The Unincorporated Woman

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  As soon as they cleared the bay, J.D. handed off the battle standard to the nearest soldier and ordered Alliance One’s other precious cargo, the newly found sarcophagus, to a safe location. She then strode out of the room, barely dignifying Justin Cord’s empty space suit with a passing glance.

  Day Fourteen

  Admiral Christina Sadma, defender of Altamont and commander of a once superior fighting force now whittled down through warfare and attrition, stared unblinking into a darkened, empty crevice through the scratched pane of a battered helmet. Standing on a small ridge overlooking the silent thoroughfare, she breathed in her suit’s stale, processed air and realized with sad portent that she could no longer remember the last time she’d been out of the damned thing. Yes, it was an incredibly well-designed machine wearable for weeks on end with nothing worse developing than an aversion to a tenacious ozone odor that seemed to linger despite the best efforts of the Alliance’s engineers. The smell had, amusingly, spawned a whole new industry in “suit scents,” the most popular of which was called “new suit.” The odd, tree-shaped stickers had been quite the rage as the outfits wore down and their filters wore out, but now the stickers too had disappeared. The supplies of everything had dwindled to almost nothing.

  However, her current disquiet wasn’t a result of having spent too much time in the suit. She’d been born and raised on Eris, past the Kaiper Belt, and—like most in the Outer Alliance—had spent weeks “in suit” on one job or another. No, the thing that irked her most was what she was staring at: a horridly scarred and pitted landscape that only a few short weeks ago had been more fit for the donning of a summer dress than wearing the stifling, stale-air contraption she’d been forced to live in now.

  As Christina looked out over the great rock’s once pristine interior, her heart grew heavy. Gone was the settlement’s famous “miracle of light,” in which large, strategically placed mirrors had been used to create a glimmering star in the asteroid’s center. Gone too were the abbey’s famous gardens, growing a thousand and one impossible things in perfect harmony—testament to the gentle care and patience that eons of such tranquil endeavors could produce. Gone as well were the notions of life and peace. Christina even missed the Altamont she’d had to create to fight the war. True, “her” Altamont did not have the beautiful gardens. They’d long ago been replaced by kilometer after kilometer of uniform soy plantations and all manner of other staple foodstuffs. “Her” Altamont also had much heavier traffic than the asteroid had ever been used to, with ships and personnel coming and going at all times. There’d been such purpose, though, to the place. Christina’s Altamont, fueled by a hatred of incorporation and infused by the passion to fight it, inspired a life all its own. Though the asteroid’s once idyllic interior had been transformed with the abbey’s permission, that hadn’t stopped Christina from dreaming of the day she could eventually return it to its Godly purpose. But now, standing amongst its ruins and degradation, she realized that that day would never come and that this current grotesque iteration was to be its last.

  It had indeed become a dark world. So much so that the windowpane of her helmet needed both infrared and ultraviolet enhancing just to see what the natural human eye could not. It was a darkness relieved only by the occasional spark of an exposed wire or the momentary sputter of an emergency light. It had, at first, been fascinating to watch the exposed wires fizzle out in lonely protest amidst the blackness. Eventually, though, it had grown depressing—a reminder of the dying rock itself. The vast interior chamber had also grown cold now that the vacuum of space had made itself a permanent, and unwelcome, guest. All sorts of detritus—some macabre, some not—could be seen floating in quiet ignominy. Depending on her position, Christina could also make out the shimmering brilliance of random stars through the gaping holes that Trang’s guns had opened up. Sadder still was the fact that those stars did not move past those unnatural openings, but rather stayed fixed in frozen immobility. Altamont had ceased to spin, and centrifugal gravity, the wellspring of its human activity, was no longer available: yet another consequence of the enemy’s unrelenting assault. Magnetization kept whatever was needed and whoever was alive firmly in place. The walking was sluggish but in no way debilitating.

  But for the floating debris, all was still. The great Battle of Altamont had paused as if in need of catching its breath before one final exertion. For an entire day, no guns had been fired, no assault shuttles had been launched, and even the pit crews, normally keen to take advantage of any lull, seemed enervated, having come to the realization that the time when repairs could do any good had long since passed. Christina gave her beloved Altamont a final look, then turned and headed into the maintenance tunnel that led to her command bunker.

