The Unincorporated Woman Read online

  Thus it was that Admiral J. D. Black stood in the luxurious environs of what had once been the finest French restaurant in Ceres and possibly the whole of the Outer Alliance. It had been called La Fontaine Bleue, and was located in the lunar level of Ceres, so called because it was placed far enough from the Via Cereana to give the level a gravity one-sixth that of Earth’s and therefore equal to Earth’s moon, known as Luna. If anyone prior to the war had told her that the restaurant would make a perfect spot for the advanced cryostasis laboratory and research facility, J.D. would have laughed out loud.

  But now she saw the logic in the decision. The restaurant was on a level that would not be getting much use otherwise, as its greatest appeal had been to those from Luna, firmly in the UHF camp. And for obvious reasons, tourism from that region had not been a moneymaker for a number of years. The restaurant’s loss had been the Alliance’s gain. The low gravity made it easier to move equipment and corpses, but without the hassles that came from moving large objects in zero gravity, where things never seemed to stay put unless battened down. The restaurant had been a large three-story affair with lots of separate dining areas for special events and parties, all of which made it easy to turn those cavernous spaces into specialized labs. And because it was already zoned for the highest privacy standards, given its former clientele, it made further securing of the lab quite easy. The former restaurant also had an excellent power transmission and backup system, so that no patron would ever be inconvenienced by the slightest delay in communication or service. The eatery’s new name, Le Cadavre Bleu, was a little morbid, but, mused J.D., that was laboratory techs for you.

  She and Captain Nitelowsen walked down a few corridors, finally ending up in a large conference room much unchanged from the restaurant’s initial setup. The small chamber had apparently been needed for the planning sessions required to host the restaurant’s myriad events. And as no functioning body, both corporeal and corporate, had yet figured out a way to survive without the need for a meeting, the room had stayed mostly untouched. J.D. had called an emergency Cabinet session and arranged for the Unincorporated Woman’s suspension unit to be moved into the room, feeling its presence might in some way influence the donnybrook she knew was coming. Upon entering the chamber, J.D.’s eyes immediately fell upon the green-etched, black sarcophagus. She stared at it with such intensity that her ever-present aide thought her boss might be trying to wake the body inside by force of will alone. When J.D. and Marilynn heard the voices of people approaching, they immediately took their seats, as J.D. had wanted a better view by which to gauge the reactions of those entering.

  The first to arrive was Kirk Olmstead. The former deputy director of GCI Special Operations had become a natural fit for the Secretary of Security, and J.D. had to grudgingly admit he was doing an excellent job. But she never liked or trusted the guy, either from the days they served together on the board of GCI or now. He retained his corporate good looks but wore an outfit that fairly screamed Alliance patriot. Gone were the expensive five-piece suits made from the latest nanoweave fabrics. In were the gray coveralls that proclaimed propriety and efficiency. He gave the suspension unit a momentary glance, then shot J.D. a look that was both curious and hostile. The lack of affection went both ways, but he couldn’t suppress the curiosity sparked by the locale chosen for the meeting and the surprise floating quietly on a maglev within it.

  Next to enter was Cyrus Anjou, Justin’s Chief of Staff. His mood, like everyone’s of late, was less than upbeat. The enormity of the situation was made more pronounced by the fact that Cyrus, normally ebullient in the toughest of times, appeared gaunt and moribund. He barely noticed the unit as he walked through the door. What scant attention he gave it dismissed it as yet another prop in yet another room in yet another meeting.

  By Allah, has he actually lost weight? wondered J.D.

  The loss of Justin had crushed something in the man’s soul. He continued to do his job, but only with the mechanical action born of instinct rather than passion. When Padamir Singh, the Secretary of Information, came in and looked with concern upon his Jovian sparring partner, J.D. knew that something would need to be done. Padamir was a Cerean from a wealthy and politically connected family who had a famous relationship with Cyrus based on deep affection and public insults. The fact that he was now treating his friend with kid gloves let J.D. know just how serious the situation was. After Cyrus, Padamir glanced at the unit, his face placid. He’d long ago trained himself to hold off on opinion, whether verbally or nonverbally, lest he give anything away prior to making a reasoned assessment.

