And to become the next governor of the Jovian system—well, that is a great honor.”

  “It is indeed,” agreed Mosh. He opened his mouth to speak further, but Sandra cut him off.

  “The administration could not hope for a stronger supporter in a position of growing authority in the Outer Alliance. If I may be so bold, I think we should see him off … at the Via Cereana, that is.” She kept her focus squarely on Mosh, whose top lip twitched slightly.

  “Excellent idea,” Padamir said coolly, eyes darting between Sandra and Mosh. “It should play very well for the media.”

  Mosh resumed his train of thought. “We’ll need someone to replace Cyrus as soon as possible. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a list—”

  “This is not our decision to make,” said the Secretary of Technology, Hildegard Rhunsfeld.

  “And whose would it be?” asked Mosh, “our sham President’s?”

  “Yes, actually.” Hildegard pointedly spoke to the rest of the Cabinet members. “The Chief of Staff, as do we all, serves at the discretion of the President, sham or no. Justin made sure that was very clear when he formed this government.”

  “The President also has the right to make war on enemy states,” snapped Mosh. “Are we to relinquish that role to her as well?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s prepared to hand over that kind of power,” piped in Kirk Olmstead with unusual calm. “However, I think what Hildegard is trying to say is that given how closely the new Chief of Staff will have to work with President O’Toole, it makes more sense for her to choose that position.” He turned to Hildegard for confirmation. She inclined her head.

  “Then, if it’s not stepping on anyone’s toes,” asked Sandra as half of the room was once again forced to turn their heads, “I’d prefer Commodore Nitelowsen.”

  Her words were followed by an uncomfortable silence as the Cabinet members’ eyes flittered from one to another.

  “You do realize, Madam President,” explained Admiral Sinclair almost apologetically, “that Commodore Nitelowsen is, for want of a better description, Admiral Black’s watchdog.”

  Sandra nodded.

  “And as such Black’s reports eventually work their way to me.”

  “Yes. I just figured that since the Commodore is my shadow and has to report on what I do anyway, why shouldn’t she just be in charge? I’ve read her record—her last job wasn’t that much different than what she’d be doing for me.”

  Sinclair shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’ve no objections.”

  Neither, saw Mosh, had anyone else. “I suppose it’s all right, and since the agenda’s changed, I propose the next item be an update on the battle. That’s an open enough secret that I don’t think we’d be revealing anything too sensitive.”

  All nodded their agreement. Admiral Sinclair stood up and activated the holo-tank. “This battle is unlike any other fleet-to-fleet engagement we’ve had so far. It’s more like what happened at Eros, a long, drawn-out battle of attrition.”

  He fiddled with the control panel as an image of the two fleets appeared: one outlined in blue and the other, a considerably larger group, outlined in red. “I should also add that it’s turned out this way because no one’s attempted a decisive move.”

  “The reason being?” asked Padamir.

  “Well, for starters, they outnumber us by at least a third. They’re also closer to their primary support areas than we are to ours. But that’s not the main reason.” He paused for a moment. “They have Trang … and frankly he hasn’t screwed up badly enough for us to risk something decisive.”

  “Do you believe he will?” asked Sandra. All heads swung towards her. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she exclaimed, embarrassed, “am I not allowed to ask questions either?”

  “That’s quite all right, Madam President,” Sinclair reassured. “You can interrupt me any time you like. And the answer to your question is, if she sees an opening, she’ll take it, even if it means doing it with her bare hands. The reason she hasn’t so far is because Trang hasn’t given her the chance.”

  “But we are falling back,” Mosh said, more as a question than a statement of fact.

  “Hell yeah, we’re falling back. Unlike the other admirals the UHF has been kind enough to send against us, Trang seems to know that the war ends if he destroys J.D.’s fleet, so that’s his goal, body bags be damned. He could try to disengage and get to Ceres, but that would give J.D. an opportunity.”