  The first thing she did upon arrival was check to see that the energy-dampening grid was still working. It was. There was still plenty of power left in Altamont, the portable fusion reactors had seen to that, but a command bunker was a necessary energy hog and therefore an obvious target. For safety’s sake, power would be used sparingly and as needed. As she entered the small, airless, but well-lit room, the few administrators still on hand—five in all—stood at attention and saluted. Seeing their paltry number made her think of the diminished forces now under her command. When she realized the battle had been lost, she tried to evacuate as much of the military as possible, figuring they’d be more useful elsewhere. Unfortunately, as quickly as she could get her personnel out, refugees had come flooding in, having no place left to make their stand when Trang cracked the 180. And so now these proud, these few were all that was left of a once mighty contingent. As the assault miners stood at rapt attention, Christina saw the look in their eyes. Like her, they all knew what was coming, and like her, they were not afraid. She stiffened her posture and returned their salutes, quelling her feelings of despair and pride. Before she could say another word, her aide, Brother Jerome, appeared from a separate corridor. Through his helmet, she could make out the dull-colored orange putty physiologically attached to his neck just below his left ear—a nanite cauterizer. There were still streaks of dark ruby around the wound and down the neck. Whatever had hit him had obviously been nasty.

  “Admiral,” he said through the helmet-to-helmet comm, “I have a room ready for pressurization per your request.”

  “And the council?” asked Christina.

  “Waiting.”

  Christina nodded silently and followed the brother a short distance down the corridor from which he’d originally emerged. She entered a small room with a Spartan table at its center and a number of mismatched chairs around it. A small holo-tank was mounted to the ceiling. There were two people standing and waiting for her, both in battle-scarred space suits. Christina greeted the visitors with a warm smile and invited them to have a seat. As she sat down, her head-up display informed her that the room was pressurizing. A moment later, the HUD gave her an all-clear signal.

  “Never thought I’d love the smell of fresh, processed air,” quipped Colonel Mark Benyair, lifting his helmet up and flipping it back behind his head on specially fitted hinges. As Christina flipped back her helmet, the colonel gave a brief nod in lieu of a salute, acceding to his boss’s demand for informal war councils. The other person, helmet flung back, had no difficulty following that rule. Her name was Marion Janusz, and she was a civ. In fact, Marion had become the effective leader of the entire civilian population caught in the backwash of Alliance defeat. By her most recent estimation, the number of civs hung at about ten thousand. Marion also had the distinction of being from “old” money—for all the good it was doing her now. Her father was Harold Janusz IV, a major shareholder in American Express and dozens of other companies, including GCI. He’d been less than pleased to discover that his only daughter had not only refused to end her grand tour of the solar system at the Outer Alliance’s inception, but had also stayed on to become one of its more vocal citizens.

  Though Christina usually found her to be a pain in t
he ass, detecting the ever-present tone of a superior education and pampered upbringing, there was no denying the woman’s integrity. The problem was that Marion would show up only when she needed something, and she always seemed to need what Christina couldn’t spare. But whether through persistence or Marion’s ability to successfully exploit Christina’s guilt, the blue-blooded heiress almost always managed to get what she asked for. Whenever Christina had the urge to throw the insufferable do-gooder out an air lock, she remembered what mattered most. Marion was one of the more vocal supporters of the war and Outer Alliance, and by virtue of her well-heeled upbringing and the notoriety therein, she’d also been one of the most eloquent and articulate spokespersons for their cause. All of which now made the malodorous fumes emanating from her space suit seem even more out of place.

  Colonel Benyair’s eyebrows shot up in surprise the second Marion’s helmet had flipped open, but he otherwise gave no indication of the truly impressive aroma that had quickly filled the room.

  Christina was not so charitable. “Christ and Allah, Marion, what the hell happened to your sanitizers?”

  Marion gave a one-sided grin. “The suit’s really old, and frankly it was lose the sanitizers or lose the scrubbers. I like breathing a lot more than I like smelling pretty. Besides,” she said dismissively, “after a while you don’t even notice.”