  Joshua Sinclair, her official boss both as Grand Admiral of the Outer Alliance and Secretary of Defense, came in with Hildegard Rhunsfeld, the Secretary of Technology. Although Hildegard usually arrived with Mosh McKenzie, it had been technological audacity almost as much as chicanery that had kept the UHF at bay, and as such, Sinclair and Hildegard had been spending a lot more time together. They too noticed the suspension unit but, like Padamir, kept their feelings from view. Unlike Padamir, their reasons were more pedestrian. They didn’t care until they were told they had to. When Mosh finally arrived, his eyes darted quickly from the sarcophagus to J.D., showing obvious displeasure at both. Without bothering to sit down, he fixed a persistent and angry glare at the fleet admiral. That was quick, mused J.D.

  Before the meeting could be called to order, Mosh blurted, “It’s not going to work, J.D.”

  “What’s not going to work?” asked Hildegard, oblivious to Mosh’s opening hostility.

  “Please, Janet,” invited Mosh disdainfully, “fill us in on your brilliant plan.”

  J.D. looked with some satisfaction on the small group gathered around her.

  “We’re going to wake up our three-hundred-year-old jack-in-the-box over here…” Janet glanced over her shoulder. “… and spring her right into the Presidency.”

  The room exploded in protest. Janet remained unmoved by the cacophony but was intrigued by Padamir’s reaction. He remained quiet, looking at her in a manner she couldn’t ever recall having seen from him before—admiration.

  “Janet,” sputtered Mosh, “of all the harebrained—”

  “What makes you think,” interjected Kirk, “that this woman could possibly be President?”

  The room went silent, as all eyes fixed on J.D.

  “If I thought for a moment she was actually capable of being President, I’d keep her frozen for the next thousand years. The reason I do want her is precisely because she’s not capable of being President.”

  Padamir’s face registered the confusion everyone seemed to feel. “And this,” he finally said, “will help us survive the war, how?”

  With a brief hand movement J.D. flung the latest headlines into the center of the table’s holo-display. They floated above the table for a moment before fading from view. “As you can see, she’s already being hailed as the Unincorporated Woman, and some of the religious are even calling for her to be awakened in order to fulfill God’s divine plan.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” interjected Cyrus. “Are we to be saved by your god?”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic, Cyrus. Of course not … and she’s not my god. She’s everyone’s … whoever wants her, that is.”

  “It was you who raised the point, Admiral,” returned Cyrus, “not I.”

  “I raised the point only to show you that there’s a desire to have her out of that thing. You know me, Cyrus. I leave my god on the sidelines when it comes to leading but keep her close by when it comes to fighting.”

  “Indeed I do,” agreed Cyrus, “but you more than most know that those headlines represent the desperate ramblings of a desperate people. They’d do anything, say anything, just to fill the void left by the President’s death. Even as we speak, many are already making a ‘pilgrimage’ to his space suit.”

  “Of course I understand that,” thundered J.D. “What’s your point?”

  “I’d have thought it w
ould be obvious. My point is that the polity is simply not capable of making a rational choice. It does not become us to feed into their mania with—” His eyes shifted over to the suspension unit. “—false hope.”

  J.D. paused before answering. When she finally spoke, it was with a conviction born of exigency.

  “The Alliance needs hope, Cyrus. It needs it very badly. So badly, in fact, that they could give a flying crap whether it’s false or not. You don’t think they know that a three-hundred-year-old reanimated corpse will make a lousy President? They do. But they won’t care, because as you so eloquently stated, they’ll take their hope wherever they can get it.”

  Kirk cleared his throat, drawing all eyes upon himself. “It’s a fine idea … for the people, Admiral, but not so much for the Congress. And we both know who really runs things around here. If you ask me, they’ll never go along with this—especially if there’s no upside.”

  “Of course they will, Kirk,” countered J.D. “Especially if we let the various factions know that our newly awakened President is just the sort of person needed to help them achieve greater influence.”

