The Unincorporated War

by Dani Kollin

  Hektor, buried in a stack of papers, didn’t bother to look up when she entered. “I have the latest cabinet meeting on holo,” he said. “If you can review it and give me your opinions on how they’re holding up that would be great.” Neela went right to one of the chairs in front of his desk and plopped down. Hektor looked up from his hard copies. “Or you can just collapse in the chair and ignore me.”

  She shot him a derisive look.

  “I’m sorry, Neela, tough day?”

  She sighed. “Nothing on par with deciding the fate of humanity, but yeah, it was a tough day.”

  He smiled amiably, got up out of his chair, and went to the bar. He still hadn’t gotten used to pouring drinks in the lower gravity of Mars, but he refused to use a dispenser. A man, he believed, should pour his own drinks. He made two—vodka chilled and poured through crushed ice for him and a Cosmo for her. “What is it?” he asked as he handed her a drink and then leaned back on the front edge of his desk.

  “Thaddeus came to me and asked if we were having an affair.”

  Hektor smiled ruefully. “Really? The good upright doctor? I’m surprised he was even able to bring himself to say it.”

  “It almost happened that way.”

  “Neela, I’ve just got to know,” Hektor said, arms folded. “What on Earth did you tell him?”

  Neela’s lips curved up wickedly. “I told him we were having a torrid affair complete with pictures and twins.”

  “Boys or girls?” asked Hektor without missing a beat.

  “One each, and don’t be such an idiot; I told him it was a load of crap.”

  Hektor put down his drink and walked behind her. He started to massage her shoulders.

  “We can stop. Let me say I don’t want to. I’m not sure how well I would’ve handled the last six months without you, but you shouldn’t have to lie to a friend just to protect me.”

  She took one of his hands and kissed it tenderly. “I don’t want to stop either. When I’m with you I feel more like myself than at any other time.”

  “Well, fuck them then. Let’s just come right out and admit it. I’m not married, and as far as the UHF is concerned you’re not either, and damn it, I should be able to date who I want. I’m the President, for Damsah’s sake.”

  Neela reached up and was just able to grab an earlobe. “No!” she yelled, twisting his ear and pulling him down in a spiral to one knee next to her.

  “Ear! Ear!” he shouted.

  “When the war is over,” she continued evenly, “we can do what we want, and then if you don’t marry me you’ll have to be concerned about losing a lot more than an ear.”

  “It is a lot more, isn’t it?” he said lasciviously. “Thanks for noticing.”

  She started laughing, letting his ear go and then almost as immediately gently caressing it.

  “Hektor, you can do nothing that will give the Alliance one iota of propaganda or cause the UHF one iota of embarrassment. How we feel about each other is just not important compared to that. Promise me you will keep this secret until the war is over.”

  “Well,” he said, now massaging the reddened lobe, “if you can avoid any more ear twisting.”

  “No deal, now promise.”

  With a slight bow of his head he acquiesced. “I promise.”

  She pulled his head to her lips and gently nuzzled his ear. He grabbed her chin and their lips met in a kiss that started out tender but increased in passion as all thoughts of the war and their situation fled from their minds.

  12 No Choice

  The Cliff House, Ceres

  As much as the war would allow, a rhythm was established around the presidential quarters. The guard would switch four times a day, but in a staggered formation so that all the personnel never changed over at once. The cabinet would have mandatory twice-weekly meetings, barring emergency or travel.

