The Unincorporated Woman

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “Do we go after her?”

  Trang had already considered this. “No, by the time we could catch up, she’d be with Omad’s fleet. I think we can defend against their back-firing ships, but we will need to be relatively static to achieve the porcupine effect we spoke of.” He transmitted his new fleet positions to Gupta.

  Gupta took a few moments to absorb the import of the new orders he’d just received, then smiled respectfully. “You came up with this in less than an hour, while preparing for a major engagement you were not sure you could win.”

  “Well, if we didn’t engage the enemy, I needed a backup plan. Why?” Trang asked suspiciously, “Don’t you think it’s any good?”

  “Good? It’s fucking brilliant, Sam. As long as we stay relatively still, it will negate that damn ass-firing advantage they have. Do you think they’ll take us on?”

  “No, whatever happened to Omad’s fleet, it gave us the time we needed. She may try a feint to Mars in a week or two, but if she thinks it’s going to budge me one inch from these lines, more’s the fool she is.”

  “She’s not going to attack the orbital batteries of Mars, not after the Second Battle of the Martian Gates.”

  “So then, when are we heading back for Mars?”

  A thin smile crept into the corners of Trang’s mouth. “We’re not, Abhay. We fought for this space, and as far as I’m concerned, we’re damn well going to keep it. This is the front line now, and there ain’t a damn thing they can do about it.”

  13 Reality Check

  UHFS Liddel hangar bay, One week later

  When Trang heard who’d been found, he ran to the hangar bay himself. His guards were afraid it was some sort of trick and refused to let him approach until the figure in the battered battle armor had been thoroughly scanned. When it was deemed safe, Trang pushed forward just as his technicians were removing the helmet.

  Even with advanced environmental gear, a week floating in a suit made its occupant remarkably ripe. Trang didn’t care as he gave the woman what would’ve been a bone-crushing hug but for the armor.

  “Zenobia,” he exclaimed, “we thought you were dead! It wasn’t till we found Calhoun that we even suspected you might still be alive.”

  “Calhoun made it? What about the others?”

  Trang shook his head. “So far no, but you made it, and we’re still picking up survivors every day.”

  “How many from where my ships were found, Sam?”

  “Including the two of you—” He paused. “—the two of you.”

  “How many of my fifty-five ships made it back?”

  He held up four fingers and offered a grim smile.

  Zenobia seemed to deflate. “Four out of fifty-five. Some fucking admiral I turned out to be.”

  “You were caught flatfooted like the rest of us. Unlike the rest of us, you made the bastards howl and you gave us the time we needed to save the fleet and quite possibly the whole Damsah-blessed UHF. Your desperate tactic to throw your ships at them worked!”

  “It was only my ship I rigged to do that. I don’t know how the rest of the ships got the idea. Communications were down.”

  “Apparently a Lieutenant Chase sent the orders using your command codes. The orders got through,” confirmed Trang.

  “Sam, I never relayed that order. She was floating in shock. I’m amazed she even heard half of what we were saying.”

  “Well she did hear it and passed it on.”

  “Then find her and promote her because she’s the reason we survived.”

  “She’s not the one who destroyed the Dolphin and possibly killed Omad Hassan.”

  Zenobia’s face took on a fierce look of concentration. “Really?”

  “If not,” assured Trang with a charm born of certainty, “he’s hurt bad and his ship’s mostly debris. Trust me, Zenobia, you’re the one who got us Hassan. You saved our asses, and it’s you who’s the hero of the UHF. You’re going to tour the Core Worlds, and then you’re going to command the first of the new ships that are being rebuilt at the Martian yards.” He paused for a moment and then added with a wry grin, “Maybe you’ll even get a burnt rubber baby of your own.”

  Zenobia laughed. “Does this mean we’re getting our own ass-firing ships?”

  “Redesign approved three days ago, and the first ships being retrofitted as of today. The next time we go into battle, no more surpri—”

  Trang was cut off by Zenobia shaking loose of him and running toward a group of four Alliance prisoners who, like her, were in battle suits. But unlike her, they were being watched very closely by a detachment of assault marines. She paused only to pick up a large carbon tube she then held in her hand like a bat and let out a scream of rage.

