The Unincorporated Woman

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  The command sphere vets busied themselves and worked, unfazed by the woman in the center of it now casting spells. They ignored her soliloquy, which under normal circumstances may have been misconstrued as the deranged ramblings of a DeGen. But the Blessed One’s spells had never failed them before, and they saw no reason why they should fail them now.

  UHFS Redemption

  Gupta looked over the tactical display on his flagship’s holo-tank for the umpteenth time. Given the uncertainty of battle, everything looked about as good as could be expected, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling that this was another Battle of the Martian Gates. And so his eyes kept creeping over toward the now eerily quiet mouth of the Via Cereana, expecting an eruption at any moment. Never once did he consider that he might be looking in the wrong direction.

  UHFS Atlanta

  Suddenly the center wasn’t looking so good. Omad, saw Zenobia, would arrive a full five minutes before Gupta could reinforce her position. But she also knew that Omad’s flotilla would get one, maybe two passes at best. Delta Wing would take its lumps, but she’d be damned if they didn’t leave a few as well.

  Between the Alliance and the UHF forces’ ECMs, the sensor interference was practically unintelligible. But from what Zenobia had been able to gather, it looked like J.D. was going to attack Trang well before he could help Delta Wing. If that was the case, Zenobia could consider breaking her “circle the wagons” defense and reposition her ships to deal with Omad’s oncoming attack. But if the sensor data was wrong or incomplete, she’d be exposed and unable to deal with an attack from J.D.’s flank. She decided to split the difference and have the ships originally facing toward J.D. rotate ninety degrees on their axes. That meant that their main batteries would be pointing away from both enemy flanks, but by virtue of their neutral position, they could turn quickly to deal with one flank or the other, depending on the situation.

  “Main batteries,” she told her weapons officer, “prepare to fire as the enemy comes in range.” Her commands were transmitted to the fleet.

  AWS Dolphin

  Omad couldn’t believe his luck. If he was reading the sensors correctly—not a certainty, given the hellish interference both sides were putting out—half of Zenobia’s flotilla had just presented their vulnerable flank. If he changed his angle of attack to more of a glancing blow as he “fled” from his hit-and-run attack, they’d be sitting ducks. He ordered the course correction.

  UHFS Atlanta

  “Admiral, Hassan’s task force has changed their attack angle … I think,” said Zenobia’s sensor officer.

  Zenobia considered the relevance. Must be Gupta, she thought. “Beta Wing’s a little too close for comfort. Hassan’ll want to be well clear when we link up. Any other ideas?”

  The command sphere was deathly silent.

  Can’t say I blame them, thought Zenobia. “Okay, then. Weapons Officer, compute new firing solutions for the fleet.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” came the swift reply.

  UHFS Liddel

  Trang realized that with a small shift of position, he could place the bulk of J.D.’s task force between himself and the Via Cereana, which meant that even if they got their weapon online, the enemy would have to take out their beloved “Blessed One” at the same time as he. He was almost positive that the weapon was a dud, but what could it hurt to shift his position and be certain? He gave the necessary orders.

  AWS Warprize II

  “Admiral, Trang’s fleet is repositioning itself,” said her sensor officer.

  “You sure about that, Lee? Lot of interference out there.”

  “Admiral, I could be blind in the middle of Jovian radiation burst, no way in hell I’m missing that many ships. They’re moving, all right.”

  J.D. rewarded him with a rare half smile, knowing full well that if they survived the battle, news that she’d given him one would shoot through the fleet like a priority one communication from Admiral Sinclair and that he wouldn’t have to buy himself a drink for quite a while. She even hoped he could use it to get a date with the guy he’d been unsuccessfully hitting on for months—the aloof Alan Gregory from environmental control.

  J.D. waited patiently for the modeling program to refresh. When the images finally coalesced, she nodded, eyes expressionless as glass. Bastard’s right where I want him.

  “Communications, can we get a message to Admiral Hassan?”

