“Very well,” said Christina, voice taut but resolute. “They stay.”
* * *
Three hours later, Trang’s final assault on Altamont began. Twenty thousand marines landed at the entry port and made it half a kilometer into the mighty rock before they were stopped cold by Altamont’s inner defensive fortifications. But these troops were more experienced than Trang’s earlier recruits and didn’t run at the first sign of trouble; they pressed forward. Shortly thereafter, the whittled-down contingent of marines was met by Colonel Benyair’s three thousand well-armed assault miners. It didn’t take the invading force’s commander long to realize he’d need reinforcements. He ordered an entrenchment and called it in. Trang happily obliged and threw a fresh division of thirty thousand more troops into the fray with orders for an additional fifty thousand to stand at the ready. But as the ships carrying the thirty thousand troops drew near the rock’s entry point, the embattled and teetering fortress disappeared in a brilliant flash of light, described by some as brighter than a thousand suns. When the light faded, so too had Altamont.
* * *
And now Altamont, thought J. D. Black, sitting alone in the dimly lit Triangle Office. She was playing with a Newton’s cradle on Justin’s … her desk, watching in quiet detachment as the five evenly strung silver balls clacked from end to end. Though the two-thirds gravity slowed their rhythm down a tad, the device still performed its task with methodical purpose. J.D. noted the inscription written at its base:
To Justin Cord, First President of the Outer Alliance. May the principle of this mechanism, the laws of conservation, of momentum, forever abide in your new path toward freedom.
It was etched with the signature of the former President’s Chief of Staff, Cyrus Anjou. She gurgled a small laugh at the perversity of it all. Everything seemed to have come to a crashing halt. The 180, Justin, Alhambra … Altamont … and if the previous day’s incident on the loading bay were any indicator, reason itself. That she would never see Christina Sadma again in this life had also been a terrible blow. And a lifetime spent without faith made it even harder for her to accept the death of her friend with the grace and certainty she’d witnessed of her mentor, Fawa Hamdi, or J.D.’s personal chaplain, Brother Sampson. Even if she wanted to mourn, she wouldn’t have had time. The news of Altamont’s fall had swept through the Alliance like a gravitational wave, and Mosh wasted no time in exploiting it. He’d called for a full Cabinet meeting in five hours’ time, the outcome of which was so patently obvious that J.D. had, in her own private rebellion, simply walked in and taken Justin’s seat, ceremony be damned. And even that little victory would prove meaningless because in the end, there would be a ceremony. Protocol demanded it, and more than anything, the Alliance needed it. She understood that now and had long since given up trying to circumvent the implacable will of destiny.
Her black mood was not helped by the sight of her aide, Marilynn, entering the room unannounced with a large stack of folders. The room’s lighting system brightened automatically. The captain was as surprised to see her boss sitting in the President’s chair as J.D. was to see her number two prepping the office for an act that had yet to be officially sanctioned.
“A little overzealous, aren’t we, Captain?” snorted J.D., glad to have a target for her foul mood.
“You should talk,” parried Marilynn with uncharacteristic humor, eyeing the chair more than the person sitting in it. She then summarily dumped the folders on the desk.
“Touché.” J.D. forced an uneasy grin, viewing with further consternation the large stack. The fact that it was all hard copy presumably spoke to the delicate nature of the information—or maybe not. It was quite possible that the pile was emblematic of a paper disease that had briefly infected her fleet. Paper meant “important,” so anyone feeling they had a pressing issue would invariably issue their order on the stuff. It had gotten so bad that at one point J.D. publicly threatened to space any signatory of a paper directive who couldn’t prove that what they were asking for was somehow essential to the very lifeblood of the Alliance itself. Paper documents fell off pretty quickly after that. Though J.D. suspected it had as much to do with Nitelowsen screening the reports as it did with the bureaucrats showing restraint. J.D. was about to rib her number two for having let the current pile through when she saw that Marilynn, still standing at attention, was doing her utmost to retain her composure. The normally unflappable captain had clearly been affected by the recent turn of events. J.D. sighed and invited Marilynn to sit down. Then she remembered that Justin kept a small bar behind the large Alliance flag draping one of the walls. She got up from behind the desk, went to the flag, and drew it back.
“Yes!” J.D. exclaimed, seeing her pleasure translated on Marilynn’s face. She reached behind the bar, grabbed the first bottle she touched, and then glancing at the label, gave it a respectful nod. “It’s real, Marilynn,” she said, returning to the desk with the bottle and two glasses.
“Wouldn’t expect any less, boss. Justin wouldn’t drink synthetic.”
“No,” laughed J.D. as she settled into her chair, “I don’t suppose he would.”
She uncorked the bottle and poured Marilynn a tall glass. Because J.D.’s religion prohibited any alcohol, she left hers empty—there more for symbolic camaraderie than anything else. Marilynn reached across the desk, grabbed the full glass, and knocked it back in one gulp.
Her eyes bulged. “Holy crap!” she blurted through gasps of air.
A faint smile appeared on J.D.’s face. “Too strong?”