  “Trust me, Marion,” taunted Christina, “you may not notice, but you’d better believe everyone else does.”

  Marion looked over to Mark, who shrugged his shoulders and gave her a small, bland smile.

  “Wait a minute,” added Christina. “Didn’t Mosh send you a new suit? It was a combat engineer model, if I remember correctly. Light and maneuverable as all hell. And that,” she said, eyeing Marion’s battered gear, “certainly ain’t it.”

  Marion smiled reminiscently. “Oh yeah, that was a great suit. I swear I could’ve lived six months in that thing and come out smelling like a rose.”

  “Let me guess,” opined the colonel, “the cards weren’t quite as good as you thought.”

  “If only!” sighed Marion longingly. “It’s been months since I’ve been in a good game.”

  “And I think I was in that one,” laughed Benyair. “If I recall, you won three months of emergency rations from me … on a bluff.”

  “You’re not fooling anyone, Benny,” scoffed Marion, using his nickname. “You knew I was bluffing and whom those supplies would go to, so you’re just going to have to man up and admit you’re a better person than you want your men to believe.”

  The colonel’s mouth opened in mock surprise. He said nothing but showed a toothy grin.

  “Okay, so you didn’t lose it gambling,” prompted Christina, “but I’ll have you know your ‘uncle’ Mosh went to a lot of trouble to get that thing here.”

  “And don’t think I didn’t appreciate it,” replied Marion, sincerity evident in her voice.

  “Stolen, then?” asked Christina.

  “Hell no. Traded.”

  “For what?”

  Marion pointed to her decrepit space suit. “This.”

  Christina shook her head. “I honestly don’t know why I bother.”

  “Believe me, Christina,” stated Marion with equanimity, “the woman it went to needed it far more than I. Had something like nine kids she’d taken in—half of them suspended in jury-rigged freezers that needed constant attending. So yeah, I’ll admit I stink. Small price to pay for kids getting to live.”

  “Fair trade in my book,” said the colonel with a nod of admiration.

  Christina sighed. Once again, Marion’s gentle resolve had been uncompromising, and her heartstring logic could brook no argument.

  “I’ll see if Brother Jerome can send a tech over to at least fix the thing before we depressurize.” Christina began inputting the request into her DijAssist.

  “Why, thank you, Admiral.”

  “I’m not doing it for you,” sniffed Christina.

  The trio laughed and then the room fell silent. The small talk had been a welcome respite, but they all knew what they were there for.

  “We should begin,” started Christina almost as an apology.

  The other two nodded.

  “We’ve lost the heavy rail gun emplacements on the entrant’s side of the asteroid and my engineers tell me there’s no way to move the operational guns to different emplacements in less than twelve hours.”

  “We don’t have twelve hours, sir.”

  “I know, Mark.” Christina activated the holo-tank and pointed to a flurry of activity around the enemy fleet, “I’d say Trang’ll launch his marine assault force in less than two.”

  Marion’s smile was lackadaisical. “So much for fixing my suit.”

  Christina chortled. “Yeah,” she admitted, “I might’ve been a little too optimistic on that count.”

  The group laughed again but there was little joy in it.

  “We have three thousand battle-hardened assault miners,” said Benyair, staring at the holo-tank, “with most of their gear intact. In fact, I’d bet Marion’s space suit”—he sported a smarmy grin—“that they may be the very best fighters in the entire solar system. We’ll make those corporate bastards pay, Admiral. For every damned particle on this Godforsaken rock.”

  Christina closed the visual. “I have no doubt about that, Mark. But Trang will launch twenty thousand marines in the first wave and, if he doesn’t achieve victory, fifty thousand more in the second. And as you’re well aware by his recent transmission, there will be no military prisoners taken alive.… You can thank my boyfriend for that.” Her face drained of color momentarily as she thought back on Omad and all the plans they’d made for their future. I’m sorry, my love … so very sorry, she thought.

  “We don’t scare easy, Admiral.”

