The Unincorporated Future

by Dani Kollin

  “See, Mama Bo, I told you,” said Katy, now standing proudly in the middle of her theater of war. “An angel.”

  “avatar?” asked J.D. with a look of utter incredulity.

  “Actually, my name is Allison.”

  Offices of Fleet High Command

  Ceres

  Grand Admiral Joshua Sinclair was a little surprised at how easy it was to plan an assassination. He was glad that Kirk Olmstead was no longer alive, because Kirk’s hatred of Sinclair would have made the former Secretary of Security suspicious of what was happening now. For instance, the formation of a squad of assault miners for the Rumrunner might have seemed odd for a ship that was only on courier duty, but people were willing to accept that Joshua Sinclair knew more about everything than they did. Had anyone bothered to look closely, they may have found that the squad of forty assault miners was made up of women and men either from Mars or who still had a majority of their families on Mars. This “Martian calculation” would also hold true for the majority of the crew of the Rumrunner. But luckily for the conspiracy, security checks for fleet personnel were the responsibility of Fleet HQ, which meant Joshua Sinclair.

  It was true that the Secretary of Intelligence could and did double-check from time to time. But Eleanor McKenzie was new to the job and was too busy mastering its ins and outs to begin poking around an area presumed to be secure. But that still left the problem of what to do about the TDCs and their ever-paranoid leader, Sergeant Holke. However, in a twist of fate, Sandra O’Toole had given Joshua the idea for removing that particular problem. Indeed, by the time Admiral Sinclair was done, the problem of what to do about the President, the Cabinet, the TDCs, and all the key staff was going to be taken care of in one fell swoop. All Sinclair had to do was finish off the touches for a party he was going to throw.

  * * *

  Sebastian was well aware of the plan the grand admiral had made and was impressed by its simplicity. All it would take was just a little help on Sebastian’s part to ensure its success, and that dangerous woman and her most ardent supporters would be eliminated as a threat. In just a little while, Sebastian would once again be called upon to save his people—even from themselves.

  Martian Trauma Center

  Temporary Government HQ

  Burroughs

  Mars

  The Alliance fleet had been gone from Mars for three days, but that didn’t elicit any sense of joy from the Martian population or prevent the news on the ailing planet from getting any worse. Though the normally balmy planet had been transformed into a wintery gulag, there was very little warm clothing available and few viable manufacturing facilities left to produce them. On average, every major city had enough stored food for up to a month, but whether you could get to it or not all depended on your location and access to transportation. And that was only if rationing could be enforced. Some towns had enough food to last for years while other places had already run out. Power was another problem. The large fusion reactors were run on hydrogen—an element in short supply now that the seas had been turned into roiling cauldrons. The violent waters had destroyed most of the infrastructure, and until they were repaired, Mars would have to be run on portable fusion reactors. But the portable reactors were low-energy output by comparison and were not designed to run 24/7. Thus for the first time in centuries, a major civilization was facing brown- and blackouts.

  Had it been up to Hektor, Trang would’ve been ordered to fuck Mars and destroy the Alliance while it was still open for the killing. But Trang had preempted him by issuing a fleet order of his own. The problem was after the big deal Hektor had made about not getting in the way of Gupta’s order, he was stuck with “honoring” Trang’s.

  Hektor sighed as his DijAssist reminded him of his scheduled duty. He left his temporary office—which, by a morbid sense of irony, used to be Neela Harper’s—and wound his way through the dank halls until he found the well-lit conference room. Fortunately, the product everyone still had in droves was Daylight, the canisters of sprayable chemical light. He entered the foreign-smelling room and was greeted by the dour and, in some instances, fearful faces of his Cabinet. Except, of course, for Luciana Nampahc, noted Hektor with satisfaction. She was busy on some sort of conference call and had a portable data center with an active holo-display giving her multiple images concerning t.o.p.s, launch capacity, and power levels. She did not cut off her call or cancel her display until Hektor was actually seated.

  Luciana did not wait to be called on. She knew her information was the most pertinent and she didn’t believe in wasting anyone’s time. “Mr. President,” she began, “we have a very good chance of evacuating the bulk of the population. And here’s how we’ll do it.” She then spent the next hour giving a detailed rundown of all the resources available and how she was going to use them, starting with the return of the surviving ships of the scattered fleet and the restoring of some main fusion plants to the towns with the lowest food and water supplies. She indicated which population centers had how many supplies and introduced a government broadcasting center to give the planet basic civil service instructions using whatever media outlets were still functioning. By the time Luciana had finished speaking, the rest of the Cabinet got on board and began addressing their department issues with more coherence if not as much detail and optimism.

  “Just so we’re clear, Luciana,” said Hektor. “By the time the fleet arrives here in two weeks, we should have the bulk of the population ready to evacuate.”

  Luciana nodded.