  Justin had five major departments, which were Security, Trea sury, Defense, Information, and Technology. Kirk Olmstead was running security both internal and external; Mosh McKenzie was handling the new trea sury department, which oversaw both industrialization of the Alliance as well as its paying of the bills. Or, as he often groused, “the whole damned economy.” Defense was given to Admiral Sinclair. Justin had to get over his built-in desire to have a civilian in the post, but the truth was, the fleet was the military in the Alliance and no one understood the fleet and all its ins and outs better than the admiral. He had a positive genius for knowing where every ship was, her condition, combat record, state of readiness, and all the myriad details that went with supplying and upgrading the miner battalions and orbital batteries. So Justin put aside his prejudice and gave the admiral a job he was effectively doing anyway. Padamir Singh was the information secretary, which in Justin’s mind was a combination of press secretary and minister of propaganda. Justin liked how Singh referred to himself. “Mr. President,” he’d often say, “I’m the minister of lies, both the bad ones, theirs of course, and the good ones, which would be ours.” The new post of technology chief went to Hildegard Rhunsfeld. She was an old friend of Mosh’s who’d run GCI’s deep-tech project in the formally hidden enclave out by Neptune. It had been Mosh’s personal intervention that had both kept her in the Alliance and saved the high-tech research center from destruction. As the war continued, Hildegard had gone from very reluctant neutrality to full-fledged support. She’d become indispensable to a whole series of projects that the Alliance had used to stay ahead of the UHF in a number of areas. When the need for a central figure to coordinate all of the Alliance’s projects with the goal of surviving the war became necessary, she was the natural choice. Hildegard would not be confused for a space-born member of the Alliance. First of all, she was too tall at six-one and had kept her straight blond hair well past her shoulders—yet another giveaway. Though for the cabinet meetings she’d acceded to spacer fashion by tying it back in a bun. No matter the look, Justin could not deny her ruthless dedication and ability.

  Before the meeting all the cabinet would give a summary report of their main points to Cyrus Anjou, who’d make a one-page synopsis of each, which he’d then give to Justin as a hard copy for review. As was often the case, the meetings would take place out on the balcony with the shields set for opacity and maximum security. As it was the Cerian equivalent of morning, Justin had called for a breakfast meeting. It was the only way most of them would actually eat anything until after six in the eve ning, so busy would their days get. All except Cyrus of course. It would take the planetoid exploding to interfere with one of his meals.

  Per tradition, Justin was there first and greeted each person as they arrived. Today he’d added two additional guests. One, Congressman Sadma, would show up only moments before the actual meeting started. The second arrived earlier. Justin got up to greet her.

  “Welcome to the fearsome fortress of power, Dr. Nesor.”

  The doctor’s appearance was that of a woman in her late twenties. She had jet-black hair, cut in a bob—very much, thought Justin, 1920s flapper style. She had the soft, milky white skin that life in space seemed to give Caucasians. Justin himself would’ve liked to sit under a sunlamp and get some color, but it was one of the prejudices of the Alliance that they didn’t really trust anyone with anything approaching a tan.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” said the doctor. “I must say this doesn’t look anything like a fortress.” She indicated the balcony with the oval breakfast table, a holo-tank square in the middle of it and a buffet on the side. “I was not aware that fortresses had buffets.”

  “It’s the latest thing. I don’t think we have a waffle bar, but we can get you an omelette.”

  “Waffle?”

  “No waffles in the present?” he asked, sighing. They weren’t his favorite food, but up until now he hadn’t once thought of them. Not that it mattered, given the doctor’s response.

  “You’re not referring to a person who changes from one opinion to another, are you?”

  “N
o, it was a popular breakfast item in my day.”

  Dr. Nesor checked her DijAssist. Oh, fried or baked sugar dough, smothered in highly sweetened syrup. She looked confused. “Shouldn’t this be a dessert?”

  Justin had never considered it. “You know I think you’re right. I guess pancakes should be a dessert too.”

  “Pancakes?”

  “Please, Doctor, I’m feeling out-of-date as it is.”

  “Forgive me,” she said, smiling weakly, “but I think I’m about to make you feel older.”

  “Let me guess, this is going to be another ‘did you ever meet so and so,’ question, isn’t it?”

  Dr. Nesor laughed. “I hate being that predictable.”