  Fawa paled and tried to get the quiver out of her voice. “Not reliably, Admiral. Direct communication is impossible by wave or laser, given all the interference. I’m trying to route through Ceres, but reliable communication is not possible.”

  J.D. mulled over the problem. A half-understood communication could be worse than no communication at all.

  “Belay that last order, Lieutenant. We’ll just have to make do with our old battle plan and pray that Allah grants us the timing we need.”

  “Communication aborted, Admiral.”

  “Lieutenant Awala.”

  “Sir.”

  “What’s the status of ship-to-ship communication in our task force?”

  “Secure, Admiral.”

  “Good. Ensure all the ships in our task force employ the backdoor protocols on my signal and my signal only.”

  UHFS Liddel

  Deep in the bowels of Trang’s flagship was a section called the active assessment unit. It consisted of one lieutenant and three ensigns. Their only job was to monitor everything they could and, if a pattern could be found, alert their superiors to the perceived threat. Their greatest success to date had been the detection of the insurgents’ use of mines in the conquered areas of the asteroid belt rigged to take out UHF ships.

  Lieutenant Michael Llewellyn, a broad, stocky man, was scratching the top of a head buzz-cut to within centimeters of his bleach-blond scalp. His entire person was in contrast to the usually bookish introverts typical of his station, but the ensigns who worked under him paid it no notice. Llewellyn was good at his job, which, under Trang, was all that mattered. The lieutenant scratched his head any time he had a hunch, and today was no different. The amount of jamming between opponents was the worst he’d ever seen, and he was a four-year vet of the 180 campaign. His team had managed to piece together multiple references to what looked like a set of coordinated orders. That in itself wasn’t unusual; the fact that they were being sent out in the open was.

  “If this is so bloody important, why the hell are they sending it in the clear?” asked Valerie Khan, the unit’s all-important skeptic.

  “Could be they thought nobody would look there,” said her coworker, Peterson. “Plus, the jamming’s so intense, anything coded could get garbled to all hell.”

  “Could be they’ve got nothing to lose,” added Maxim Petrilli.

  Llewellyn eyed the ensign. “Clarify.”

  “Well, seeing as how the rail gun didn’t work and how they’re pretty much up against it … what with us bearing down and all, and them outnumbered … well, they could just be saying what they’re doing—simple as that.”

  “Okay, if this something is going to happen soon, it may be all we get.” He spun his chair to a console with a hardwired circuit and physical activation interface.

  Over the shipwide comm system, the active assessment unit heard, “Enemy in weapons range, prepare for action; enemy in weapons range, prepare for action.” Llewellyn ignored the announcement as the computer confirmed his identity, and opened up a direct link to Trang’s chair in the Liddel’s command sphere.

  Command Sphere, UHFS Liddel

  Trang had shut off the simulation program as J.D.’s task force was now within telescopic range. Her ships, like his, were covered in a fog bank of reflective material whose only purpose was to interfere with sensors and communications. That parity brought Trang little comfort. Despite all the interference, the scattered data and now the visual seemed to be correct. J.D. was attempting a glancing shot at his formation. Then she’d go after Gupta’s before he and Zenobia
could destroy Hassan’s task force.

  The sensor officer looked up and announced as calmly as if he’d been delivering tea, “Enemy has fired main rail gun batteries at extreme range, sir.”

  “Task force to accelerate to full,” ordered Trang with matching equanimity. He then noticed the priority call from the Active Assessment Unit.

  “What is it, Michael?”

  “Just a transmission,” stated the analyst as he dumped the data to Trang’s console.

  The Grand Admiral stared at a message comprised mostly of gibberish. One word, however, stood out—“backdoor.”

  “Conclusions?” asked Trang.

  “Most of it’s useless. ‘Backdoor’ could be a call to action of sorts. We picked it up free and clear so they’re obviously not afraid to transmit it. Then again, could be a ruse.”

  Trang nodded, then cut the connection.

