The Unincorporated Woman Read online

  “I think we do,” said Eleanor. “You heard her speech in the park. She said she was doing it all for Justin, and I, for one, believe her. I’m not sure why, but I do.”

  A long silence followed on Eleanor’s words as J.D. worked through the conversation. Then she said, “I’ll admit, I did want someone to prosecute the war more fully. Funny thing is, I just assumed—with Justin out of the way—it would be me. But the President’s recent vote to pass the VR initiative helps rather than hinders.… I’ll give you that.”

  An almost imperceptible twitch was the only indication of Marilynn’s opinion.

  Eleanor shook her head and laughed. “I can’t believe that I’m the one who needs to tell you this, Janet.”

  J.D. shot her friend a curious glance. “What?”

  The Congresswoman’s weary face suddenly opened up and a warm smile emerged like a flower greeting the morning sun.

  “I think you need to have a little faith.”

  16 Now You See Me

  UHFS Liddel, Blockade duty, 6.5 million kilometers inward from Ceres

  It had been six months since the Long Battle, and Samuel Trang was glad to finally be back comfortably situated in the command chair of his old flagship. As Trang took in the new digs, he felt a tinge of regret. His “old girl” was no longer that at all. The Martian shipyards had completely reworked the ship in record time, returning it before his admittedly rushed deadline. The UHFS Liddel now had upgraded weapons, a more efficient propulsion system, thicker armor, and an internal stability system more suited for atomic blast maneuvering. But more important, thought Trang with rueful delight, my new old girl can now fire out of her ass.

  Trang ran his fingers across the chair’s command tablet, checking the status of the rest of his fleet. He had exactly 330 ships divided into three wings. Each wing consisted of battle cruisers, cruisers, frigates, and auxiliary ships. One wing was to be held in reserve and commanded by a nonentity that Sambianco had insisted on. Trang had agreed, with the understanding that he had the right to boot the President’s sycophant should the shit hit the fan. Zenobia had the Alpha Wing and Trang the Beta. And Gupta—Gupta was far away and getting farther.

  Cabinet Room, Ceres

  Sandra O’Toole, pleased to discover that her well-honed gift for gab had not deteriorated, led a guided tour of the Cliff House. And as a result of that skill, all her press junkets had taken on an aura of informality. There were luaus along the Cerean sea’s rocky shoreline, hangliding along the capital’s main thoroughfares, and most requested of all, visits to the shrine of Justin’s space suit. The lines always seemed to stretch for kilometers, but Sandra had a way of insinuating whatever group she was leading into the temple without aggravating those who’d patiently waited an eternity. Mouths always dropped as she regaled the groups with Justin Cord’s last moments and her pivotal role in his mysterious disappearance. She wasn’t just living history; she was also the only link to the Unincorporated Man’s enigmatic past and martyrdom.

  As often as not, the visitors would ask to touch her as they would the space suit Justin’s clothes had been found in prior to his disappearance. Sandra hadn’t minded the veneration. If it gave the people hope, then she was at least fulfilling part of Justin’s mandate. Over time, and the touch of tens of thousands of hands, the spacesuit had started to become grimy, and so to preserve it, the authorities had shielded all but its now outstretched hand. The reasoning was simple. The glove’s material was significantly more robust than that of the suit. Sandra often smiled inwardly as day after day, hour after hour, Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting was ironically replayed over and over by the people’s extended fingers to the gloved fingers of Justin’s near empty suit.

  * * *

  “Madam President, that was a masterful performance today,” Padamir said, starting off the meeting. “The press adores you, and that makes my job much easier.”

  “Yes,” Kirk said sourly, “let’s all be grateful that the press adores our President.”

  The comment passed without much notice. Either because everyone had gotten used to Kirk’s sarcasm or because the room was more crowded than usual. Besides the usual six cabinet members, there was also Kenji Isozaki, Eleanor McKenzie, and Alonzo Chu, Rabbi’s new assistant—all situated at the end of the table where Tyler Sadma was used to sitting in isolation. He didn’t seem at all pleased to be sharing the space with the others. He was still wearing his black outfits, and his expression was still as grim as it had been the day he found out about the death of his niece, Christina.

  Sandra, as usual, had taken her seat at the head of the table, and to her immediate right sat Padamir Singh, Mosh McKenzie, and Hildegard Rhunsfeld. To her immediate left sat Kirk Olmstead, Admiral Sinclair, and Rabbi. Eleanor chose not to sit near her husband but shared the end of the table with Tyler, seemingly oblivious of his discomfort. Tyler was notoriously formal with all women, and had it not already been well known how much he loved and valued his wife, it would have been assumed that he was celibate.

  “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 marine
s 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.”