The Unincorporated Woman Read online

  Hektor waited a moment before introducing the next order of business. “I must tell you all that what you’re about to hear will be quite disturbing.” His mouth formed into a straight, stiff line as he looked over to his Minister of Internal Affairs. “Trisha, you may now inform the Cabinet.”

  Tricia nodded solemnly, took a deep breath, and then blurted, “The UHF is suffering a reemergence of the VR plague.”

  The room exploded with a chorus of disbelief.

  “Quiet!” shouted Hektor. “Let her at least finish; then we can all discuss this abomination.”

  Tricia tipped her head toward Hektor and continued. “VR’s always been a small but manageable problem in the UHF—even with the war causing only a small increase in the number of addicts. Then about six months ago—” Tricia paused just long enough to let the cabinet consider the date’s implications. “—we noticed a sharp upturn in the number of arrests, both of users and suppliers.”

  “About the time we started winning the war,” added Irma.

  “Exactly. Despite the attention of the Internal Affairs department and a massive but quiet campaign that has resulted in equally massive arrests, I’m sad to report that we’ve been unable to contain this new plague.” Tricia accessed a file, and the image of the solar system disappeared to be replaced by an image of a silver headband attached by a cord to a small box of a popular brand of chocolates. “This is what we’ve found at almost all the arrest sites.”

  “Not like anything I’ve ever seen,” said Brenda, staring almost cross-eyed at the holo-image.

  “That’s because before six months ago, VR rigs came in all shapes and sizes, but all with the same basic programs—some, centuries old. Then,” added Tricia with some bite to her words, “this thing started showing up. It’s not always disguised as a box of chocolates. Often it’s a DijAssist or a brightly wrapped present or some other easily overlooked item. It is, however, an exceptionally well designed unit that can be reproduced easily and run with a minimum of power. Also the new VR programs are far more complex and, interestingly enough, became available about…” She paused.

  “Six months ago,” snarled Porfirio, pinched lips drawn into bloodless white lines across his face. “Bastard Rabbi, fucking Alliance.”

  “Are we sure it’s them?” asked Franklin. “Is there any evidence whatsoever leading directly back to the Outer Alliance?”

  “None. All the units are manufactured locally from a template that’s been distributed far and wide, but appeared on Luna, Earth, and Mars within twelve hours of each other. The programs keep on appearing at sites around the Neuro for those who know where to look. We believe they were placed simultaneously and are being released according to a schedule, but it’s possible they’re being loaded one at a time. This has all the hallmarks of a cooperative effort by a design team that had the resources, time, and immunity from prosecution that those dabbling in VR have never had … until now.”

  “It’s fair in a twisted sort of way, I suppose,” said Irma. “We killed their religious leaders at Alhambra; most of them, that is,” she corrected, “now they go after our souls in the Core. Poetic, really,” she finished without the slightest hint of outrage.

  Hektor nodded, bitter irony no stranger to his life. “Irma,” he asked, eyes narrowed in thoughtful contemplation, “what would happen if we released this story?”

  “And?” she asked, seeing there was more to be pulled from her boss.

  “And we pin it on the Outer Alliance?”

  “It would be better if we at least had some evidence of their complicity. This is, after all, a firestorm in the making.”

  “Not a problem,” said Tricia as casually as if she were finalizing a work order for latrine parts. “I’ll make as much evidence as you need. Computer records, compromising vids, even confessions. We can do some trials if you’d like—makes great press. But I don’t have to tell you that.”

  Irma nodded her approval.

  Hektor repeated, “So what would the reaction be?”

  “About what you’d expect,” suggested Irma. “Moral outrage and indignation. Bet you’d even see a bump in your already thriving recruitment. The public will seek immediate revenge, of course, and will demand real punishment for those they deem responsible.”

  “A desire to strike back and forcefully, yes?” asked Hektor, oddly looking toward Porfirio rather than at Irma.

  “Yes. Frankly, I’m not sure if a show trial would be enough. Don’t forget, we’ve all been inculcated from birth to loathe VR and hold especially contemptible those who peddle it. That it’s being foisted on a vulnerable populace during a time of duress makes this crime seem even more appalling.”