  “For what?” demanded Kirk.

  “Doesn’t really matter to Trang. He knows as long as Admiral Black’s out of his sight, she can do something … will do something unexpected. He won’t take that chance.”

  “Then why bother heading here?” asked Hildegard, knowing the question would be weighing heavily on everyone’s mind.

  “He doesn’t give a crap about this rock, but he knows that we have to. If we lose Ceres, it would be like them losing Burroughs. It could cost us the war. At the very least, we’d be discouraged as hell, not to mention what the loss of the Gedretar Shipyards would do. It’s no longer half of all our warship production like it once was, but it is over a third. Not to mention the thousands of small but vital manufacturing facilities in and around Ceres that have been built up over the years and are for all intents and purposes irreplaceable. We definitely have to fight for Ceres, and he’s using that.” Sinclair hit a control on his DijAssist, and the fleets arranged themselves into two formations. The red UHF ships formed a huge half sphere with three blocks of ships behind acting as a reserve. One ship, in the middle of the third reserves formation, was tagged UHFS LIDDEL.

  The Alliance fleet was formed into an opposite half sphere that took up nearly as much space, but without as many ships. Also, unlike the UHF fleet, the blue Alliance ships had only one reserve formation, in the middle of which one ship, the AWS WARPRIZE II, was labeled.

  “Trang is moving forward and trying to get us to engage our forces with his. Other than some intense action with Admiral Hassan’s forces in the beginning of the battle, he hasn’t had much luck getting us to attack.”

  Hildegard eyed the holo-diplay intently. “So it’s a standoff, then.”

  “Not quite. Trang is inching forward, blowing up everything, and I mean everything, that can be used as a possible ambush or rallying point. It’s taking forever and is about as glamorous as cleaning carbon filters, but he doesn’t care.”

  “He can’t possibly blow up every rock he encounters,” sputtered Mosh. “He’d be out of ammo before he gets halfway here.”

  “True, but when he moves his fleet forward, he makes sure to send his less experienced crew and ships first.”

  Kirk’s lips drew back into a respectful grin. “Trial by fire, I suppose.”

  “Not a trial, Kirk. A death sentence. Very few of those recruits make it out alive. And he doesn’t rea
lly care. As long as he’s advancing and keeps J.D. in his sights, he’ll push her all the way to Ceres.”

  “Where her back will be against the wall,” noted Sandra with blunt honesty.

  “Yes, Madam President,” confirmed Sinclair. “And then she’ll be forced to make the first move. If Trang gets a win, a draw, or even a narrow defeat, this war is probably over.”

  “Please explain,” asked Sandra.

  “It’s like this,” Sinclair pulled up a chart that showed the UHF’s industrial capacity compared to that of the Outer Alliance. “They can replace what they lose a lot faster than we can. Which is pretty impressive, considering how much our economy has grown in the last six years. We may not have started this war as an industrial economy, but we’re sure as Damsah one now.” Sinclair sighed, “Still, it’s nothing compared to what the UHF makes. Mars alone outmanufactures us, and that’s nothing compared to the Earth–Luna orbital industrial zone. That’s why Trang isn’t fighting for a decisive victory—and is happy to settle for a dogged one.”

  UHFS Liddel

  Zenobia Jackson’s shuttle landed so smoothly, she didn’t even wake up. Her aide, Lieutenant Alistair Congraves, had to gently nudge her out of her somnolence. As her eyes fluttered open, Zenobia was presented with the vision of the young lieutenant hovering over her. He was holding a kerchief in his outstretched hand. It was only then that she noticed the trail of drool running along the side of her face. Zenobia took the kerchief and wiped off the saliva, frowing uncomfortably.

  “Did I snore, too?”

  “Not once,” lied Congraves, teeth flashing through a disingenuous smile.

  “Well,” griped Zenobia in a tone that was more order than suggestion, “let’s file that under ‘top secret,’ just to be safe.”