  The fleet moved into the oncoming enemy fire while simultaneously unloading a hail of smaller, rapid-fire projectiles. Flak shattered most, but not all of the incoming ordnance, and the few enemy shots that made it through managed to damage some of the UHF ships but none seriously enough to cause them to fall out of line.

  “Damn them,” scowled Trang as he pored over his analyst’s data. “They’re up to something.”

  The XO glanced at the Grand Admiral. He’d been reviewing the same data but saw nothing.

  “How can you be sure, sir?”

  “Because now,” growled Trang, face clenched into a ball of concern, “would be a perfect time to spring it on us.”

  UHFS Atlanta

  “Check those readings again,” Zenobia demanded of her sensor officer.

  “Admiral, my equipment checks out. Omad’s flotilla is powering up their main rail guns again.”

  “To fire at what?”

  The sensor officer’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “At us, sir.”

  UHFS Liddel

  “… multiple shots, Admiral. We’re the target, I repeat, we’re the target!”

  Trang’s lips tightened into a thin, stiff line. He absorbed the news and then tossed the emotion away. “Prep the fleet for multiple impacts. Alert Beta and Delta Wings that enemy ships can fire in both directions; repeat, enemy ships can fire in both directions.”

  The large masses of superaccelerated matter hit Alpha Wing with a stupendous amount of kinetic energy. Most of the ships they impacted were seriously damaged as the shots tore through them and exited out the other side. Some of the smaller craft were destroyed outright, as they’d not had the time to hide behind their larger companions. The UHFS Liddel took two hits from J.D.’s task force, and Trang knew sure as the twin moons flew through the skies of Mars that one of them was a special delivery from the goddess of hell herself. He ignored all the damage reports except one, trusting his XO to handle the rest. When he ascertained that he still had communications running, he sent out his commands. “Fleet to assume this new vector vis-à-vis the Alliance Task force—” Then he saw the reports coming in from his task force, and he winced at the losses. “—if able.”

  “Admiral,” came the voice of the sensor officer, “the enemy is preparing to fire again.” Trang swallowed the sudden rage he felt for his duplicitous and capable enemy. He wanted nothing more than to reach out with his hands and strangle them all for what they’d done and were about to do.

  “Prepare to receive enemy fire,” he said as calmly as if he were announcing the return of the fleet to its home orbit around Mars.

  UHFS Atlanta

  Zenobia awoke into a miasma of burnt flesh and carbon composites. Through the dim haze, she could make out the glow of lights from errant sections of the command sphere. She was vaguely aware that her ship had been hit three times before her world exploded.

  It didn’t take long to realize that the combat suit she’d had on had sealed her in. That meant the sphere had been breached to either vacuum, radiation, contaminated air, or some combination of all three. She would have to wait for the ringing in her head to subside before ordering a recuperative cocktail from her suit’s med-kit. A few minutes later, she ordered the palliative and immediately felt a warming centered around her chest. As her head cleared and she became herself again, her first thought was that the designers of the combat med-kit should get majority soon and live off healthy dividends for the next thousand years.

  Next she activated her suit’s internal sensors … and cursed. The battle sphere had been exposed to vacuum. Whatever had hit her ship had hit it hard enough to penetrate the deepest and most secure part. She loved the Atlanta and had named it after her favorite city on Earth. She’d been so proud when Trang had made her an admiral in command of a task force and prouder yet when she’d been given one of the UHF’s brand-new battle cruisers off the Trans-Luna Shipyard.

  And it still had that new ship smell, she thought bitterly. Zenobia knew that whatever the outcome of the battle, it was doubtful her baby would ever fight again. Somewhere, emergency power was kicking in and lights and magnetic plating were coming back on. She tried to access internal communications and ship status, but her command console was now an admixture of polymer and composite metal, giving her nothing. She looked around to see if any other consoles were working and had to suppress a gasp. The slowly returning functions allowed her enhanced vision systems more than enough light to gather in the hell before her. The religious fools she was battling didn’t need to die to see hell, it was all around her.

