The Unincorporated War (2 page)

The overhang he currently found himself standing on was attached to a living complex that was, like almost every other abode on the planetoid, dug deep into the rock. The apartment had three floors and forty rooms in its current configuration. Justin had initially rejected the place, feeling it was entirely too large and pretentious. But when he was made to realize just how disparate in both ideology and function the various belt bodies he was meant to lead were, he’d acceded and moved in. The move proved prescient in that he’d already had to add onto both sides of the ever-growing presidential suite now being called by most, the Cliff House.

Ultimately it had been the terrace that had become Justin’s favorite “room” for the simple reason that it was the least closed-in space in the entire complex. Though he’d never admit that simple fact to anyone, anyone at all, because it belied a greater feeling that he saw as a failing in the man who was the provisional President of the Outer Alliance. Only his long swims in the great lakes of Ceres might have given anyone the slightest clue as to their President’s true feelings—Justin was sick of space.

He’d last left Earth in a hurry, anxious to re unite with the woman he thought he’d lost forever, Dr. Neela Harper. Had he known then, before his ill-fated encounter with the now-deceased Chairman, that that meeting would take up his last precious few hours on Earth he might have done things differently. He might have looked up to the sky one last time, taken in the splendor of Victoria Falls, or plunged himself into the cold, salty embrace of the Atlantic. But instead he’d left that fateful meeting and immediately rocketed off into space at almost inhuman speeds without ever looking back.

And now, in almost Sisyphean fashion, he was being forced to repeat that one impulsive act in a dizzying array of takeoffs from one asteroid to another throughout the O.A. Each and every trip, much like that first one, had been spent pinned to an acceleration couch in order to take advantage of maximum g-force. All the trips had one purpose in mind—to solidify support for the O.A. If they could have figured out a way to get him to the outer planets—on the other side of the belt—and back in less than four months he would have gone there as well. But the only planet close enough to get to, given the size of the solar system and the limits of human propulsion, was Jupiter. However, if he visited one planetary system the others would have been insulted. Expecting Justin to visit absolutely every one made no sense given the laws of physics, but it made perfect sense given the laws of politics.

Although the fledgling President’s domain contained only a tenth of the human race, it stretched from the asteroid belt to the Oort Cloud. And that tenth contained a little under four billion people, with about two billion in the asteroid belt itself. It was a surprisingly rural population. The largest settlement was in Ceres, with over forty million souls. That was followed by Eris, with thirty-five million, and Titan with a little over thirty. Justin would have expected these settlements, cities in his mind, to have much larger populations. After all, Ceres had the land area of Pennsylvania to work with once the tunnels had been dug. It could have easily held another one hundred million people. But, he’d learned, people in the belt usually wanted to stretch out and get their own asteroids to mine. Once away from the regimentation of corporate life they were not eager to re-create it. This attracted more settlers and miners of similar bent, and over the centuries all sorts of communities found rocks, hollowed them out, paid for the orbital slots, and lived life on the edge. Over time what had emerged was a powerfully independent and resourceful humanity but, as Justin was now discovering, a tiresome one to weld together into a cohesive Political unit. “Like herding cats,” he’d often told his sympathetic wife.

On a positive note—for Justin at least—everyone had agreed to the basic principles of the first new experiment in governance in over three centuries: unity, of a sort, with Political and economic liberty, which meant vastly different
things to different people, and a government strong enough to protect the Outer Alliance yet not so strong as to imperil those very liberties that it was supposed to protect. Previous to this newly formed government the territories that would make up the O.A. had been operating pretty much on their own, because the central government operating from the corporate core had no real means to enforce its rule. This had certainly been good for the colonists’ self-sufficiency but lousy for unity. It took the corporate core government’s expedited Psyche Audit Act to truly bring the O.A. together. Up until that moment psyche audits had only been used to repair damaged minds—deviants, perverts, and pedophiles. But the old government’s new and desperate act had not only widened the criteria to include rebellious or disgruntled colonists but also nearly eliminated due process. What once could be dragged on for months with appeals and counterappeals now took mere hours. And it had been from that rash move that the fires of revolution had been fanned and from which Justin Cord had found himself a new job.

So now there was a new government with Justin at its head but no real means to enforce its rule. Sure, there were committees aplenty, but nothing ever came out of them except for the occasional sound bite. Justin’s new government did not have vast fleets of warships or impressively armed legions ready to go forth and do battle or, more important, maintain order. Alternatively the Terran government and its chief supporter, the corporations, had spent the last year clamping down with vicious abandon on the inner systems. They’d achieved control to a degree Justin secretly envied. They’d corralled, locked up, and stifled their malcontents; Justin had an entire asteroid belt of malcontents. While he harbored no desire to treat his troublemakers in the same manner, he often wished he could throttle a few just to get them to see eye to eye on an issue—any issue.

There was, however, one great advantage to the surliness of his flock. The skills needed to be an expert miner were remarkably similar to those needed to be a first-rate soldier—expert handling of dangerous nanites and explosives, ingenuity, self-reliance, and finally determination; all taught and tested within the cold confines of space. The O.A. also had hundreds of thousands of spaceships built up over centuries of colonization. Not a one could really be used in combat; but at least, realized Justin, getting experienced pilots was not going to be a problem. Building the warships, however, would be. Ceres was starting the process of making space docks, but it would be years before they could hope to replicate the facilities in orbit around Earth. The truth of the matter was that the manufacturing facilities on Luna were far greater than all those of the O.A. combined.