  Justin smiled agreeably “Doctor, if you knew how many variations of that question I get, you wouldn’t be so annoyed with yourself. So here’s the list I’ve learned to give up front. I didn’t meet the Beatles, Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan, Queen Elizabeth—the second or the third—and, of course, the one that everyone always asks about: Oprah Winfrey.”

  Now it was the doctor’s turn to laugh. “No one so well known, I’m afraid. I’m referring to Dr. Francine Shapiro.”

  Justin saw the look that always came with hopefully asked questions. He knew the person wanted to hear a “yes” so they could ask ten other questions about the person they’d identified with from the far past. As was usually the case, Justin had to disappoint.

  “Sorry, don’t recognize the name. Was she a relative?” He found that the compliment of linking the questioner to the famous personality often mitigated the disappointment of his inevitable “no.”

  “How I wish!” answered Dr. Nesor. “But no, she’s the woman who developed some of our most basic treatments in EMDR cognitive therapy.”

  On Justin’s confused look the doctor elucidated further. “It stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. Basically it’s a way to link painful memories to more positive ones in order to give relief to a patient suffering from a traumatic experience. Anyways,” she said, noticing his eyes beginning to glaze over, “thank you for letting me pester you with such an unimportant question.”

  “No question is unimportant,” answered Justin, “especially those that concern the treatment of our heroes. But I wouldn’t mind a little breakfast.”

  They went to the bar where Cyrus was already filling his plate from a buffet filled with mostly fruits, cereals, scrambled eggs, and some sort of sausage. Justin got himself a bowl of cereal. One of the things he’d been profoundly grateful for was that the fashion of slithering food had not become popular in the area that became the Alliance. The doctor got a plate of fruit as Cyrus piled his with a mountain of scrambled eggs buried under sausage.

  The Jovian greeted the doctor in his usual effusive manner. “Doctor, the meeting is made more joyous by your appearance. You are as light to a field awaiting the day.”

  Dr. Nesor was bemused. “You have a wonderful way of expressing yourself, Mr. Anjou.”

  “Ah, you see, Mr. President?” he said, looking over to Justin. “A person who is appreciative of the verbal arts.”

  “How did you come to speak with such flair?” asked Dr. Nesor.

  “Ah, well, when I was younger it occurred to me …” Cyrus got a canny look on his face. “Doctor, are you using the skills of your profession to delve into the depths of my mind?”

  A voice called out from the portal leading to the main residence. “Be careful, Doctor, that you don’t hit your head when you’re in there. The ‘depths’ are rather shallow,” said Padamir Singh.

  “Insulted by a Cerian sybarite,” huffed Cyrus, “and before I’ve eaten, no less!”

  “You accuse me of being a sybarite,” said Padamir, entering the room, “when you’re the one with a mountain of food worthy of an Alaskan. Compared to your Jovian appetites we Cereans are simple as the monks of Altamont.”

  Justin leaned closer to the doctor. “Cyrus, Padamir, and Omad have this competition as to who can be the most creative in their ‘friendly’ banter.”

  “Seems like a harmless way to blow off some steam,” replied Dr. Nesor. “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you deal with the stress?”

  “Doctor,” answered Justin politely but firmly, “this is neither the place nor the time.”

  “Mr. President,” she answered back almost as forcefully, “you need counseling, not only for you, but for the good of the Alliance. Tell you what, you name the place and time and I or one of my colleagues will be there.”

  “Doctor, for the good of the Alliance, I cannot be ‘dealing with my inner grief’ right now.”

  “If I may be so bold …”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s damaging to your long-term health and happiness to keep what’s happened to you bottled up. Your wife was taken from you in the cruelest of ways, and after you’d found love in a world so far removed from your own as to defy description. You should be a wreck. Mark my words, it will catch up with you.”

  “It already has, Doctor,” Justin answered tersely, “but the Alliance needs me more and I will not fail her. When the war is over I promise to lie on what ever couch you want me to, agreed?”

  “As you wish, Mr. President.”

  Justin already knew she wouldn’t stop trying. It was why he liked her.