  Though Hektor’s eyes widened, seeming to revel in her answer, a grim determination remained on his face. “Good, good. Let’s move forward on that, then. As you’ll soon see, it will fit perfectly with the Defense Minister’s plans.”

  On cue, Porfirio began his presentation. “It had been assumed that as soon as Gupta’s fleet was organized, he was going to take it to Ceres, where the combined fleets would once again attack the Alliance capital.” He paused as his lips parted, baring a caninelike smile. “But that’s not going to happen.” The holodisplay revealed two distinct fleets with one heading away from Ceres. “We’ve split our fleet. Half is at Mars under the command of Abhay Gupta; the rest with Trang and Jackson near Ceres. The thinking is that even though our combined fleet would outnumber the Alliance two to one, attacking Ceres would still have proved disastrous.”

  “But I thought we had the numbers to sacrifice?” grumbled Franklin.

  “Oh we do, and we’ll use them, but attacking orbital batteries supported by a well-led fleet is an invitation to disaster—no matter what your numbers. At best, we’d be looking at near total destruction for both sides, which would be tantamount to a draw for us. And a draw, given the vast superiority of our numbers in both ships and resources, would go down as a defeat in the minds of the people, shattering much of the goodwill the recent victories have given us.”

  “What do you propose to do about Black?” asked Brenda.

  “That’s the beauty of the plan. She’s not a factor.”

  “She’s always a factor, Porfirio,” Hektor said in mild rebuke. “Never forget that.”

  Porfirio bowed slightly in Hektor’s direction. “Of course, Mr. President. Please excuse my exuberance.”

  Hektor bowed back, inviting the Defense Minister to continue.

  “As it now stands, Admiral Gupta is going to take his fleet—half our effective forces—and boost for Jupiter. Trang and Jackson have orders to wait at Ceres and see what unfolds. When Gupta gets to Jupiter, he’s under orders to destroy as much of the Jovian system’s war-making infrastructure as possible.”

  “Excuse me,” said Irma, her face telegraphing confusion.

  “Yes?”

  “Your holodisplay seems to indicate the eradication of whole settlements.”

  “And?” Porfirio asked, waiting impatiently for Irma to get to the point.

  Irma’s eyes were fixed on the information now streaming across the mini holodisplay of her DijAssist. “But … hospitals? Schools? I’m sorry,” Irma finally murmurred, “I just … hadn’t realized we were changing…” As the list of civilian targets floating before her continued to swell, Irma was unable to finish her thought.

  Hektor came to her rescue. “After your pending revelations about VR, those targets will no longer be off-limits.”

  Irma stared at him blankly.

  “That,” Hektor revealed, “will be the ‘strike back’ you spoke of earlier.”

  Irma nodded, a slightly raised left brow reflecting her acceptance. Hektor then looked around the table at the rest of the Cabinet Ministers. “It is incumbent on all of us, and Irma—” He turned to his Information Minister. “—you especially, to make the UHF understand that every single Alliance citizen is complicit in the heinous crime of bringing the VR plague back into our midst and,
as such, is now to be regarded as the enemy. Gupta has been given his orders. He will attack any and all settlements that he can find. In fact, see if he’s in range of any fleeing Jewish settlements. There’s no reason why we should not let Rabbi know there’s a price to pay for trying to destroy humanity.” Hektor thought for a moment and smiled, contemplating the justice of the order. “Gupta will eliminate everything that can be of use to the enemy, including hospitals, educational institutions—no matter what age the entrants—and homes, especially homes. And with the press coverage about the Alliance’s VR attack on our ‘souls’—” Hektor paused as his lips turned upwards. “—I like that phrase, Irma, make sure you use it—our public will demand nothing less.”