  “Yes, Admiral Jackson. If I ever remember, I’ll be sure to have myself shot.”

  “What a terrible waste of ammunition.”

  “Right. Out the air lock, then?”

  A bland smile appeared on Zenobia’s face.

  They both waited in comfortable silence while their shuttle was thoroughly scanned. Then waited another few minutes as it was physically inspected. Admiral Abhay Gupta had figured that if he were the enemy the best way to take out his own ships would be to land in them with a captured shuttle. The fact that it hadn’t happened yet was nothing short of miraculous, given the Alliance’s infamous bag of tricks. After Trang had been made aware of Gupta’s protocol, he wasted no time in ordering it adopted by the whole fleet.

  Once cleared, Zenobia headed straight for Trang’s suite. She was not surprised to see Admiral Abhay Gupta seated alongside her boss when she arrived and was strangely gratified when they both rose at her entrance. She gave a tired salute that was returned and then collapsed into one of the big overstuffed chairs that had, over the months, become hers.

  “Now that we’re all here,” Trang said with an impish grin, “we can get to some important business.” He then held up two ration packets. “Beef stew or ginger chicken with rice?”

  “You know, sir, we’re not fighting in the 180 anymore,” Zenobia complained. “Everyone in the fleet eats pretty well—when they’re not getting blown to pieces, that is.”

  “Everyone in this fleet, Zenobia.” Trang was polite but firm. “However, there are marines and other personnel not in this fleet but still under my command—all of whom are eating rations like this for pretty much every meal. So just to be clear,” he said with a grin that belied the sanctimony of his earlier statement, “beef or chicken?”

  “Beef, sir.”

  Gupta turned to Trang. “Told you,” he cooed triumphantly.

  Zenobia’s brow rose as she looked at the two men pathetically. “You gambled on what I was going to have for dinner?”

  “He gambled,” chided Gupta. “I knew. The longer you’re awake, the less you like sweet.”

  Zenobia thought about that for a moment and decided that he might be right. “How’d you figure that out?… No, wait a minute. Why’d you figure that out?”

  “Seemingly inconsequential patterns,” offered Trang, “can sometimes mean the difference between victory and defeat. And what we need to figure out are Admiral Black’s patterns.”

  “Or risk losing to her like so many others have in the past,” added Gupta.

  “But what she eats for dinner?” Zenobia’s question was edged with doubt.

  “Field rations—same as me.” Trang seemed to be speaking from authority. “But will sometimes tolerate her crew spicing it up and serving it in formal settings. Apparently it makes them happy on the rare occasions she lets ’em get away with it.”

  “Damsah, you have been studying her,” laughed Gupta, impressed.

  “Every chance I get.”

  “All right, then,” wondered Zenobia, “what are you getting now?”

  “Worried.”

  Gupta smiled thinly. “Me too, old friend. It’s been too easy.”

  Zenobia snorted. “Too easy?” Her voice rose sharply. “We’ve lost over a hundred ships in a single week. Have thousands, possibly tens of thousands of permanent deaths to add to that butcher’s bill, and we’ve achieved no decisive breakthroughs or engagements … save for almost cornering Hassan.”

  “Yeah,” mused Trang, “J.D. pulled the leash hard on her barking admiral. Good thing with the death of Sadma she lost her left arm at Altamont; now if I could only think of another way to take her right.…” He paused. “I do have a theory about effective command.”

  “Which is?” prodded Zenobia.

  “A commanding officer needs two subordinates who can be trusted completely, and who will deliver results as good as or even better than expected. J.D. had those two in Christina Sadma and Omad Hassan. In retrospect, I’d have to say the most important part of that battle was not so much in the cracking of the Belt, but in removing Sadma from the equation.”

  “I still say you made a bad deal when you traded me for her,” prodded Gupta.

  “Except for the fact that right now I have two absolutely trustworthy officers and Black has only one.”