  Mosh and Hildegard appeared together, and as was often the case, they were in the midst of a deep discussion. They continued talking oblivious to the rest, heading straight toward the buffet, filling up their plates, and going to the table without stopping or acknowledging anyone else in the room.

  Admiral Sinclair entered and quickly found his seat. He was soon followed by Tyler Sadma.

  “Mr. President,” greeted Sadma.

  “Congressman,” answered Justin, “thank you for coming. May I introduce Dr. Ayon Nesor, one of the Alliance’s foremost cognitive scientists?”

  “That means I shrink heads for a living,” she said. “But it’s a plea sure to meet the most famous of the Sadma clan.”

  “You do me too much honor, Doctor. My niece is far more deserving of recognition than me or any of my poor efforts.”

  “Your niece fights for our present,” she offered. “Your Bill of Rights fights for our future.”

  “Not according to Secretary Olmstead. He insists it will straitjacket his ability to protect the Alliance on every level and he may as well move back to the UHF, as it will be in charge in no time.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied. “The Bill of Rights is the Alliance.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, and may I say it is a plea sure to meet you as well. Your reputation as a skilled and ethical healer is well known and well deserved.”

  “I hope you still think so after what I have to say today.”

  Tyler was about to inquire further but held off when he saw Justin silently asking for forbearance.

  “Where’s Olmstead?” boomed Cyrus. “Must that man always be last to every meeting?”

  “He likes to be the center of attention,” replied Padamir. “What better way than to hold up the most powerful people in the Alliance, who must wait for him to arrive before they can begin?”

  “He does a good job, as do you all,” said Justin, defending Kirk. “Therefore, I accept his eccentricities, as I do all of yours.”

  As if on cue, Kirk suddenly appeared.

  “Excellent,” said Justin. “We can begin.”

  “I apologize for my tardiness, Mr. President.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Secretary. It gave us time to compare notes and get some breakfast.” He waited for Kirk to situate himself. “Allow me to formally introduce our guests. Dr. Ayon Nesor of the Saturnian trauma center, recently posted to Ceres, and of course the Chairman of the committee on the conduct of the war, Tyler Sadma. On a personal note allow me to congratulate you on your niece’s promotion to Fleet Admiral. I should have mentioned it before.”

  Tyler accepted the compliment graciously. “Though she doesn’t feel she�
�s earned it, given the fact we’re losing our hold on large portions of the belt.”

  “That’s a load of fertilizer,” said Sinclair. “She’s holding back forces that outnumber hers five and six to one in sectors spread out on a 60-degree arc from the 180 while being outgunned in ships and munitions. She’s even managed limited counterattacks. It may be the most brilliant delaying campaign in military history.”

  “There are those who feel if she attacked more we’d be better off,” said Kirk, putting an end to what ever good cheer was left in the room.

  “There are those who are idiots,” replied Sinclair. “She can achieve nothing by attack except to go up against insurmountable odds and get her miners killed. The only card she has to play is to make the enemy come to her. All of Christina’s attacks are local and only after the enemy has exhausted his offensive.”

  “She should turn one of those attacks into a general attack and sweep the enemy from our space,” offered Kirk.

  “Trang would love that,” countered Sinclair. “The more of our people he kills out of our defenses the easier it is for him.”

  “What about the road to Eros?” Kirk said in a voice thick with malice. He was referring to an apparent collapse of the UHF in front of Eros about seven months back. Christina had only occupied the space directly in front of her lines and then fortified. Then she’d occupied the space in front of that and was fortifying again when a huge UHF fleet flew in and pummeled her position, forcing her troops out and back to the newly reinforced area.

  “An obvious trap,” replied Sinclair. “One that Christina turned around by grabbing and then fortifying space the UHF had already paid for in blood.”

  “If she’d attacked immediately we’d be back in Eros and not dealing with the prospect of the belt being cut in half,” Kirk said, echoing the rumblings from many of the armchair Neuro sites in the Alliance.