The Unincorporated Woman

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “You know,” Rabbi said with a deprecating grin, “it’s not every day that so ‘learned’ a rav gets schooled by someone with the last name of O’Toole.”

  Sandra laughed.

  “But,” he acknowledged, “I accept your supposition. For too long I’ve been pushed along by forces that seemed to be overwhelming me, never once stopping to consider that perhaps I may have had a hand in shaping them.” He paused and gently stroked his beard. “Thank you, Madam President, for teaching this humble Jew such an intrinsically Jewish idea.”

  Sandra tipped her head respectfully. “Well, Rabbi, I’d quote from my teacher, but I don’t really have one.” She gave him a considered look and decided on the spot that it wouldn’t be wise to lie to the man. Rabbi, like so very many of those around her, was too smart by half. “I’ll admit that belief … or rather faith, does not come easy to me. I suppose I’m a realist, but trust me on this, I’m more open to the idea now than I ever was before.”

  “In that case, Madam President,” offered Rabbi, planting both hands firmly on his knees, “if we survive this war, I’d be honored if you’d consider studying some Talmud with me. I think you might really enjoy it.”

  “You know, that’s actually something I’ve always wanted to do. I’ve heard so many references to the Talmud but never actually bothered to look at one.”

  “Them,” Rabbi corrected. “Every Jewish legal, ethical, and philosophical teaching dating back to the revelation at Mount Sinai. Six books in sixty-three volumes … in seven and half years.”

  “Pardon?”

  He gave her a one-sided grin. “That’s how long it took me to read ’em all, studying one page a day … usually in the morning before work.”

  “Might have to reconsider, then. Not sure I have that kind of time.”

  “Who does?” asked Rabbi, palms out. “Don’t worry. We’ll just do a page to give you some flavor.”

  “In that case, it’s a deal.”

  “Good!” he said, getting to his feet, assuming the meeting had come to an end.

  “And now,” she said in words that sounded much softer than the intensity radiating from her eyes, “I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

  Rabbi stood rigid, an animal caught in the headlights.

  “Of course,” he said more cautiously.

  Sandra beckoned him to sit once more. He did, but in a more prescribed manner.

  “I’d … we’d like you to take charge of Diaspora.”

  Rabbi gazed at Sandra, his blue eyes piercing into her accusingly. In the unease of his movements, Sandra observed a clash of contained emotions. When he finally chose to speak, his voice was low, but not robbed of any of its steel. “So that’s what this is all about.”

  Sandra nodded, eyes fixed.

  “I can barely handle my own yeshiva, Madam President. How can you expect me to take charge of hundreds of millions of people—all of whom are fleeing the Belt?”

  “Not just take charge, Rabbi. Settle them as well.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “Even better.”

  Resigned, he looked up to the ceiling once again. “What have I ever done to you? Wait … don’t answer that.” Then to Sandra with a wan smile, he added, “I suppose that compared to some, it’s not the greatest burden in the solar system.”

  “We all have our crosses—” Sandra put her fingers to her mouth. “Sorry, Rabbi.”

  “I accept.”

  “The apology or the job?”

  “Yes.” He held out his hand. Startled, Sandra paused a moment but then took it firmly into hers.

  * * *

  After Rabbi left, Sandra resumed her position behind the desk. She then pulled a DijAssist from the desk and ordered it to display the list. Floating before her in three-dimensional glory were the head shots, names, ages, locations, and marital status of the fifty most influential persons in the Alliance. The full list numbered in the thousands, but by default she only ever displayed the top fifty. Her name, she noticed, still didn’t rate. She’d given Sebastian very stringent parameters as to what constituted “influential” and felt she could rely on him not to butter her up. After careful consideration, she moved Rabbi up from forty-seven to fifteen. She could always argue about it later. It was her prerogative to override her own parameters, especially if she knew something no one else did. And with Rabbi, she mused, boy were they all going to be surprised.