  So complete was the surprise that it wasn’t till the last moment that the Alliance spacer she was aiming at tried to dodge. But his suit was magnetized to the floor as a simple yet effective remedy to curtail escape, and he couldn’t do anything other than watch as the crazed woman ran up and smashed his face in with the improvised bat. It was only Trang’s never-to-be-disobeyed voice that caused the guards to snap out of their daze in order to tackle Zenobia before she killed the next immobile prisoner in the line.

  She was dragged kicking from the hangar, demanding that all Alliance prisoners be killed at once. Trang had to order the dead prisoner suspended and sent to Mars for corrective surgery. With luck, the brain should be intact enough to revive him. Trang then went to the medical bay to see what could be done to help the woman he’d come to think of as his daughter. At that moment, he hated the war more than he ever had before.

  ADMIRAL TRANG DEFEATS J. D. BLACK!

  Despite a plethora of tricks, the Alliance’s famed battle admiral, J .D. Black, lost to the grand admiral of the UHF, Samuel U. Trang, in open battle. At the conclusion of what both sides are calling the Long Battle, Trang held his ground and the Alliance was unable to dislodge him a mere 6.5 million kilometers from their capital. It is now assumed by most military experts that when the UHF has refitted a sufficient number of rear-firing ships, final victory will be within reach.

  NNN

  J. D. BLACK DRIVES ENEMY BACK FROM GATES OF THE CAPITAL

  In what has been called the UHF’s most forceful push yet to win the war, Fleet Admiral J. D. Black and Admiral Omad Hassan were able to defeat, while being heavily outnumbered, the best three admirals the UHF has fielded so far. They destroyed or captured over 300 enemy vessels to a loss of only 28 of their own. Although the enemy has not been utterly defeated, they are for all intents and purposes impotent, being unable to affect Ceres’s economic, military, or political spheres. It is expected that when the war resumes, J. D. Black will be able to defeat this latest in a long line of enemies and finally make the UHF realize the folly of spending blood and treasure on a people that will sacrifice everything for freedom.

  Alliance Daily Star

  Kirk Olmstead arrived early for the Cabinet meeting. Not too early, just three or four minutes. He always knew where the other members of the Cabinet and their staff were and so could time his arrival just right. The interesting thing was that Kirk didn’t really do anything with the time. Even when sitting in the total darkness of his office, he was always planning, reviewing, or remembering things that needed his absolute concentration. But for some reason, in the Cabinet Room, and only in the Cabinet Room, could he could relax and for two or three minutes every few days or so, enjoy the absolute bliss of thinking about nothing.

  Which was why the sight of a personalized envelope sitting on his chair was so profoundly disturbing. Its mere presence meant that someone had discovered his idiosyncrasy and had used it to anticipate his timing. That’s how the powerful were assassinated. He quashed the rage he felt at the realization that he could never arrive early to a Cabinet meeting again. As a matter of caution, he looked at and under every other chair in the room. He decided to have the envelope retrieved and then examined with every test his agents’ paranoid minds and three hundre
d years of ruthless corporate politics could devise. But as he was raising his left hand to his ear, ready to place the call, he paused. Whoever had placed the envelope had done so for a reason, and if that reason had been his death, Kirk was uncomfortably aware that he’d probably be dead already.

  So he snatched the envelope from the chair, sat down, and opened it, carefully removing and unfolding the single sheet of paper it contained. He’d only just got it open when the permiawall formed its familiar pucker, telegraphing someone or something’s impending entrance into the room. Kirk hastily put the envelope and the page it contained into his pocket. But in that fraction of a second, he saw the only words the note contained: “Propose It Again.” Luckily for Kirk, the person who came in first was Admiral Sinclair, who had a near loathing for the Secretary of Security. As such, a barely perceptible nod was the grand admiral’s only acknowledgment of Kirk’s existence.