“Let’s just say if they could sell smoke as a liquid, I’m pretty sure that would be it.”
J.D. suppressed a laugh. “Cut it out, Marilynn,” she said, pouring another glass. “I’m supposed to be making you feel better. Remember?”
“Trust me, sir,” squeaked Marilynn, raising her glass to toast her boss’s observation, “you are.” The second shot went down smoother. Then her voice broke. “I … I’m going to miss them, Admiral.”
“Me too, Marilynn.”
“They died bravely, boss.”
“That, they did. I just wish I could’ve done more to help.”
“Admiral,” offered Marilynn, “contrary to popular belief, you don’t actually have superpowers.”
“No?” returned J.D. in mock surprise. “Haven’t you heard, Marilynn? I’m the Blessed One. Able to make the enemy do what I want just by talking to them.”
Marilynn put her hand to her mouth, giggling.
“And don’t you know”—J.D. was clearly enjoying the self-deprecation—“I have a soooooper seeeeecret DijAssist in my cabin that enables me to read the minds of my enemies.”
“And don’t forget,” added Marilynn, “raise the dead.”
“Oh yeah. Totally forgot about that. If only I’d used the damned thing on Justin, I could be out there kicking ass instead of stuck in here having to kiss it.”
An awkward silence hung over the pair.
“Stories, sir,” offered Marilynn, “passing fancies to amuse bored miners.”
“Or replace faith,” added J.D. in all seriousness.
“Whatever works, sir.”
J.D. nodded. “If only they weren’t … stories. It would make winning the war a whole lot easier.” She then shot Marilynn a purposeful look. “Feeling any better?”
“Little, sir. Guess it’ll take some time.” She straightened up in the chair and grabbed an inhaler from an inside pocket. Then, bringing it up to her mouth, activated a button. She absorbed the burst and seconds later was stone-cold sober. The nanite formula affectionately referred to as HOD, for “hair of the dog,” was standard military issue. The clear message being, you can play hard, as long as you’re ready to fight hard—instantly.
“And thank you, sir.” Marilynn slipped the canister back into her pocket.
J.D. gave an authoritative nod. “So what have we here?” she asked, glancing at the pile on her desk.
“Mostly Altamont rela
ted, Admiral.”
“Anything I don’t already know?”
“That you really need to know?” Marilynn’s slight upturned lip and shaking head was all the answer J.D. required.
“See, Captain? This job might actually be easier than we both imagined. What else?”
Marilynn thought for a moment and then pulled out a thick folder from the bottom of the pile. “This,” she said, offering the folder to her boss, “is our analysis of the suspension unit Justin found.”
J.D.’s folded arms didn’t budge. “Summarize, please.”
Nitelowsen obediently pulled back the folder, flipped it open, and placed it in her lap without bothering to look down. “The occupant is a woman. She appears to be in her early to mid-sixties and, as currently suspended, appears to have an aggressive form of dementia. The brain scan shows massive impairment of cognitive faculties.”
“Memories?” asked J.D.
“Intact … apparently.” Marilynn almost sounded surprised. She then added as an aside, “Her last weeks of life must have been disorienting, to say the least.”
“I’ll bet. Anything else?”
Marilynn smiled mischievously, “Oh, yes … we have a name.”
“And it is?”
“Sandra O’Toole.”
J.D.’s brow arched up. “Why does that sound so familiar?”
“Because it is. Remember President Cord’s first interview with Michael Veritas.”
“That’s right!” recalled J.D., hand slapping down on the table. “She’s the one who suspended Justin.”
“Not just suspended, Admiral,” corrected Marilynn, pulling a sheet of paper from the folder and sliding it across the desk, “made the suspension unit itself.”
J.D. looked over the document. It contained a brief outline of Sandra’s myriad achievements leading up to her death. The creation of the suspension chamber, patent references and all, was just one item on a long and impressive list.
“Smart cookie,” noted J.D.
“Very,” returned Marilynn. “At least smart enough to have built a second unit and have someone toss her in.”
“When do they intend to wake her up?” asked J.D., handing the sheet of paper back to Marilynn.
“Dunno.” Marilynn tucked the document neatly back into the folder. “I suppose whenever you decide.”
“Me?” objected J.D. “I’ve got enough on my plate, thank you. Give this one to a specialist.”
“Already have. They don’t want the headache.”
“What headache, Marilynn? Pardon my Erosian, but isn’t that their fucking job?”
“Reanimation, yes. Religion, no.”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” A look of disbelief swept across her face. “Please tell me you’re kidding me.”
Marilynn shook her head sympathetically. “We’ve actually had to increase security just to keep people from touching the ‘holy object.’”
J.D. laughed. “You’d have thought the shrine they made out of Justin’s empty suit would’ve kept them satisfied.”
“I think,” countered Marilynn, “people need all the good luck and divine presence they can get. You, better than most, should realize that.”
“Batting a thousand today,” snickered J.D., conceding the point. “You sure that was HOD you inhaled there?”
“Quite. Anyhow, from what I’ve heard, all the security personnel and lab technicians have stopped by at some point just to touch the thing.”
