The Unincorporated Woman

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “Shit!” he yelled, tamping an open wound on his forehead while grasping a handle with the other. His head was now spewing small globules of blood. “Toss me a patch!” he ordered.

  Marilynn reached into the box and grabbed one. She then released her internal grid and floated up to where Omad had secured himself. She deftly applied the patch and the bleeding stopped.

  “What,” he said through obvious pain, “no kissy?”

  “You all right?” she asked, ignoring the crude humor.

  “Yeah. Listen, Commodore. I’ve got a little gift I’m gonna have to drop off—nasty piece of work for the UHF. But with our rail guns out, I’m gonna have to time the arming of the device perfectly.”

  Marilynn opened her mouth to speak, but Omad put his blood-smeared palm over it.

  “If you could arm it I’d a probably let ya,” he lied again. “But since you can’t, there ain’t no reason to risk your life as well. I don’t know what it is you do, Commodore, but fuck all if the Alliance can afford to lose it.” He started propelling himself away from her quickly, loose wires trailing from his stumps, flinging himself from one handle to the next. “Get your ass to the escape pod,” he yelled over his shoulder, “and tell ’em to have my vodka waiting for me when I get back!” He was able to move so quickly that he made it around the corner before Marilynn could utter a reply.

  “Impact in two minutes,” said the ship’s too serene voice.

  Marilynn looked in Omad’s direction, thought for a second about following him, but realized she’d never make it back to her pod in time. With a loud sigh, she headed in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  Omad floated into the loading area of the rail gun. He found the tube he was looking for, opened it up, and met his date. Betty Lou was shaped like a standard rail gun projectile, but colored red instead of the usual gray. It also had a control panel situated at its rear.

  “One minute to impact,” the ship announced. “Escape pod launched,” she added a moment later.

  Omad paused for a second and smiled at the thought of Marilynn’s pod heading toward the safe embrace of Suchitra’s flotilla. The new generation of warrior would live to fight another day, but at least, he thought as a cruel smile filled his grizzled face, his generation would go out with one helluva bang. He held tight to the tube while the fingers of his other hand flew over the panel keys. Betty Lou tested his DNA and acknowledged that he could issue the arming command.

  “Why, thank you, sweetheart,” he crooned as he set the device to detonate under severe impact. “I promise not to be gentle.”

  And then Admiral Omad Hassan, hero of the Alliance, discoverer and best friend of the Unincorporated Man, merciless and unrelenting thorn in the side of the UHF, uttered the release command that would separate him forever from the world he’d grown to hate with the hope of being reunited with the woman he’d sworn to love.

  “Mama says it’s all right.”

  “Command acknowledged,” Betty Lou said in a sexy contralto. “Please remove yourself to a safe distance.”

  Omad started to laugh, but stopped. He wished he had a cigar, or better yet, a shot of Justin’s awful vodka.

  “I’m comin’ home, baby.” For the first time in a long time, Omad’s smile was full and unguarded. His eyes welled up with tears as the vibration of the ship increased. “Omad’s comin’ home.”

  The next second, the ship impacted the Beanstalk.

  22 Consequences

  AWS Otter

  Suchitra leaned forward in her command chair, nervously gripping the armrests. The impact of the Spartacus on the Beanstalk was both terrible and beautiful all at the same time. But Suchitra paid it scant attention. “Tell me you have it,” she commanded of her sensor officer.

  “Affirmative, Captain!” he shouted. “Escape pod is launched. I repeat, escape pod is launched.”

  “Thank you, Shiva,” Suchitra muttered under her breath.

  “Sir, the pod is heading for the lower section the Beanstalk!”

  Suchitra grimaced but stayed locked to her task. “Which ship’s closest?”

  “Spirit of America!”

  “Okay. Hold tight. XO.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have the rest of the fleet match our course changes.”

  The XO nodded and signed off.

  “Vaughn.”

  The sensor officer replied immediately. “Sir.”

  “Get me Captain Brooks.”