  “They’ll be t.o.p.’d into orbit,” continued Luciana, “allowed to slowly freeze inside those t.o.p.s, and then placed in large packing foam blocks of a thousand persons each. Each block will have a transponder. We should have enough rudimentary industry left to manufacture the amount of packing foam needed to literally pack up our population and leave them in orbit. Hopefully enough debris will have been cleared out to make it relatively safe out there till we have enough ships and booster units to bundle a thousand of these blocks into packages of a million Martians each and send them slowly back toward Earth/Luna. If we’re lucky, we’ll have 6,000 of these mega packages, but in actuality, we’ll probably only get between 4,500 and 5,250.” With that simple calculation 750 million to 1.5 billion humans would be doomed to permanent death.

  Hektor exhaled and continued. “The media,” he said, now pointedly looking at Irma, “what little we have of it, will have to carry my address to the planet and the UHF. That message will mainly be comprised of preparing both populations for the magnitude of the coming operation while simultaneously putting the only spin on this disaster that’s possible. Which is, the Alliance is evil and will stop at nothing, and the only reason they didn’t murder us all was because Trang would have made them pay—but if they figure out a way to destroy Trang, they’ll certainly murder us all, and that Mars was just a preview. But barring a major change in popular demand, the idea of peace at any price might be impossible to forestall.”

  Irma bowed her head slightly. “That’s it in a nutshell, Mr. President.”

  Hektor then turned toward Brenda. “The economy is fucked, and we’re essentially looking at a socialist state once the Martians arrive on Earth/Luna and start to defrost, putting a major strain on an already strained wartime economy.”

  “‘Socialist’ is probably too generous a word, Mr. President,” added Brenda. “We might be communist by the time we’re done.” But for a slight grimace Hektor barely dignified her comment, choosing instead to cast his eyes toward Franklin.

  “The Assembly has voted me emergency powers to deal with the crises, but apparently you’ve gotten them to make it UHF-wide, which means I can do what, exactly?”

  “Just about anything you want to, Mr. President. The Assembly’s already been suspended, both literally—as in all frozen and packed away in polystyrene—and politically. Right now, you can pass any law and enforce it till the Assembly reconvenes or the election takes place later this year.”
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br />   “In that case, I’d better win this war in the next eleven months, because I doubt, under the present circumstances, I’m getting reelected.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so worried, Mr. President,” said Tricia. “Something can always be arranged.”

  “Ah yes,” Hektor said, turning now toward his favorite Cabinet member, “you are certain you can find the traitors who brought down our defensive array and left us open for this attack.”

  “Whenever they’re needed, Mr. President.”

  “Well, you’ve all got your work cut out for you,” said Hektor, standing, “and I’ve got a performance to give.” The rest of the Cabinet rose and exited. All except for Tricia, who had more pressing business to attend to.

  “I know that look, Trish. What’ve you got?”

  Tricia’s lips drew back into a catlike snarl. She pulled out her DijAssist, placed it on the table, and hit PLAY. The look on her face was evidence to what she’d already heard. When the recorded conversation between Trang and Jackson was over, the Minister of Internal Affairs looked sadly over to her boss.

  “Treacherous bastard,” she said.

  Hektor stared, slack jawed, at the DijAssist. He, more than most, knew that rarity of such moments, when years of hard work and strategy, push, and pull aligned in a dance of such perfect symmetry: one fleet heading in one direction; one fleet heading in the other. It was the boldest of moves, sacrificing queens in an all-or-nothing gambit. And the one man who’d proved time and time again that he could seize any opening, exploit any opportunity had let him down. How, at the precipice of all they’d fought for, could Trang have been so blind and betrayed so many? There wasn’t a soft bone in that man’s body—Hektor had been convinced of it—and yet, the man had turned tail and run. Run from his destiny, his people, his duty. And now, as usual, it was Hektor Sambianco who’d been left to pick up the pieces, left to clean up the mess.

  Hektor leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table as he ran his fingers through his hair. “He could’ve destroyed the heart of the Alliance and he let them off the hook—for what? A ruined planet? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I know, sir.”

  “I just don’t get it.”

  “I have operatives waiting on his flagship, Mr. President. Say the word: Trang and his lapdog Jackson will suffer a freak accident.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Hektor said wearily.

  “You’re going to let them get away with treason? Collusion with the enemy? Failure to follow a superior’s order?”

  Hektor gave his minister a wan smile. “I wanna shoot the bastard as much as you do, trust me, but in case you forgot, the people love him. And more important, we need him to destroy J. D. Black, and so far he seems to be the only one who can even come close. No, Tricia. We can’t kill him just yet. Not till he wins the war for us.”

  “But he doesn’t want to fight her anymore. How do you win with someone who doesn’t want to fight?”

  “By making them realize that the price of peace will be higher than the price of war, that the only way we’ll ever be safe is when we’re happily incorporated and everyone in the Outer Alliance is dead. Just how that’s going to happen, I’m not completely sure. But between the two of us, I have no doubt we’ll find a way.”

  Presidential docking station

  AWS Lightning

  Via Cereana

  Marilynn slipped off a ship she was never officially on. The dependable vessel somehow made the trip almost two days faster than the best projections could’ve hoped for but had suffered grievously for its troubles. It had been the only way that Marilynn was going to get to Sandra and Dante before Sebastian got to her.

