The Unincorporated War (23 page)

“Only if you tried to go about it any other way,” answered Sinclair, laughing. “When do I get to confer with my new Fleet Admiral?”

“After she’s done giving her speech. Good day, Admiral.” Justin cut the connection.

Janet looked faintly alarmed. “Speech?”

Justin was amused that a tested battle veteran and trial lawyer suddenly was made nervous by the prospect of public speaking, even though Justin was sure that this was a crowd far larger than any she’d ever addressed before.

“Oh yes, Janet,” he said with a knowing smile. “There’s always a speech.”

Before she could protest further he strode over to the railing of the balcony and allowed the screen to become transparent. It took a moment for the revelers to realize the change, but when they saw that not only was the presidential balcony visible but also both Justin Cord
and
J. D. Black were on it, the roar seemed to shake the very walls of the cavern itself. It was as if, thought Justin, they were waiting for this moment to express all their ebullience. He was experienced enough in mass psychology to just let the waves wash over him, but, he noticed, Janet looked as if she were about to be knocked over by the very force of that adulation. Justin waved to the crowd and the level increased. Justin gestured for Janet to sidle up to him. She obliged.

He then looked over to the befuddled Fleet Admiral. “You should wave to them, you know.”

Janet did and the screaming and applause grew even louder. Justin let them shout themselves out for a time, and when the noise began to ebb he held up both hands halfway. When it was quiet enough that his voice would be heard through the DijAssists he knew it was time.

“We owe a great debt of gratitude for what we have received here.”

After more than five minutes of raucous cheering he continued.

“This victory is one for which we can look to one person. If it had not been for Captain J. D. Black and her volunteers I would not be here at this time. She saved my ass too.”

The crowd broke into laughter and more cheering.

“Well,” continued Justin, “let’s pay back some tiny fraction of what we owe. From here on in hers will be the will that leads the Alliance in the battles of the future. People of the Alliance, I am proud to present to you Fleet Admiral Janet Delgado Black!” Justin started to applaud and moved backward until it was only Janet on the presidential balcony.

Janet was overwhelmed. She’d often wondered how Justin could address vast crowds with what seemed like insouciant ease. Now she wondered how anyone could do it at all. There was no way to prepare for suddenly being thrust into the limelight, for being the concentrated source of so much sheer adulation. She was intoxicated with the possibility and the power of such adulation. True and seductive power.
Is this how Justin felt the first time?
she wondered. That was soon
followed by,
What would Justin say?
She drew a blank. She needed to say something; it was expected.
What would Manny want me to say?
Suddenly the words were there waiting to be used. She held up her hands mimicking Justin’s earlier gesture and watched the crowd grow silent.

“I’m not worthy of this.”

She held up her hands to still the cries of objection.

“Really I’m not. I’m just one person. There were thousands of us out there, and beyond that millions more and billions beyond that. I’m only valuable or worthy of this praise because I was able, for a brief period, to focus on something we all want. We all wish for our freedom, for our liberty. We want worlds where …” She paused and smiled, remembering a conversation she’d once had with Manny. “… where our worth is not determined by our stock price. We fight for worlds where our children’s future is not determined by how much stock their parents own. We’re fighting for the right to be silly or strange or bold or boring without some board worrying about how it will affect our value.
We’re fighting for liberty
!”

Through the raucus cheers Janet began to realize that what she was saying would need to be repeated enough so that everyone would believe it. So that everyone would make sure that its very existence as an idea would once again be worth sacrificing everything for.

“I can’t predict the future,” she continued. “I can’t promise what I don’t know. But I promise you this, people of the Alliance. My every thought will be for your salvation; my every action will be for your liberty; my every ounce of strength will be for our liberty. Whatever road, what ever task, what ever be the price,
we shall be free
!”

For the terrifying and exhilarating moments that followed, Janet Delgado was the crowd—becoming lost in its roar and applause. When she emerged from the daze she saw that the balcony screen was opaque and that Justin was once again standing near, waiting for her to gather herself.

“Seductive, isn’t it?” he asked coyly over the din of the mass.

“Very,” answered Janet, gripping the rails behind her for support. “How do you avoid the temptation?”

Justin’s face now turned stolid. “I remember every mistake I made and every death as a result of each mistake. People died, Janet, and will continue to die, when I screw up.”

Janet nodded with growing understanding.

Justin then put his arm on her shoulder. “You’ll make a good President, you know.”

“The hell you say.”

“No way to avoid it, Janet. Republics always elect their favorite warriors.” Justin gave her a gallows smile. “Of course you won’t have to worry about it at all …” He paused. “… if we lose.”

All at once Janet’s eyes narrowed with deathly intent.

“Don’t worry. We won’t.”

T
he image kept repeating itself on a ten-second loop. Janet Delgado Black—resurrected from the dead—pledging her loyalty and, mused the observer, much underestimated ability in space combat to the cause of rebellion. Hektor looked at the holo-cast one last time and then stopped the pointless exercise, chiding himself for even the loss of a few minutes of gawking when he needed every second of every day. He’d prided himself on planning for every contingency no matter what the outcome. His plans in case of death were extraordinarily detailed and all dependent on the particular circumstances of his demise. The only time he’d ever been caught completely by surprise was when he discovered The Chairman’s duplicity. Hektor had been forced to act abruptly, with the result of that horrible day being the rebellion.

And now he’d been completely surprised again. Not by the total loss of Confederation forces. There’d been a 2.3 percent chance of failure and plans for it had already been set into motion. It was Janet. He spent the few minutes of wasted time looking for some sign of his old friend. She had the fire, he saw, and her trademark cold, seemingly unapproachable beauty. But the fire was under iron control on that platform she spoke from. And the beauty was both constrained and enhanced by the aura of sadness and destiny that seemed to radiate off her in waves. Hektor realized that he too was feeling the effect that this woman was starting to have on all those around her. He cut off the feeling and got back to work. He now had a decision to make.