  A moment later, the captain appeared in her holo-display but the UHF’s ECM was playing havoc with communications. As a result, the visage of Brooks’s strong jaw, handsome ebony features and confident smile remained frozen in place. A strangely peaceful image given the inordinate amount of destruction taking placing outside the ship’s hull. One second later the signal was restored.

  “Brooks here.”

  “Nathan, you tracking that thing?”

  “The pod? Yeah, we noticed it.”

  “The admiral’s in it. Mind picking him up?”

  The video suddenly froze as the captain flashed a cheeky grin. “What the heck. Didn’t have anything else planned for the day.”

  Suchitra suppressed a laugh. “Great. You’ll intercept and then rejoin the fleet. You’re authorized to use as many atomics as you have to. We’ll redistribute the supplies later. Once you have the admiral, your ship will be the flagship, so have him communicate his intentions as soon as he’s up to speed. If he’s hurt, lemme know ASAP.”

  “Captain!” someone could be heard screeching in the background. Captain Brooks turned his head toward the noise. “The Beanstalk, it’s dissolving!”

  Brooks turned back toward Suchitra. “We’ll get him, Captain. Brooks out.”

  Low Earth orbit, AWS Spirit of America

  The last moments on board the Spartacus had been unexpected and certainly tension filled, but nothing Marilynn’s training hadn’t already prepared her for. Once in the pod, the going actually got easier. She had only to override the pod’s direction and point it toward Earth rather than into space—a task made easier, given her ability to enter the machine itself. But before she could even fire the second round of maneuvering thrusters, her pod was buffeted like a cork in a hurricane. She tried repeatedly to put her fingers to her forehead, but to no avail. The buffeting had gotten so intense that she lost consciousness after her fourth or fifth head smash into the bulkhead.

  Much to her annoyance, Marilynn awoke in the medical bay of an Alliance ship. Judging by the accommodations, she figured it for a frigate or maybe a light cruiser. Before she could ask a question, she felt the ship shudder. Atomic acceleration, she thought to herself. Nothing else in the universe quite gives that kick of acceleration and fear.

  “What the hell is going on?” she demanded.

  The doctor who was treating another injured crewman merely looked over to her, annoyed.

  “I said, what am I doing here?”

  “Well, that’s at least a little better.” The doctor handed her DijAssist to a nearby attendant and focused her attention on Marilynn. “We found you in an escape pod, unconscious.”

  “No. I mean what am I doing on an Alliance ship? I was attempting an insertion to the Beanstalk.”

  The doctor looked at her askance. “It’s good you didn’t make it, then. Most of it’s been reduced to dust.” The ship shook again as another atomic bomb was detonated at its rear.

  They were interrupted by a voice booming in the medical bay. “Rivka, is she awake?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe, Captain.”

  “Well enough to come to the command sphere?”

  Marilynn propped herself up and slid her legs over the side the medi-platform. She then slipped off and stood in front of Rivka. “I’m on my way.” Marilynn started for the exit and then turned around before departing. “What ship am I on?”

  “The Spirit of America,” answered Rivka, clearly perplexed at the strange behavior of her patient.

  �
�Light cruiser, got it.” Marilynn now knew the layout of the ship and headed down the corridor at a run. She battled the pain in her head as she navigated the ship’s interior on her way to command sphere. A lot of the crew’s women wore head coverings, and most of the men were wearing skullcaps. Then she noticed a single small rectangular box affixed to every door she passed. She knew from her brief conversations with Rabbi that the boxes had within them parchment that affirmed the monotheistic nature of Judaism— a declaration of the Jewish faith.

  The Jewish ship, she thought, remembering that was what the press had called it. But all thoughts of the crew’s religious affiliation fled as she entered the command sphere.

  “Commodore,” requested Captain Brooks, “do you wish to assume command?”

  “Why should I do that?”

  He looked concerned. “Because you’re the highest-ranking person on this ship.”

  Marilynn shrugged. “That’s all right. I’m sure Admiral Hassan has your orders.”

  A long and horrid silence followed on her words.

  “He was picked up, I presume.”

  Captain Brooks shook his head.

  Marilynn grew alarmed. “His escape pod is still out there?”

  “Commodore,” the captain said patiently, “yours was the last escape pod from the Spartacus before it impacted with the Beanstalk.”