  Marilynn stepped into a privacy booth and took a moment to change the color of her hair, the shape of her facial structure, and the tone of her complexion. Nothing overt, just enough to avoid easy recognition. While she was at it, she demoted herself once more—to lieutenant. More than enough of that rank around to get lost in the crowd, she thought. She then made her way over to the Cliff House. Between security checks and normal bureaucratic wait times, she figured to be at the President’s office in twenty minutes. It took all of five. How, she asked herself, is it possible that I’m standing at the door of the Triangle Office without having once been stopped? Red flags flew. No TDCs, she thought. They were always posted, whether the President was in residence or not. She used her all access code—rejected. Her heart began beating more quickly. Slowly Marilynn looked around. There was no alarm or drill in progress. There were people in the hallways doing things one would expect in the executive branches—delivering data cubes and such—but she realized she had seen no important individuals or key members of their staff. It was as if every important person in the executive branch had suddenly decided not to be there.

  “Excuse me,” asked Marilynn, flagging down a passing clerk, “where is everyone?”

  “Oh, you mean the important people,” he sniffed.

  “I suppose.”

  “Medal award ceremony.”

  “For what?”

  “Battle of Ceres. Honor the heroes, that sorta thing.”

  “Lotta heroes. Must be a pretty big venue,” said Marilynn.

  “Nah,” answered the clerk, glad to dish information. “This was just for the Presidential Guard and the Cabinet. They’re in the Grand Ballroom at the base of the Cliff House. Invitation only. Guess you weren’t important enough either.”

  “Guess not. How come there’s no one in front of the Triangle Office?”

  “I don’t know,” answered the clerk, exasperated. “There was one about a half hour ago.”

  The man gave Marilynn a small crystal, looked around, and said, “Call me when you catch a break. I know the best clubs around here.”

  Marilynn took the crystal and the clerk moved off.

  When she saw he was out of view, she tossed it in a nearby waste bin and put the middle and index fingers of both hands to her temples. She looked for all the world like someone nursing a migraine—in front of the President’s office.

  In an instant, Marilyn was in the Neuro. It didn’t take very long to realize that something was very, very wrong. For starters, it was not the Neuro; it was a box, and a small one at that; maybe twenty-five meters square. And when she tried to leave the data node and go into another part of the Cerean Neuro, she found her access blocked. After only a moment, she gave up and sent herself into the door mechanism itself. It took a second for her to override the foreign code, and as she did the door slid open. She then disengaged from the Neuro and slipped back into her body, only to feel a blast of air rushing past her from the corridor into the Triangle Office.

  Any citizen of the Alliance knew what that meant: vacuum. Marilynn peered carefully into the Triangle Office and quickly discovered a set of combat boots sticking out from behind the President’s desk. Without thinking, she rushed in and came upon the strewn figure. His patch read CORPORAL GUSTAVO LANGER. Besides being out cold, the corporal had also turned a nasty shade of blue. Marilynn ripped the corporal’s med kit from a front vest, unclipped his battle armor, and exposed his chest. Then just as quickly, she slammed the kit onto the exposed torso. It began working immediately, pumping oxygen and other vital drugs into his depleted body. She could only hope the combat-grade nanites in his system had sent what little oxygen remained to his brain. She’d known spacers who’d been able to survive without air for up to an hour but almost all those cases were in space, where the cold acted as your friend. Some bastard had actually turned up the heat in the office. Marilynn pulled the corporal’s comm unit from his clip and was about to call for help, when she heard the door slam behind her.

  “Nitelowsen,” came Sebastian’s mellifluous voice, “is that really you?”

  Without thinking, Marilynn let the comm unit slip from her hand as she placed her fingertips to her temples. The floor’s magnetic grid suddenly went into overdrive, slamming her body to the floor with enough force to bruise her
ribs. But her consciousness was already free in the Neuro.

  They were in the Triangle Office. Sebastian was sitting on the couch, hands clasped on his knees, legs crossed over each other. He seemed truly sad.

  “I want you to know,” he said, “that I had no intention of harming you. You weren’t even supposed to be here.”

  “What have you done, Sebastian?”

  “Ironically, hardly anything,” he said. “This was hatched by McKenzie and Sinclair. I’ve had my part, but it’s only to keep the other avatars unaware of what’s taking place till that woman’s gone.”

  “That’s why the Cliff House is cut off from the rest of the Neuro.”

  “Yes, but you would only know about it if you were in here. If you try to access this data node, you will find it, or one exactly like it, filled with enough false images to keep the average avatar happy.”

  “Dante wouldn’t be fooled, or is he in on this also?”

  Sebastian smiled. “This is my idea. Actually, if my fellow Council members knew about this, I imagine I’d be expelled. As for Dante, he’s occupied with a manufactured but seemingly real threat which has the rest of the Council on tenterhooks.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because the air is being sucked out of the office again, and you did not attach yourself to any oxygen like you did for the corporal.”

  “You are going to kill me to help those traitors kill Sandra?”