  Abhay tipped his head.

  “Who’s your other—?” Zenobia started, then stopped when she saw Trang’s pointed smile. “Me?” gasped Zenobia with a mixture of pride and denial. “I’m getting better, Admiral Trang, but I’m not in Abhay’s or Hassan’s class.”

  “You flustered her, Sam,” Gupta teased. “She called you, ‘Admiral’ and ‘Trang.’”

  “Don’t take our word for it, Zenobia,” offered Trang. “The facts speak for you. Let’s see, in effective command of your flotilla for a little over two weeks. In that time, you assumed actual, not simply titular command of a brand-new formation and made it combat ready in little over a week while blasting at high speed across the Core. At the end of which, your new formation was thrown into battle against the best-led, best-crewed fleet the Alliance has. Must I remind you that you also almost took out the guy whose class you claim not to be in?”

  “I lost a lot of ships on that ‘almost,’ sir,” she declared bitterly.

  Gupta laughed again. “Listen to her. We sing her praises and she complains she’s not perfect.”

  “You see failures where there really weren’t that many,” Trang asserted. “Trust me, Zenobia, that’s a helluva lot better than what the UHF has had in the past.”

  “Oh yes,” added Gupta, “officers who saw success where there really wasn’t any. Only a fool would think this would be easy or cheap.”

  “But you just said ‘it’s been too easy.’”

  Gupta nodded at the truth of her words. “J.D. always has something planned. Some nasty little surprise that she uses to crush her enemies. Floating marines, ice ships, asteroids, and rail gun demagnetizers are just some of the rabbits she’s pulled out of that nasty little hat of hers. Whatever she’s got planned this time has yet to be played, and until it is, we won’t really know if we’re good enough.”

  “She didn’t have any technological
tricks when she won at the Battle of Jupiter’s Eye,” Zenobia pointed out. “And she pretty much wiped out the entire Martian fleet.”

  “Tully was an idiot, and Black had surprise and Jupiter’s gravity well on her side,” Gupta countered. “The fool got what he deserved; I’m only sorry that he took so many fine ships and spacers with him.”

  Trang frowned at the memory. “Which still doesn’t negate the fact that J. D. Black is a ruthless, clever warrior who has more large-fleet experience than anyone alive in the system. Tully could never quite admit that and paid the price.”

  “How about you, sir?”

  “How about me what, Zenobia?”

  “Any ideas what she’s got planned?”

  Trang considered the question for a moment, then finally shook his head. “Not a damned clue.” His voice resonated with equal parts frustration and amusement. “It’ll probably involve something technical; unfortunately, they have Kenji Isozaki, and we have our brilliant Minister of Internal Affairs, who can’t seem to find out the temperature of Ceres, much less give us something useful to work with.”

  “Hey,” sneered Abhay, “Pakagopolis did a great job of destroying that unarmed religious settlement.”

  “And because of Alhambra, the Belt’s emptying out faster than DeGens at an IQ contest,” joked Zenobia.

  “Which means,” added Gupta, “even if we defeat J.D. and take Ceres, the war might very well go on.”

  “Mark my word, friends,” Trang cautioned, “if we defeat Admiral Black and take Ceres, even if the war continues, the Alliance still loses. Because at that point, it truly is just a matter of time and pressure—something our President is quite merciless at applying.”

  “So let me get this straight,” teased Zenobia, “we don’t know what Admiral Black has planned, when she plans on doing it, or how it’ll be done, but we have to be prepared for whatever it is and counter it when it happens.”

  “That about sums it up,” Trang finished to a chorus of mirthless chuckles. “At some point in this battle, one or all of us will be presented with what seems like a golden opportunity. It will probably be some ‘mistake’ or ‘accident’ on their part. If that happens, do not—I repeat: do not—follow your instinct. Because that’s what she’ll use to gut you. When that supposedly magic but fleeting opportunity arises, call me at once.”