“And what about you?” asked J.D. She got an immediate answer in the blood that rushed to Marilynn’s face. “My god, you have. That is interesting.”
“I know it sounds weird, Admiral, but that woman is special. She gave us the One Free Man, knew Justin before any of us. She is of his time. Maybe even like him in some little way. I know it’s too much to hope.… No one can really replace Justin, sir, but it feels good … to hope. Does that make sense?”
J.D. put her hand on the scarred side of her face and exhaled deeply. “More than you can imagine.… All right, you’ve convinced me. Keep our holy woman in the pile. I’m sure we’ll get to her eventually.”
“Sir.” Marilynn nodded and placed the folder back in the bottom of the stack.
“But, as pleasant a distraction as this woman is, we’re going to have to start figuring out how to prosecute this war with me behind this desk and you by my side.”
Marilynn inclined her head in agreement. “We could always draw a smiley face on the suspension unit and prop it up right about where you’re sitting.”
J.D. chortled at the image. “It would certainly have more personality.”
“And,” added Marilynn conspiratorially, “if we keep the lights dim, maybe no one would notice.” She then did a mock J.D. voice. “Sorry, can’t make the ceremony today, feeling a little … stiff.”
They both burst out into a fit of laughter. But about twenty seconds into the outburst, Marilynn noticed that she was laughing alone. J.D. sat in stunned silence. A maniacal look permeated every inch of her face. Eyes wide, jaw slightly ajar, she turned her focus to her now worried number two. J.D. began snapping her fingers in anxious demand. “The folder, Marilynn!” she ordered.
Without hesitation, Marilynn retrieved it and handed it back across the desk. This time, J.D. perused every page and took her time doing it. After a few minutes of reading, J.D. returned the documents and closed the cover, satisfied.
“Call the suspension lab, Marilynn. Tell them—” J.D hesitated. “—tell them it’s time.”
“For what, Admiral?”
J.D. smiled defiantly.
“For the Unincorporated Woman to save my ass.”
3 A Bleak and Bitter Morning
THE UNINCORPORATED MAN IS DEAD!
CELEBRATIONS BREAK OUT SYSTEM WIDE!
Although there had been rumors of his death, the number of previously failed attempts on Justin Cord’s life made the press corps of the UHF leery of giving them much stock. But news sources in the rebellious outer reaches have confirmed what so many have hoped so long for: The Unincorporated Man is dead. News reports picked up from the Outer Alliance state that his death was either the result of an unfortunate accident or a successful assassination. Given how many loathed the Alliance’s Chief Instigator, it seems pretty obvious to this news organization which of the two it was. With the death of the man who has been at the heart of this, the most destructive war in the history of the human race, celebration has broken out in all the worlds of the UHF. The gatherings on Earth, Luna, and Mars have been particularly exuberant. They’ve even surpassed the elation caused by Admiral Trang’s stunning victory at the 180. A victory which, we hasten to add, split the Belt down the middle and saw the death of one of the enemy’s greatest admirals, Christina Sadma.
Indeed, the celebrations over the death of the Unincorporated Man are so raucous as to be compared to Mardi Gras. Although some members of the UHF assembly feel it unseemly to celebrate while the war continues, others are encouraging the revelry and calling for the assassination to be marked as a system holiday.
Between the death of Justin Cord and our great and decisive victory at the 180, well over five years of horrific warfare may finally be coming to an end. Some politicians are even suggesting the President call for peace now that it should be obvious to even the most die-hard Alliance fanatic that victory is hopeless. Others insist the President fight out the war to an unconditional surrender in order to make the cost of rebellion so high as to remove its threat from future generations. President Sambianco has remained silent on this issue but is enjoying the renewed support that has eluded him in recent years. It’s even rumored that a movement to change the constitution is being organized so that the President can run for reelection in two years’ time, when his six-year term expires. When asked how he felt about the assassination, the President had this to say:
An evil, scheming man has died and we have won a great victory. It is right to celebrate the great achievements that our industry,
bravery, and endurance have granted us. I myself plan to get as drunk as a wartime president might be allowed—HOD nearby, of course. The truth is we’ve earned it and I’m proud of all the citizens of the UHF who’ve struggled so hard and lost so much over these past five years. What we’re doing is for the good of the entire human race, and our incorporated system will be preserved for all the children of humanity forevermore. So let us enjoy this time of respite. Just don’t forget that the rebellion Justin Cord inspired is still fighting against the principles of incorporation and humanity. After our brief celebration, we must—we will—finish what they started. Nothing will stand in the way of our ultimate victory.
NNN
The lab J.D. now viewed was typical of what she’d come to think of as “Alliance practical.” To be Alliance practical, the place or object or person had to follow a couple of simple rules. First, it had to have obviously been something else prior to its current usage: a luxury yacht serving as a hospital ship or a space tug, for instance. Second, it had to be something that only years of warfare would make acceptable, like the use of children in busing tables so the droids normally given the task could be stationed elsewhere in the war effort. And third, the place, object, or person had to really make a lot of sense when viewed through the eyes of the war weary.
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