  She looked at her spot. Still well down from the top, but she wasn’t overly concerned. She’d never been in this arena and was still feeling her way around. In many respects, it would be similar to taking over a large company and redirecting its energies, something she’d done before and with relative ease. But she also knew that this was not the same. It was far more dangerous because there was more at stake. If she did manage to get her name to the top of that list, she knew there’d be no going back; there’d be no going anywhere—she’d have to stay to the end.

  Via Cereana, AWS Warprize II

  Tawfik Hamdi, chief engineer of the Warprize II, flagship of the Alliance fleet, was late for his staff meeting. As repayment to Brother Sampson, he’d been giving a sermon to assault miners of the Christian faith. The brother had given a brilliant sermon a few days earlier, in which he compared the Prophet’s journey from Mecca to Medina to that of the Belters fleeing to the outer planets. Both Muhammad and the Belters, the brother had said, left for fear of being murdered for their beliefs. In fact, recalled Tawfik, the brother had even suggested Diaspora be called Hijra in honor the Prophet. Tawfik, though, had demurred, saying at the time that, “as Allah has chosen Rabbi to lead the Belters to safety and the Blessed One to lead the faithful into battle, it would be best to leave the name as it is.” Brother Sampson had agreed. So when Tawfik had the chance to return the courtesy shown him, he studied and found a parable in the New Testament to share at the Christian service. But the discussion had gone on longer than expected. It turned out that the Christian holy book, unlike that of the Jews and Muslims, was not definitive, which made interpretation as much a matter of what translation you were using as well as what verse you were referring to.

  Tawfik was hurrying back to the engineering section when he heard his name being called. He swung around and saw a young woman whose beauty, in his estimation, could not possibly be contained by the drab, gray jumpsuit and boots that had become standard military fare. She was short and rather thin, with slender wrists and a nicely accentuated bust. Her straight black hair was pulled back to reveal a smooth, dark face exuding good cheer and intelligence. Though her deep brown eyes nicely complemented the mélange of hair and skin, they did not get lost there. Instead, he noted, there was a quality of depth to them that drew him in. She was, according to her insignia, an ensign in the communications section of the ship, and though she seemed awfully familiar, for the life of him, he couldn’t place her.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” she said coyly, coming up and then slapping the side of his arm in a manner that signified amusement rather than anger. That didn’t stop it from stinging. He gently rubbed his arm while simultaneously looking at where she’d hit him and where she was standing. He actually wasn’t sure what was more upsetting: being hit by a lower-ranking officer or having a senior moment well before the age of 120.

  She pouted. “After all those times I followed you home from the madrassa.” With that last word, the voice was suddenly recognizable and the years fell away from her face.

  Tawfik stood staring at his childhood friend, mouth agape.

  “Fatima?” he said, trying to connect the annoying little girl he once knew to the young woman now standing before him.

  She nodded gleefully.

  “I can’t believe it!” he said, slapping the side of her arm with enough force to throw her slightly off balance.

  Her momentum nearly caused her to knock down a team of passing orderlies. They both broke into a fit of laughter at the angry stares they got from the passing group as it composed itself, th
en Tawfik and Fatima gave each other a big hug.

  Tawfik took a step back to look at his old friend anew.

  “How … how—?” he sputtered.

  “—did I end up here?” she finished, coming to his rescue.

  He nodded.

  “I signed up for the fleet just as soon as they let me. Tested well and got assigned to officer training, made communications. Though,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “I’m not exactly sure how I got this plum job. I thought for sure I’d be off to Sedna or some other Allah-forsaken outpost.… Luck, I guess … not that I’m complaining.” She then took in the immediate surroundings as if happily sizing it up for some future renovation.

  It was at that moment that Tawfik knew exactly how Fatima Awala had been assigned to the ship, his ship. Mother. She’d mentioned Fatima to him at their last fateful meeting, and he’d ignored her then as he always did when she tried to intervene in his life. She must have arranged this “chance” encounter—with Admiral Black’s blessings, no doubt. There was no other way to explain it.