  Propose what again? thought Kirk, turning the phrase over in his head as he wrestled with the immediate dilemmas it posed. Namely who’d placed it, what did they want proposed, and even if Kirk did figure it out, should he actually propose it?

  Kirk stared intently at each person who came into the room, ultimately choosing to focus his attention on the new Secretary of Relocation. Rabbi had entered the room deep in conversation with Sandra—or as Kirk liked to call her, the “paper” President. Kirk peered into his DijAssist, reviewing everything he had on Rabbi, which, after quick perusal, turned out not to be much. The man who at first looked to be way out of his league as head of relocation, responsible for giving information, support orders, and most important of all, a sense of confidence to the hundreds of millions of people fleeing the Belt, appeared to be doing just that—despite his appearance of constant befuddlement.

  You clever son of a bitch, thought Kirk. Agent Goldstein, Kirk decided, would soon be getting more detailed instructions concerning this rabbi.

  When everyone was present, the wall sealed itself off and a light above its entrance informed all that the room was now secure. Sandra, only recently moved from the visitors’ seating area, occupied a position at the head of the table. The Cabinet had no problem with her taking the vaunted spot, because (a) no one else wanted it, and (b) it was no longer the lightning rod for direction it had once been when Justin Cord was President—in short, it was just another space. The six Cabinet Ministers were seated three to a side. On Sandra’s left were Hildegard, Mosh, and Admiral Sinclair. To Sandra’s right sat Kirk, Padamir, and Rabbi. It was only at that moment that Kirk realized his view of Rabbi was partially obstructed by Padamir. Well done, thought Kirk as the corner of his mouth barely twitched upward. At the end of the table, opposite Sandra, sat Tyler Sadma, now dressed in his customary black, as befitted a representative of Congress. The look was austere, dour, and unforgiving: The perfect Erisian, thought Kirk.

  Mosh looked around the Cabinet and saw that everyone was ready to begin.

  “Well, Josh, what’s the good news?” The question was uttered with obvious sarcasm.

  The answer was delivered with equal aridity.

  “Six months,” uttered Sinclair through bloodless, barely moving lips.

  “Six months, what?” demanded Padamir.

  “Till Trang has enough ships to go for round two.”

  Kirk was about to protest. The timing he’d estimated in his report was different, but it was possible Sinclair knew something he didn’t.

  Padamir’s left brow rose slightly. “Looks to me like he’s got plenty enough now.”

  “Yeah,” groused Sinclair, “but they’re the wrong kind.” He then sighed and, giving in to the inevitable, activated the holo-tank. An enlarged image of the space around Ceres appeared. At one end was Ceres, surrounded by dozens of medium to large asteroids that made up the industrial park and suburbs of theirs, the largest asteroid in the solar system. In the middle of the space was a group of menacing-looking asteroids with large holes bored through their centers that gave them away as asteroidal orbital batteries. Just behind the orbats was the combined Alliance fleet. At the other end of the image being displayed was a large mass of ships arrayed in an odd spherical formation.

  “What we have here,” explained Sinclair, “is a good ol’ fashioned standoff. They have more ships than we do, but they’re not the ass-firing kind that give ours a small but significant edge.”

  “Why only small?” asked Rabbi. “Wouldn’t that effectively double the number of ships we have?”

  “Only if we had the element of surprise. Which we don’t anymore. All a forward-firing ship has to do is keep its nose pointed in the right direction. Sure we can swing around ’em faster but now, thanks to Gupta’s use of atomics to pivot his ships, so can the UHF. It ain’t graceful, and plays hell with a ship, no matter how well made, but it works. And Trang will let his engineers scream all they want—after the battle. We still have the advantage of speed, though. As long as we can fire out our asses and they can’t, we’ll have the edge in movement and therefore opportunity. A few seconds is all it takes to take out a ship, no matter how quick their nukes spin ’em round. But Trang put his fleet into what is effectively a porcupine defense.” Sinclair had the holo-tank zoom in on Trang’s ships. “If J.D. approaches anywhere along this line”—a red curve appeared across the top of the defending fleet, forming a wide arch—“she’ll get hit by a wall of fire no matter how well she maneuvers.”