  “But there must be another,” she pleaded.

  “Every pod from the Spartacus has been retrieved and accounted for.” Captain Brooks’s answer had been delivered with an equally heavy heart.

  “That lying son of a bitch,” Marilynn groused with a half-turned smile. “That deceptive, miserable, bastard, mother—”

  “Commodore,” interrupted the comm officer, “Captain Gorakhpur of the Otter wishes to speak with you.”

  “Put her on,” instructed Marilynn.

  The communications officer vacated his controls to let Marilynn have access to the holo features of his station.

  “Nitelowsen here,” she said as soon as she settled in.

  “What are your orders, Commodore?”

  A tactical map appeared over Marilynn’s station. It showed the OA flotilla, the Earth, the Moon, the enemy orbats, the disintegrating Beanstalk, and lots and lots of data points concerning velocity, acceleration, weapons loads, fuel loads, gravitational influences, and dozens more pertinent facts that had to be accessed, absorbed, and understood instantly.

  “Captain,” instructed Marilynn, “this won’t do. You are hereby ordered to remain in command of this flotilla. In fact, I hereby award you the temporary battlefield rank of Commodore.”

  “Thank you, Commodore, but you still outrank me by seniority.”

  “True, but the best thing I can do for the survival of this flotilla is to make sure that you’re in charge of it. I was not supposed to be on this ship; Omad was. But if he were here, I know he’d have wanted you in command. So I’m also, before this witness—” She looked over to Captain Brooks, who merely nodded. “—giving myself a battlefield demotion to captain. You are now in charge. Get us the hell out of here.” Marilynn paused. “Sir.”

  Suchitra shook her head doubtfully. “That will probably not pass muster when we get back to fleet HQ, but what the hell.”

  Satisfied, Marilynn turned to Captain Brooks. “Captain, I’ll need an escape shuttle. I must get to the Earth or one of its orbiting stations. If you can get me to one your—”

  “Captain Brooks,” ordered Suchitra, “belay that order.”

  Shit. Marilynn hadn’t realized that she was still on. Marilynn fumed. “I am ordering—”

  “Captains do not give orders to commodores,” Suchitra asserted calmly, “at least not while I’m in command.”

  “This is an important mission, Captain, and—”

  “I’m sure it is, Captain, but it’s over. Whatever chance you had to sneak in using chaos as your cover is gone. The enemy has orbats in position, and anything fired off any of our ships would be destroyed as a matter of course.”

  Marilynn bit her tongue. The only way she could explain why she’d have a chance of not being blown to pieces would be to tell the greatest secret the Alliance had, over communication lines that could very well be monitored by the enemy. Marilynn would be guilty of gross negligence if she did so. If she was on the Otter, and there was time, she could explain it to Suchitra in private, but Marilynn was not. She was trapped on a ship getting farther and farther from her destination with each passing second.

  “Captain Brooks,” barked Suchitra, clearly glad to be finished with the recently demoted commodore, “assume a rear guard position and be prepared to intercept a lot of fire.” Suchitra’s eyes blazed in concentration as her lips formed a grim line on her face. “I have an idea.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brooks replied without an ounce of hesitation.

  The destruction of the Beanstalk has been a devastating blow to the economy of the UHF. Although bulk raw materials are starting to come in from the asteroid belt, the loss of an economical means of transporting hydrogen to orbit will hurt military operations for some time to come. But that pales beside the blow to morale caused by the destruction of so obvious a symbol of both the incorporated system and the UHF as a whole. This loss is only increased by the vast damage the Alliance flotilla caused to the Trans-Luna Shipyards as it fled the system. Although eight ships were destroyed, including the flagship of Omad Hassan, twenty-two were able to escape. The skill that the enemy flotilla used in maneuvering its forces to negate most of our defensive fire while still being able to fire a devastating attack at our largest industrial target is one more demonstration that the adroitness of Alliance crews should not be underestimated. Even the suspected death of Omad Hassan, happy as that would be if true, does little to balance the losses we have suffered. This forces the assumption that whoever took command after his death has all of his skill and daring. We can only be grateful that the nanite attack on the Beanstalk was limited to only that structure. But the damage caused by pieces of the Beanstalk falling back to Earth are still being tabulated. This raid, taking place on the day after the defeat of half the UHF fleet around Jupiter, may be too much for the public to bear. The current administration may be forced to agree to armistice terms if something doesn’t happen to give the pennies hope that the war can still be won.