  “I don’t see how—” started Kirk.

  Padamir Singh smiled, tipping his head slightly toward Kirk, who respectfully demurred.

  “Each will believe,” said Padamir, “that they’ll have greater influence over the figurehead president and so, by the prospects of greater self-aggrandizement, will allow her into the office.” He considered his words a few moments more and for a second time viewed J.D. with admiration. “That just might work.”

  “This is idiocy,” growled Mosh. “We need a President who can actually govern, not one who’ll be governed.” Then added a moment later, “As if we weren’t in enough trouble.”

  “No, Mosh,” J.D. countered, “what we need is a President who can restore hope and prevent panic. Yes, I can do that.” She then pointed to the suspension unit with a sweep of her arm. “But so can the Unincorporated Woman.”

  “I don’t see how,” started Mosh, echoing Kirk.

  “By playing it right.”

  “And I suppose,” said Mosh in a tone scathing enough to peel paint, “you’ve already got that figured out.”

  J.D. nodded, ignoring the sarcasm. “She’s the woman who prepared Justin for his long sleep and then followed him into the future. She was found just as he disappeared, and she’s clearly capable, having made it this far. She’s the only other human being in history to have survived the Grand Collapse, and she did it while it was happening.” J.D. paused a beat. “And that’s the angle we have to push with the people. We’ll stress the heroic and the miraculous over and over again until they can’t tell the difference between the image and the individual. She is the new chosen one, here to lead.”

  “Don’t think I wouldn’t want this, Admiral,” began Sinclair. “Because truly, if there’s anyone in this room your crazy idea would work for, it’s me. But I just don’t see the people of the Alliance falling for an obvious stand-in.”

  “Finally,” groused Mosh, “a voice of reason.”

  J.D. ignored the outburst, looking straight at her commanding officer. “I agree with your assessment, sir. No one would expect her to pop out and hit the ground running. But we can work with that because of greater concern to the people is, as stated before, a figure of hope. Don’t you see? We can have our cake and eat it too. We can give them their hope, and give the fleet back its admiral. They’ll make that leap of faith, sir. Of that I’m sure.”

  “But why should we?” insisted Sinclair. “Again, I’m not trying to get rid of you. Damsah knows I need you. But it seems pretty obvious, Janet, from the machinations of this meeting alone, you’d make a fine President. In some ways, with all due respect, better than Justin.”

  “Maybe I would, sir. And I thank you for the compliment, undeserving as I think it may be. But we don’t need a ‘fine’ President right now, just a fine figurehead. However, what we do need is damned fine admiral. I keep on saying this, but for some reason, no one seems to be listening. So allow me to spell it out.” She rose from her seat and leaned over the table, placing the palms of her hands on its surface. “Trang is coming. You may be able to put that thought on your back burners, but I don’t have the luxury of putting it on mine. He’s coming, and I’ll need to beat him on the front lines in order to win this war. And yes, even with all the shit that’s gone down, we can still win this thing. But I must prepare, starting now—something I won’t be able to do strapped to the Presidential chair. What I can do from that chair is give hope. But guess what?” asked J.D., standing up, walking over, and placing one hand on the suspension unit. “So can she. I say we thaw this bitch out and prop her ass up so I can go win this fucking war.”

  Only the silent hum of the forced air system could be heard as abject silence followed on her words. Eyes flittered back and forth as each person ruminated on the proposal and checked with one another for an indication of opinion.

  “Okay,” a soft voice finally murmured.

  J.D. nodded in relief. That’s two.

  Everyone looked at Hildegard. She seemed a little flustered by the sudden attention but soldiered on. “Your argument is sound, Admiral, and I’m even prepared to back it up, but I must know how you plan on bringing her out.”

  “Come again?” asked J.D.

  “Well, quite frankly, the stats don’t bode well.” Hildegard looked down at her DijAssist. “Sandra, or whatever her real name is, froze herself with the onset of dementia during the Grand Collapse, presumably hoping to find a cure, a stable future, and in all likelihood, her boss—one very deceased Justin Cord. She’ll wake up millions of miles from the planet of her birth, and before she has a chance to pee will be told she’s to take on the ceremonial leadership of an interstellar alliance that’s in the process of losing a war.” She nodded respectfully to J.D. “Predictions of our imminent victory notwithstanding.”