  Irma stared numbly as her DijAssist estimated the number of permanent deaths Gupta’s scorched-planet policy would soon bring. It was in the hundreds of millions—numbers far higher than even she’d imagined. Irma had forgotten about the radiation belt around Jupiter. Anyone exposed, even if suspended by the imperfect process of being blown out into space, would suffer permanent death. Her now impassive face did not betray the feeling of uncertainty welling up inside. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced since the death of her friend and coworker, Saundra Morrie, five years earlier.

  “Of course,” she responded staunchly.

  Porfirio beamed, having been cleared to deliver his master stroke. “If J.D. is at Jupiter, she’ll attack Gupta. Maybe he wins; maybe he loses. But he’s not an idiot, and should be able to make her pay—maybe even get out with some of his fleet intact. But it won’t matter, because with J.D. occupied, Trang can dismantle the orbital batteries around Ceres without interference. Sure, Trang’ll take some losses, but if he does it right, and he will, then Ceres is ours. Or scenario number two. If J.D. is at Ceres, then Gupta destroys all Alliance resources at Jupiter, and the rest of the Alliance knows that if the war continues, not only can’t J.D. defend them but it will also cost them everything. At that point, I think all but the most fanatic will entertain reasonable peace offers—even a Jew.” Porfirio’s smile was ebullient. He was the proverbial cat who’d finally trapped the canary.

  “Yes,” agreed Hektor. “But they’ll no longer be generous. That t.o.p. has launched. The citizens of the Alliance have brought this upon themselves.”

  Hektor stood. The meeting had come to an end. “If they want to commit suicide by going after the Core Planets, I say, let them.”

  17 Pack Your Bags

  Presidential quarters, Ceres

  Sandra O’Toole was awakened from a rare deep sleep by the cacophonous sounds of an antique twin-bell alarm clock. Though the sound emanated from her DijAssist as opposed to the actual article, that didn’t stop her from swatting the small polymer unit off the table with such force as to send it skittering across the Triangle Office floor. Yawning and rubbing her eyes, she grumbled her way across the room, stooped over, and picked up the still clanging cause of her ire. “I’m up! I’m up!” she screamed at the block of plastic. “For the love of God, already!” The ringing ceased.

  “I’m not sure,” quipped a voice from behind her, “that even God would put up with so odious a sound as that.”

  Sandra whipped around to see Sebastian sitting cross-legged on the couch from which she’d only recently alighted. As was now his wont, he was wearing his OA Intelligence uniform. There was an amiable smile plastered across his face.

  “First of all,” Sandra huffed, flopping down into the chair opposite Sebastian, “I very much doubt God would need an alarm clock. After all, where does a guy who’s supposedly everywhere really have to be?”

  “Point well taken.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t just disrupt the best nap I’ve had in years to lecture me about my auditory idiosyncrasies.”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “Spill it, Sebastian.”

  “A large UHF fleet has broken from the orbit of Mars and is heading for the Belt. It does not appear to be joining Trang.”

  Sandra’s posture stiffened. “Who’s leading it?”

  “It appears to be Admiral Abhay Gupta.”

  “Appears?”

  “Based on the information we have—with very little margin of error—it’s him. However, with humans, one can never tell.”

  The President smiled acerbically. “Where’s he heading?”

  “We can’t be certain, but we suspect Jupiter.”

  Sandra’s fledgling smile bloomed into a full grin. “Damn, she’s good.”

  “The fleet admiral is an amazingly gifted military leader.”

  “What about the rest, Sebastian?” There was real trepidation in Sandra’s voice. “So many things have to go right.”

  “We’ve been over this, Madam President. We’re losing this war and no longer have the option of playing it safe.”

  “Easy for you to say, Sebastian. Justin didn’t leave the job of humanity’s survival in your hands. I can’t fail.”

  Sebastian’s brow shot up. “And you think I can? Every avatar left worth saving is depending on me.”

  Sandra nodded apologetically. “Right. Sorry, friend. I just got all myopic on you.”

  “We’re all under a great deal of stress, Madam President, but what I’d really like to know is, are you going to continue feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “No,” challenged Sandra, “what you’d really like to know is if I’m capable of doing my job.”