  Report on the Great Raid

  Defense Ministry, UHF

  Most Secret

  Orbit of Jupiter, AWS Warprize II

  In the four days after the Battle of the Hollow Moon, as J.D. had decided to call her latest engagement, she’d been torn by a need to help the refugees of Jupiter and the need to boost for Ceres as soon as was humanly possible. Given the distance between Saturn and Jupiter, it would take two weeks to intercept Ceres on its way to the ringed gas giant. Any faster, and the fleet would end up taking more damage from the debris of the solar system than anything Trang could do to them.

  But Rabbi had been adamant in his orders. The Alliance fleet must stay and coordinate the evacuation of the citizens to the remaining hardened asteroids, and those asteroids must be allowed to freeze, turning them into huge mobile suspension units. The calculations were dense, but by using every cubic meter of interior space, and Rabbi’s teams had gone as far as using ventilation shafts and drawers for small children and babies, it might, just might be possible to evacuate all but forty million citizens to Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. Those left behind would be mighty hungry until the remaining hydroponics labs could grow more food, but they should be able to avoid outright starvation.

  J.D. had wanted to tell the Secretary of Relocation to stuff it, but in the end, couldn’t. She owed the Jovians and as long as Trang was not attacking, she had a good two- to three-week window to work with. At least that’s how long she and her staff had figured it would take Trang to break down the Cerean orbat net.

  In reviewing the data, J.D. had been anguished that the total number of murdered was, as previously estimated, correct: 179
million. That was how many parents and children, friends, lovers, and spouses the Jovians had lost to give J.D. her “glorious” victory. Why, she thought, couldn’t it have been off by a million? A half a million? A hundred thousand, even. But such was the advancement of technology that a life extinguished could, to the exactness of the microscopic machinery coursing through that person’s veins, record every detail—including that life’s permanent extinction.

  J.D. had met with many Jovians who’d entertained, once the war was over, coming back to their “little enclave of the solar system.” An idea, J.D. thought, about as preposterous as her moving back into her New York City condo. She knew that by the time the Jovians were transported, thawed, and settled in their new homes, it would be difficult if not impossible to get most of them to move back. Especially given that they’d be even farther away from the corporate Core, with new industries being built around their considerable skill sets. They would find new lives and new jobs and new homes. They’d probably still call themselves Jovians and hold remembrances, sing the old songs, and tell the old jokes, but she saw it in their eyes as they prepared for their long, cramped slumber: For most, Jupiter would remain a distant dream, long after they reawakened.

  And then the news arrived. Omad’s flotilla had managed to conduct the greatest raid of the war on the core of the Core: Earth itself. J.D. scanned the damage reports. Eight ships lost out of thirty, high for one of Omad’s raids. But when she saw what it had wrought, the felling of the Beanstalk, she jumped up out of the chair she was sitting in and let out an uncustomary whoop of joy, eliciting a look of curiosity from Katy, who’d been mindlessly drawing in her coloring palette. The war-weary admiral watched as the grande dame of buildings first was breached, then sundered by what was clearly a well-timed and perfectly placed gray bomb.

  To add salt to the UHF’s wound, Omad’s flotilla had used their position within the Earth–Luna orbat network to attack the Trans-Luna Shipyard. J.D.’s eyes positively sparkled with joy as she watched the almost irreplaceable docking yards and their adjacent component-filled warehouses get blown to all hell and gone. Omad’s flotilla, she noted, took its greatest damage as it was fleeing the orbit of the Moon, but as far as J.D. could see, the escape was as well executed as she or anyone could have hoped to accomplish. Between the constant formation-busting blasts of the atomics and a hail of orbat fire so thick, there appeared more discharge than space, J.D. wondered how anyone got out of there at all, much less alive.