  J.D. returned the nod with a respectful, if somewhat caustic, glare.

  “She’ll find herself inside a world she knows nothing of,” continued Hildegard, “and titular head to a people she has nothing in common with. Under the best of conditions, Admiral, a revival of this sort would prove challenging, to say the least. And we are clearly,” she said, looking around at the leftover accoutrements of the Fontaine Bleue, “not anywhere near the best of conditions.”

  Back to one, thought Janet ruefully.

  A slight upward crease formed at the corners of Mosh’s mouth: a hound smelling blood. “Hildegard has a point, Janet. How do we bring this great ‘hope’ of yours up to speed without the proper facilities or even brain trust to do so? We may have the best fighting force in the system, but sadly the best and brightest minds with regards to this specialty happen to be on the other side of the line.”

  J.D. was momentarily stymied, having given no thought whatsoever to that aspect of her plan.

  “I think I may be able help with that,” chimed in Kirk with a bemused half grin. Janet’s eyes shifted uneasily over to him. Hating that she’d been unprepared for the question. Hating even more that she’d owe Kirk … but only if he could pull it off.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Janet. I’m not enamored of you any more than you are of me. Nor, Damsah knows, would your taking the Presidency have made my life any easier. Still, up until this meeting, I too had been convinced that you were the only one capable of replacing Justin Cord as President. However, your argument is compelling and while Hildegard’s point is well taken, it’s not insurmountable.” He paused, knowing full well that Mosh wouldn’t ask for him to continue and that the others would wait. J.D. knew exactly the game Kirk was playing. He wanted her to ask. And so, seeing that no one else would, she did.

  “Please go on, Kirk. We’re all ears.”

  Kirk bent his head respectfully. “We have a dark operation that I’d prepared for various upper-echelon UHF officials. Dr. Thaddeus Gillette was one of them. In his particular case, it involved removing him an
d then making it appear as if he’d been an Alliance operative all along, nothing conclusive, but enough to cast doubt on all his work and associates. Now seems as good a time as any to implement it.”

  “Downsides?” asked Sinclair.

  “It would mean losing an escape route out of the Core that so far appears to have gone undetected. Also, we’d be losing the services of three, maybe four well-placed operatives. Small price to pay, given what’s at stake.”

  “Time frame?” demanded Sinclair, more as an order than as a query.

  Kirk folded his arms, leaned back, and smiled like the cat who’d caught the canary. “I should be able to have the good doctor here in twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”

  Cyrus Anjou’s face reddened and a small bulge of a vein could be seen forming on the right side of his temple. “If,” he spat in Kirk’s direction, “you can just wave your magic wand and bring the solar system’s premier reanimation psychologist to Ceres in a day, how come you couldn’t protect the President!”

  Kirk leaned forward, both hands now on the table, and glared back at Cyrus. “I protected him for five years, you Jovian twit. But I couldn’t protect the sanctimonious fool from himself. I told him not to go to Nerid, to send a forward team. But no, he insisted on going himself!”

  “You are insulting our President,” Cyrus shouted, standing up so quickly, his chair sailed back against the wall in the one-sixth gravity. Kirk stood up too, meeting the challenge. Before anyone else could react, Padamir jumped up and into the fray. He quickly put his hand on his friend’s shoulder to calm him.

  “Only by telling the truth, Cyrus. Justin should not have gone. He did so against all advice, and that is no one’s fault but his own.” Padamir gave Cyrus his own chair, and as he went to get the now discarded one, he kept talking to bring the conversation away from its tender spot. “I do not doubt that you can do as you say, Kirk. If you tell me that Thaddeus Gillette will be here in a day and a half, I will believe you. But I do not see how that does us any good.” He brought the chair to his spot and sat down, inviting Kirk and Cyrus to do the same. They did so reluctantly. “Why would he bother to help us? After all, we’ll have just kidnapped him.”