  “I don’t think luck had anything to do with it, friend.” He smiled gamely at Fatima.

  At first she was taken aback by Tawfik’s assertion, but on realizing the implication, became more serious. “I am so sorry for your loss—” Then her face hardened. “—and I rejoice at the death of each one of her murderers.” Fatima took Tawfik’s hand firmly, and he once again went mute, caught in the conflicting feelings of loss and the warmth and happiness of longing.

  “She was the best of us, Tawfik. Guided by Allah all the days of her life.”

  “And I will honor her memory all the days of my life,” he sputtered as if in a trance.

  “As will I,” she affirmed, eyes locked on his. It took a moment for the both of them to realize the tiny corridor had grown rather quiet. Their faces reddened as they saw the knowing smiles from those who’d taken a few seconds out of their busy day to stop and watch the little bit of spaceship theater taking place. The two quickly broke contact.

  “I have a meeting I need to start, Fatima, uh … Ensign Awala.”

  “Yes, I have an orientation to get to, Tawf … I mean Chief Engineer Hamdi.”

  “If I can call on you later to, uh, show you the mess hall,” he finished, his normally strong and decisive voice wavering slightly.

  “I would like that very much.” The answer had more enthusiasm than one would expect from the prospect of cafeteria food served to thousands a day. As they slowly drew away from each other, those watching from the corridor burst into loud applause. The two departed quickly, with their faces glowing red. In an amount of time that would give light speed a run for its money, the ship was made aware that their normally taciturn chief engineer, favored officer of the Blessed One, had gotten himself a girlfriend.

  * * *

  Janet Delgado Black, sitting alone in her shuttle, shut down the link that had allowed her to follow Tawfik’s encounter with Fatima. She then shut her eyes and sat motionless, thinking back on her savior and mentor, Fawa Hamdi, desperately missing the friend whose shoulder she could no longer lean on. How the old woman would have loved this moment. Fawa had insisted that all her obdurate son had to do was take one look at the raven-haired beauty his childhood friend had become. One look and it would then be only a matter of time until Fawa became a grandmother. In this, as in all things, Janet’s dearest friend had been proved correct.

  The memory of her cut to the bone. Janet opened her eyes and stared across at a small mirror on the wall. There she was, fleet admiral of the Alliance, fearless in battle, someone whom her assault miners would gladly give their lives for—sobbing like a child for the friend who would never return and the grandchildren her friend would never see.

  8 Mentsch Tracht, Gott Lacht

  Executive Office, Burroughs, Mars

  Hektor Sambianco reviewed the plans while his two most trusted Ministers—Porfirio Baldwin and Tricia Pakagopolis—sat waiting for him. Porfirio swirled a glass of bourbon like he had all the time in the world, while Tricia waited with her hands folded neatly in her lap.

  “So,” Hektor said, switching off the holodisplay, “you really think this next battle can win the war?”

  “Not all at once, no,” cautioned Porfirio, “but if Trang defeats Black at the Gates of Ceres, then yes, the war will be over.”

  “And the Oort cloud?”

  “Another couple of years, but inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.”

  Hektor nodded.

  “There’s still the occupation to deal with,” warned Tricia.

  Hektor’s face became grimmer. “Please explain.”

  “Well, as you saw in the report, we have control of only thirty percent of the Belt. The removal of Trang’s forces and their replacement with the new ships and even greener crews is slowing down our ability to occupy the rest. Still, by my estimate, it will be a delay of weeks only. Two months from now, we should have effective coverage, excluding a twenty-degree circumference centered on Ceres. And if Trang really is as good as the bitch he’s up against, even getting that coverage may not be a problem.”

  Porfirio looked up from his drink. “So then, the operative question is how long it will take your security services to—” he smiled thinly, “—secure it.”

  “Four years.”

  “Damsah,” Hektor said, brows arched. “Four years?”