  Sebastian’s deep-set hazel eyes remained fixed and unresponsive. A moment later, he twitched a smile. “Touché.”

  “Not even ten seconds of self-pity?” pleaded Sandra, pushing her bottom lip forward petulantly.

  “Sure, when the war’s over.”

  “In that case,” commanded Sandra, springing up from the couch, “get me Admiral Sinclair. We have a ship to visit.”

  Triangle Office

  Marilynn and Dante were deeply engaged in conversation when Sandra burst through the door. They looked up on her entrance but with the flick of her wrist, she bade them continue.

  “I’m just saying that your definition of a fighting unit, while noble, is illogical.”

  “Logic has nothing to do with it,” groused Marilynn.

  “Children,” Sandra admonished from behind the desk.

  Marilynn turned to face the President. “He wants to add nine hundred more avatars per human.”

  “The initial plan,” protested Dante, “was to use Kirk’s unwitting couriers to infiltrate the UHF Neuro. In that scenario, we could hide only one hundred inert avatars in what we assessed to be a typical courier’s limited luggage. But if Admiral Hassan comes on board, we’ll have the computing power of the AWS Spartacus, which makes it possible for us to insert even larger numbers—”

  “—of untrained, unorganized, and inexperienced symbiotic combatants!” railed Marilynn.

  Dante raised his left brow and spoke accusingly. “We’ve been fighting this war for quite some time, Commodore, and I would never put an inexperienced soldier into a situation I didn’t think he or she could handle.”

  “They’re called teams for a reason,” bellowed Marilynn in exasperation. “And we have one hundred of them, all highly trained, all able to finish each others’ sentences—both human and avatar. I refuse to mess with that, no matter how many more of your buddies you think you can cram onto a pinhead.”

  “An interesting analogy, Commodore, but an ad hominem attack if ever there was one. While I’ll admit that the symbiotic avatars have grown quite close to their backdoor commandos—”

  “For the love of Justin,” raged Marilynn, rolling her eyes, “will you pa-lease stop calling them that? They’re Neuro Insertion Tactical Engagement Specialists. We came up with that name together, remember?” scolded Marilynn for what was obviously the thousandth time.

  “Indeed,” countered Dante with all the innocence of an angel pleading his case, “I am rather fond of the use of NITES as an acronym, but that shouldn’t take away from what seems a perfectly reasona
ble nickname.”

  Sandra laughed out loud. “Do you two always bicker like this?”

  “And to think,” fumed Marilynn, uncharacteristically ignoring Sandra, “I was worried that you were a fantasy of mine gone out of control. You’re way too smug and annoying to be anything but reality.”

  “Of course I’m real, Commodore.”

  “In which case, reality sucks.”

  “You’re real too, Commodore,” rejoined Dante.

  “Children,” interrupted Sandra, “can we please move on to more important issues?”

  The room grew quiet as both Marilynn and Dante eyed each other warily. “Have you noticed, Commodore,” asked Dante in a clinical tone, “how the President always assumes that what she wants to talk about is important?”

  “Yes,” agreed Marilynn heartily, dropping her annoyance and mimicking Dante’s tone exactly. “I think the power has finally gone to her head. Come to think of it, why don’t you act like that?”

  “Because I don’t actually have a head, merely the perception of one.”

  “Are you two done?” implored Sandra.

  Her answer arrived by way of muted smiles.

  “Commodore,” informed Sandra, “if I can get Omad on board with the plan, then you and your backdo…”—on Marilynn’s dour look, Sandra corrected herself—“NITES as presently numbered will leave in approximately eleven hours. Sorry, Dante, but Marilynn’s reasoning is sound—pinhead comment notwithstanding.”

  Marilynn grinned, shooting Dante a triumphant look.

  “Don’t let it go to your real head, Commodore,” warned the avatar.

  “Don’t worry, Dante. I will.”

  “Madam President,” stated Dante, “with this news, I must now go and make final arrangements—” Dante shot Marilynn one last accusing look. “—there are ninety thousand avatars who are about to be very disappointed.”