  “I know, Mark. But you have to realize that the capture of Altamont is just too important. Once Trang returns this asteroid to full function and then converts it into a UHF outpost, it becomes a powerful symbol.”

  Marion had a quizzical look. “Of what, Admiral? That he captured a useless rock?”

  “No, Marion. That he captured this useless rock—Altamont, mighty fortress of the Alliance.”

  “Not to mention,” piped in the colonel, “that once it’s back up and running, it represents a significant and continuing threat to the Alliance.”

  Marion’s face registered shock as she realized where the conversation was headed. “Are you suggesting, Admiral, that we … that we blow the place up?”

  “Yes, Marion.” Christina’s eyes were aglow with fiery determination. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

  Colonel Benyair remained calm, nodding in slow, easy movements at his commander’s suicide order.

  “But … but…,” stammered Marion, “what about the civilians?”

  “They aren’t civilians anymore,” said the colonel in a voice suddenly devoid of emotion. “Alhambra changed everything.”

  “He’s right, Marion,” affirmed Christina. “This is war, and they were unlucky enough to get stuck on my rock. I’ve already given the orders for the charges to be set. Brother Jerome is handling that personally even as we speak. There is, however, one outstanding issue.…”

  “Yes?” asked Marion, flustered but functioning.

  “The children.”

  A deathly pall hung in the air.

  “Right,” sighed Marion, her head nodding plaintively. “What are our options?”

  “Trang’s ruthless, but not evil,” asserted Christina. “If I tell him we’re ejecting our suspended children and other civs, launch them away from his ships, he won’t kill them out of hand. When it’s over, he’ll recover the suspendees and see that they’re not harmed.”

  “Then that’s what we should do,” said Benyair, satisfied that at least someone was going to make it off the rock in one piece.

  Marion, noticed Christina, hadn’t jumped at the idea. Instead, the woman sat motionless with only her e
yes revealing a struggle with some inner demon.

  “No,” Marion finally whispered.

  “What?” Christina’s head was cocked in disbelief.

  “We’d be dooming them.”

  “And dying here would be better than being captured by Trang … exactly how?” protested Benyair. He seemed more annoyed than impassioned. Saving the children would have been a noble last act. Marion was robbing him of his consolation prize.

  “Because, Benny … Christina,” Marion said, making sure to look hard into both her colleagues’ eyes, “our children won’t be captured by Admiral Trang, they’ll be captured by Hektor Sambianco and Tricia Pakagopolis.”

  “Well, yeah … maybe eventually,” said Benyair, “but—”

  “But nothing, Benny!” Marion seethed. “What do you think those monsters will do with the only survivors of Altamont?”

  Her question was met with blank stares.

  “Each and every one of them,” she asserted, voice thick with anger, “will have their souls ripped out via psyche audit in some UHF facility. And when they next make their appearance among the living—if such a word can be applied,” she said acidly, “they won’t be the same children who left this facility, on this the final day of Altamont. They’ll be Sambianco’s automata, filled with whatever constructs that bastard wants. But make no mistake,” she said, eyes beginning to well up, “our children—” She now leaned into the table, grabbing its edge for support as her body slumped forward under the weight of the sentence she was about to pronounce. “—my children … will be just as dead as if we kept them here.”

  Christina could feel the edges of her teeth pressing up against her stiffened lips. She wanted to scream but held back. She was desperately trying to find some flaw in Marion’s logic, some reason, some plan that would let the children live, that would have Hektor Sambianco be magnanimous, but … but … Neela. Justin Cord’s wife, kidnapped, psyche audited, and now the rumored sexual plaything of the Alliance’s greatest enemy. Used for propaganda purposes. And she was just one among many. Though Justin had fought on until the very end, everyone knew how Neela’s psychological death had broken him in some unseen way. No, thought Christina sadly. There is no other option. If the children could be exploited—and Christina knew they could—Hektor Sambianco would find a way, just as he had with Neela, just as he had with anyone unlucky enough to have fallen into his clutches. She could not … would not deliver Altamont’s children gift-wrapped to a monster like Sambianco. Christina looked to Colonel Benyair. He inclined his head disconsolately. Marion’s cold logic had apparently struck twice.