Part of him was glad of the choice and part of him hated to make it. With the Alliance now stronger than ever, he needed to win the presidency and make it into an office that would allow him to shape the destiny of humankind. There would have to be a sacrifice.

In response to the crises that has plunged the Terran Confederation into panic, members of the Libertarian Party have called for a proportional voting on the basis of stock own ership. This has caused a hailstorm of protest from wide segments of the population and was immediately condemned by Arthur Damsah, the candidate running on an independent ticket and garnering strong support from the pennies who hold most of the elective power.

Hektor Sambianco, candidate of the Libertarian Party, has not made a statement for or against the proposal.

—
N.N.N.
Election special

Irma Sobbelgé had done her best to make sure that all the core worlds were listening to the impending announcement. If it weren’t newsworthy then she figured she’d just burned forty years of favors. But she also knew that she was beyond looking back. In her mind the success of Hektor Sambianco and the success of her entire civilization were inextricably linked. In this respect she was of like mind and had been accepted into Hektor’s Hectics, the man’s proud gaggle of assistants, officers, and hangers-on. And by some magic of hierarchy—i.e., occupying a seemingly inordinate amount of the boss’s time—she’d even been accepted as one of their leading figures. Not that it mattered to her—personal aggrandizement seemed petty given the enormity of what was at stake.

Irma hadn’t liked that the announcement was going to be done as a live address, nor that it would be on the shores of Lake Michigan in Millennium Park, Chicago. Hektor’s support there was less than solid. It wasn’t terrible, she’d reasoned, but Chicago had never fully recovered from the Grand Collapse and so was filled with a higher proportion of pennies—who naturally favored Damsah. But against her advice Hektor had insisted on the locale, and so here they were.

Irma looked over the last-minute placement of mediabots and sound capture devices—technology of the trade that was now her acknowledged field of expertise. Live events, she’d come to realize, could be manipulated to her advantage. If the speech was to go well, she could amp the applause and enlarge the crowd. If not, she could make the setting feel more intimate and personal, focusing on the concerned and supportive faces of the real or planted participants. She’d also cajoled in some instances, pulled favors in others, to ensure that her edit of the event would be at the top of the more important distributors in the system. She’d long ago stopped fretting that her methods weren’t the balanced journalism she’d been taught, but the situation had changed and with it the rules.

Irma scanned the growing throng.
Mostly pennies,
she surmised, their pedestrian garb and lack of sophistication a clear giveaway. The crowd, though considerable, was certainly meager by New York standards. She could fix that. The only thing left to do was point her vast media machinery at the man she trusted to fix the ever-widening chasm dividing her once perfect world.

Hektor peered down the tree-lined concourse of Wrigley Square from behind an ancient peristyle. The still-graceful semicircular row of Doric-style columns
rose nearly forty feet into the air and, though weathered and in disrepair, had about them the austerity Hektor felt necessary for the occasion. He gave one of the columns a soft pat as a cold, bitter gust sprang up off the nearby lake. It was time. He slowly approached the raised podium and picked up a set of notes Irma had placed there for him. He then made a show of looking them over. As he flipped through the small deck, Hektor cleared his throat and looked up, forlorn. He then let escape a large sigh as he let the notes drop to the floor. This caused an immediate murmur. He then proceeded to jump down off the structure and make his way forward until he found himself standing in front of a small knot in the swelling crowd.

“My handlers,” he shouted over the heads of those in front of him, “wanted me to give a different speech today. And I’ll even admit I was sorely tempted. It certainly would’ve been the safe thing to do.”

Hektor paused as if still weighing the option. Then his face hardened. A new determination seemed to radiate over the man who moments before had appeared to be struggling.

“I was told,” he continued, “that the safe thing to do would be to join my opponent in rejecting The Shareholder Voting Act and that I should fight this campaign on other issues. I was
supposed
to talk about the fact that I’m a strong candidate with years of experience where it counts. And behind closed doors, ladies and gentlemen, my pollsters even said I had a decent chance of winning the whole she-bang without ever having to mention anything as controversial as the SVA. After all, why hand Justin Cord and the rebels such a powerful propaganda tool? An individual not being able to vote for who they want? What’s that all about?”

The crowd’s rumble in agreement was soon followed by a peppering of catcalls.

“Who are we?” Hektor implored, looking now into the faces of those in front. “What do we believe? What makes us unique, different, and, I’m not embarrassed to say it, better than any group of humanity before us?”

This time there were no insults hurled. Not even, noted Hektor, from those safely hidden within the pack.

The wind whipped up again and Hektor reveled in the chill he now felt assaulting his exposed face. “It’s incorporation, my friends. At the end of all the arguments, the examples, the court cases, and now this war, it is incorporation. But what am I told by my handlers? ‘Mr. Chairman, you must avoid this whole incorporation issue right now.’ ‘Maybe in the future we’ll be able to revisit it, but this is not a good time.’”

A look of disgust crossed Hektor Sambianco’s face. “I will say this for Justin Cord. He may be a rebel, a murderer, and a thief, but he tells you what he stands for and doesn’t back down. He says he hates incorporation and is trying to build a civilization where none exists. He’s wrong, but at least he’s honest about it.”

This brought a brief smattering of laughs.

“So why can’t I be honest about what I believe? What’s happened that I have to be embarrassed about defending and proclaiming the good that is the very foundation of our civilization?”