  “But then why is Trang just sitting there?” asked Hildegard. “If, as you say, he can’t do anything until he gets better ships, then he may as well go back to Mars and refurbish his fleet.”

  “Can’t,” said Kirk. “As long as he’s there and we can’t throw him out—and I presume we can’t—” Kirk looked across the table to Sinclair, who remained tight-lipped but nodded in the affirmative. “—then Trang can tell everyone back home that he won. Which means the brass can tell everyone that they’ve won, which means the politicians can tell everyone that they’ve won.”

  “One big, happy family,” groused Mosh.

  “That’s bullshit,” hissed Padamir. “We stopped him cold, destroyed ten times as many ships, and saved the capital and our fleet. He lost, but he just can’t admit it.”

  “That’s exactly right, Padamir. He cannot admit it,” insisted Kirk. “In point of fact, he must not. If he were to go back to Mars for all the logical reasons we’ve just stated, it would be admitting that he lost this battle, and trust me on this because my intel is good here, the UHF cannot take many more losses. But by staying right where he is, on the fucking doorstep of the Alliance and daring us to throw him out, he can claim a draw, which in the UHF’s eyes is as good as a win.”

  “Is a draw really worth that much?” asked Sandra.

  Even though Kirk had always felt a mild revulsion for this other contaminated refugee from the past, he’d made his peace with her role and its undeniable help to the cause and so had made it a point to always be outwardly cordial. “Absolutely, Madam President. So far, he’s the only one to actually get one out of J.D. And you can bet that Sobbelgé’s already making the most of it. If you ask me, it’s well worth the price and inconvenience of protecting their now stretched-out supply line.”

  “Though it pains me, I have to agree with Kirk,” added Sinclair. He then turned off the holo-tank. “But that’s it in a nutshell. Not that we’re not making them pay a high price for maintaining that supply line. I’m sorry that Omad’s out of the picture. Acting Commodore Gorakhpur is doing a hell of a job raiding it. But no matter how many supply ships we capture, harass off the line, or destroy outright, the UHF makes more and then more on top of that. If I could have access to their supply base for even a month, this war would be over.”

  Mosh exhaled, quietly tapping the fingers of his right hand on the table. “Six months, you say.”

  “Yeah.” Then Sinclair shot a derisive look in Kirk’s direction. “Though Intelligence says nine.”

  Fuck you very much, thought Kirk, but merely look
ed at Sinclair with a half-turned smile.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” said Rabbi, “why the discrepancy?”

  “Gut, Rabbi. Mine says six and so does J.D.’s. Trang’ll be ready to go in six. I’d bet my sto … life on it.”

  “Anything to add, Kirk?” asked Mosh.

  Kirk shrugged. “What can I tell you? It’s an inexact science, and people can be so—” He looked askance at Sinclair. “—unpredictable. Far be it from me to question the Blessed One’s gut.”

  “So then the issue before us,” asserted Mosh, “is what can we do to help win the war before then? As we appear to be running out of tricks.”

  “Not that the last one worked all that great,” Kirk said dryly.

  Hildegard winced at Kirk’s full frontal assault but managed to keep her composure. Though she and Kenji had immediately tendered their resignations post the disaster, the Cabinet had dismissed the notion out of hand. Like everyone else, Hildegard had been asked to perform miracles, actual ones, beyond her budget and means during a time of war. That she and Kenji with the occasional help of Omad had managed to produce so many was practically a miracle in and of itself. But all those seated around the table knew what only Kirk had had the temerity to say—the disaster of the Via had cost the Alliance its best and likely last chance to win the war.

  “Enough of that,” thundered Mosh. “We all know the good work Hildegard and Kenji have done for us, and I’m sure they’ve got something else up their sleeve.” Mosh glanced over to the Technology Secretary for validation.

  Hildegard’s pained expression did not support the Treasury Secretary’s claim. “I’m sorry to report … no. Certainly nothing that could be operational within the next six months. I sincerely wish I could tell you all different, but I can’t. We all knew the day might come when our bag of tricks would be overwhelmed by brute force.”