  Of the twelve people she remembered in the command sphere when the attack began, only four (including herself) were still alive, though only two (including herself) seemed to be conscious.

  “Admiral, your arm,” said her security officer, Commander Calhoun, with obvious concern.

  Zenobia looked at her right arm and saw that it was fine. She’d used it to pry herself loose from the safety webbing that had attached itself during the attack. Then she looked at her left arm and saw that her hand and wrist were gone.

  “Bloody hell!” she exclaimed through gritted teeth. “That’s going to complicate things.”

  “Can you function, sir?”

  “You mean this thing?” she said, waving her suit-sealed stump. “I have enough happy drugs in me to dance at my own autopsy.”

  Calhoun nodded. Zenobia could tell despite his expressionless face that he was gauging whether or not he should still be taking orders from her.

  “Report, Commander,” she said in a voice that made it clear her injury was the last thing anyone should care about.

  “All communications are dead. We’re blind in here. I think Chase will be okay. She seems to be in shock. Kerwin’s trying to get the door open. Of the other eight, four are PDs and the other four are salvageable if we can flood their suits with cryoprotectant.”

  “If?”

  “Most of the suits were damaged in the blast, so integrity’s an issue. Even with the exposure to vacuum, it’s too damned warm in here. Must be all sorts of plasma leaking from everywhere. Bottom line—even if I could get their CP to work, I’m not sure it would stay cool enough for long enough to matter.”

  Zenobia looked around the debris and came to a quick decision. “Cut off their heads.…”

  Calhoun cocked an eyebrow. “Sir?”

  “… and seal ’em in whatever viable helmets you can lift from the command sphere. Then grab a vacuum bag from the emergency locker … if you can get to it. We’ll take them with us. When you’re done, meet me by the weapons locker.”

  Zenobia expertly pushed up from her now useless command chair and skirted around the debris to the weapons locker. Since the midpoint of the war, all UHF warships had had weapons lockers installed in their command spheres, given the Alliance’s penchant for boarding and capturing enemy ships. Zenobia saw the locker’s internal power supply was still operating and sent another silent thanks to the engineers who’d built her ship. She input the code, and a moment later the locker responded. Inside was a space about 1.5 by 2 meters, and the room, having
never once been used, was fully stocked. She quickly removed a plasma shotgun and slung it over her shoulder plus one heavy-duty recoilless pistol and shoved it into her belt. She then adhered about twelve grenades to her body. While eyeing a marine assault rail gun, a weapon the marines affectionately referred to as Marge, she realized that two guns and only one hand might put her at a disadvantage. Then an idea came to her from an old Mil One movie. She visually scanned the room and found what she was looking for resting comfortably on a shelf—a tube of annealing glue. At that moment, Calhoun came up to her with a bag of frozen helmeted heads.

  “Commander Calhoun,” she said, lips curved up into a fiendish grin, “if you wouldn’t mind—” Zenobia pulled the rail gun off the wall. “—please drop the bag of heads and glue Marge to my left arm.”

  “Is that really necessary, Admiral?”

  The commander, noticed Zenobia, was still holding the bag of heads in his hand.

  “If I was the Alliance and I had an enemy battleship disarmed, I know I would drop in to see if I could pick up more prizes. I don’t know about you, Calhoun, but I will not spend the rest of this war in an Alliance freezer. Will you?”

  “Fuck no, Admiral … sir,” he said, and proceeded to glue the rail gun to his admiral’s forearm. While he was going about his business, Zenobia opened up a port on the gun and ran a hardwire connection to her suit and spent a moment creating a subroutine to fire the gun from her helmet controls. Then she Velcroed the plasma shotgun across her chest and tested reaching for the pistol, shotgun, and grenades.

  Once he was certain the admiral’s gun had been affixed properly, Calhoun began loading up for his own little war. Kerwin appeared a moment later at the door’s entrance. After he got over the shock of the vast array of weapons instantly trained at his head, he informed Zenobia and Calhoun of the entry door’s status—stuck, with no manual overrides working.