  “If we were allowed to kill the rebels and take hostages for every ship we lost, it would be shorter. But with the restrictions the press and the Assembly have put on our handling of the war, four years is a pretty safe estimate.”

  “What if we could arrange—” Hektor paused, mulling his choice of words. “—atrocities?”

  Tricia tilted her head. “My staff has taken into account the likely tactics our opponents might use as well as what might be the Core population’s response to them. Arranged atrocities were part of that equation.”

  “I see.”

  “It’ll be all right, sir. By the time any of this becomes a domestic issue with political consequence, the war will be over and victory will give us the cover we need to run things as we see fit.”

  “What about the rest of the Alliance?” challenged Porfirio. “Lotta space out there.”

  “Actually,” countered Tricia, unflustered by her fellow Cabinet member’s now familiar barbs, “that should prove easier. Planetary systems are, despite their size, relatively compact. Besides, we’ve predicted that with their eventual defeat and our generous terms, a split will occur between those who want to keep fighting and those who don’t. It also helps that most of the occupation forces will be made up of former Alliance personnel.”

  “Do you really think they’ll betray their own?” asked Porfirio.

  “There are always factions,” assured Tricia. “All we have to do is support one against the other.”

  Hektor absorbed the conversation, registering his understanding with a slight nod.

  “Thank you both. This has been quite informative. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting to attend.”

  Both Ministers bowed their heads respectfully and made their exit.

  Hektor sat back down and scanned his DijAssist. The meeting, he saw, would be with his Minister of Information, Irma Sobbelgé. His mirthful eyes were the only indication of the delicious irony he felt upon reading the topic: Liberating the Belt through the use of misinformation.

  Martian Revival and Reintegration Facility, Barsoom, Mars

  Neela Harper had become increasingly withdrawn on the news of Justin’s death. At first she kept waiting to feel something, but the waiting had been for naught. Then she used self-hypnosis to go looking for what she was sure must be buried in the deepest recesses of her soul—still nothing. And that’s what had been so discomfiting. In the end, all she could muster was a sort of dark apathy. But that apathy couldn’t, she’d reasoned, be the totality of her feelings, because she kept finding herself awake in the middle of the night, sheets c
lutched firmly to her breasts, screaming out in terror as tears ran down her cheeks. But screaming at what? The night terrors, she knew, were a visceral response to locked-away emotions, but her inability to reach those emotions on any cognitive level felt like an itch impossible to scratch. To make matters worse, Thaddeus Gillette, the only person she’d ever think of conferring with, was gone and, if the gossip was to be believed, now working for the enemy.

  Short of Gillette, there was one other person she knew who could, at a minimum, provide some solace. And it was why she was now waiting in the VIP section at the Burroughs orport. Any minute now, a t.o.p. would be arriving from the new orbiting hub station in synchronous orbit above the UHF capital. The doors to the t.o.p. would open, and a mass of humanity would pour out and downward in a human waterfall of colors and chatter. All Neela needed to see was one particular person.

  The t.o.p. arrived on time and as the passengers disembarked, Neela recognized the woman instantly. The trademark silken white hair was the first giveaway, the way in which she managed, in a bustling self-absorbed crowd, to focus all attention on herself was the second, and the two menacing securibots covering her were the third. When the woman came to a gentle landing in the demarcated spot, Neela flung herself across the waiting area and gave her friend a great big hug. The security detachments for both women looked on in mild annoyance, but did not intervene. They knew that anyone stupid enough to anger these women and, by extension, the President had a nasty habit of being assigned off planet if they were lucky and to the front lines if they weren’t.

  Amanda Snow took Neela’s hands and stood back to look at her friend. In the unforgiving glare of orport lighting, Neela’s lack of sleep and stress were readily apparent. Her normally ebullient green eyes were dark and lifeless. Her skin was sallow, and there was about her a sad weariness.

  “My goodness, child,” said Amanda, still in disbelief about the pathetic creature she was practically holding up, “what’s wrong?”