A wistful chime reminded Justin that his cabinet meeting was about to begin. He turned around and there to greet him was his Chief of Staff, Cyrus Anjou, standing next to Omad. Cyrus was a Jovian who, mused the President, was actually quite jovial. The Chief of Staff’s roots were almost as critical as his Political ability. While Jupiter itself proved uninhabitable, its many moons—seventy in all, including the seven man-made—were rich in mineral deposits, usable gasses, and water. Cyrus hailed from one such moon and Mosh had vouched for him from the days when Cyrus was director of GCI’s Jovian mining operations and Mosh was his boss. Unlike most corporate climbers, Cyrus took his majority and stayed near his native Io rather than follow the ladder back to Earth where the real power lay. But that merely helped hide the uncanny Political instincts the man had. The moons of Jupiter were made up of a large and powerful constituency and there was no better person to see to its needs than the current Chief of Staff. Justin never made it a policy to ask why Mosh vouched for anyone; he just accepted it gratefully and moved on to the next task. And there was always a next task.

“Mr. President,” Cyrus said, bowing accordingly, “I’m glad this miserable excuse for a human being found you.”

“Don’t listen to the Jovian,” Omad shot back. “It’s that big red eye talking. They stare at it long enough and eventually go loopy.” He then looked over to Cyrus. “Case in point.”

“That big red eye, Mr. President, as you may well know, is a storm that’s been raging on Jupiter for well over one thousand years and, I would argue, is only slightly less volatile than my good friend Mr. Hassan.”

“Eye sore,” snapped Omad.

“Tall words for a pebble dweller.”

The last insult was meant to demonstrate the Jovian disdain for belt dwellers whose planetoids were but a fraction the size of any one of Jupiter’s larger moons. Omad wasn’t deterred and Justin tuned out the banter, realizing that the worse the insults got, the more solidified the relationship became. He only stopped it once it got to the breeding habits of their respective grandmothers. The cease-fire lasted long enough for him to hear Neela enter the room from an adjoining hall. He turned around and greeted her with a smile.

“Is the
First Free
ready?” she asked.

Justin winced at his wife’s use of the phrase but knew he was powerless to stop it. Neela was the one exception to many of his rules. He’d only wished she would use that particular designation more judiciously.

“He is, of course, always ready to see you, most dear and delightful lady,” answered the Chief of Staff, again bowing politely. Cyrus, noticed Justin, had the knack of making the most effusive language seem natural.

Neela smiled at the compliment. “The others are waiting in the dining room and after this meeting we’re going to the fleet officers ball. We have the first dance.”

“Gentlemen, that is my dear wife’s way of saying that I can’t be late.”

“Indeed,” confirmed Cyrus. “We should start.”

Neela smiled in agreement and unconsciously smoothed a line in Justin’s jacket, though no such line was obvious to anyone in attendance.

The four made their way to the adjoining room, where they were greeted by the newly acting cabinet. Justin took his place at the head of the table with Cyrus sitting to his right. Neela, overly conscious of her special relationship to the President, preferred to sit opposite him. Omad sat near his old friend on the left and Mosh to the right of Omad. Eleanor’s seat was left empty as she, Mosh informed the group, was currently volunteering with a paramedic unit of the Cerian fleet militia. Kirk Olmstead, the acting head of Special Ops, was also in attendance and as usual sat where he pleased, not caring if he ruffled anyone’s feathers. Today he found himself between Neela and Joshua Sinclair, a Saturnian pilot who was visiting for the first time and, it was clear to all, unsure as to why.

Olmstead had long ago made peace with his former nemesis, now President. Given the fact that Kirk had at one time tried to have Justin assassinated, his inclusion in the cabinet was controversial to say the least. But Justin had overruled his trusted compatriots under the old adage of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” It also helped that Olmstead had been one of the first to declare his support for Justin’s fledgling movement and had been instrumental in getting others in the Outer Alliance to sign on. Padamir Singh was Justin’s press secretary but in truth was more of an advisor on all matters Cerian. Padamir knew the colony inside and out, having been born and raised there, as well as enriched by a small fortune from many of his private ventures. Or, as Omad would recount to anyone willing to listen, Padamir was the most successful smuggler the asteroid belt had ever seen. Finally, pacing anxiously in the hall just outside of the meeting room was the congressman from Eris, Tyler Sadma. But he, reckoned Justin, would have to wait.

As drinks were served by a few attendant drones, Justin called the meeting to order.

“I’m afraid I can’t take as much time in this meeting as I’d like. It seems the congressman from Eris is waiting outside.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” said Mosh. “To what end?”

“Apparently his colony is on the verge of declaring immediate, universal, and unequivocal disincorporation.” Justin held up his hand as everyone tried to speak at once. “Please, no matter how you feel, I have to deal with this issue very carefully. Don’t throw any more fuel on the fire than you have to.”

Per Justin’s wish, all held their tongues.

“Now to the business at hand,” he continued. “How did the first meeting of Congress go?”

“The military bill was proposed and passed,” answered Padamir. “All colonial forces will be fighting under the command of one unified fleet.”

“Well, that went easy,” said Justin.

“Too easy,” said Omad

“No reason it shouldn’t have,” answered Mosh. “Everyone wants to put on uniforms and salute each other. They figure the best way to win elections after the war is a nice command or two. But so you know, Mr. President, there will be a congressional committee to ‘advise’ you on choices for various ships.”