The Unincorporated War (31 page)

“OK, now that we’ve got that settled, anyone care to bring me up to speed on the latest from Admiral Black?”

“She wants to launch another attack,” answered Admiral Sinclair, shaking his head.

“Why am I not surprised? What does she hope to attack and when?”

Sinclair checked a device at the same time as Kirk to make sure the room was still secure from unwarranted eavesdropping. Only when it flashed green did he continue. “She wants to conquer Mars, only this time she wants to do it permanently.”

“Really? And when would she like to do this?”

“She assured me she’ll be ready as early as next week.”

Admiral’s shuttle AWS War Prize

Janet Delgado Black was sleeping. It was the first time in over a week she’d been able to. She’d learned to subsist on catnaps and so didn’t consider sleep to be sleep unless she could actually get out of her clothes, lie naked and prone under a fresh set of sheets on an actual bed. Naturally she told her staff to wake her if the slightest detail needed attention. And just as naturally the crew powered down all noncritical systems near her quarters and posted armed guards near her doors with orders to shoot anyone who came near with news less important than an enemy attack. The immediate space outside of her shuttle was just as diligently watched and all nearby traffic was diverted. In fact, when J.D. slept the entire ship became so quiet that even an inadvertent cough would garner the same caustic glare as a flatulent outburst.

When Janet awoke she’d immediately check in to see what had happened while she was sleeping. At this Lieutenant Nitelowsen would signal the bridge crew that the admiral was awake and the ship would then allow herself to end her silent running mode. What made the whole exercise so remarkable was that not one order was ever given or requested concerning this odd ritual. It had just evolved and was now adhered to with a stricture far out of sorts with the typically lackadaisical Belter attitude toward anything non-combat-related.

“Lieutenant,” J.D. said into the comm as she stretched and put on a fresh set of clothes, “is Admiral Gupta recovered enough from his injuries to receive visitors?”

“He regained consciousness two hours ago, Admiral. The medic says he’ll be ready for ‘questioning’ by dinner, ship time.”

“Assure the good doctor that I will not be ‘questioning’ our prisoner, but that I’d like to talk to him before he’s suspended and sent back to the Alliance.”

“But he was so looking forward to using his pliers and thumbscrews,” joked the lieutenant.

J.D.’s eyes narrowed in sarcastic response. “I’m sure he’ll contain his disappointment. If he wants to torture anyone I can always order a karaoke night.” J.D. was referring to the medic’s habit of singing to himself in a horrible off-key voice that had become strangely soothing to the crew because he only did it when treating the wounded.

“I don’t think we need to be
that
cruel, Admiral,” answered the lieutenant, “but it’s your decision.”

“Agreed,” answered J.D. “Please have my breakfast brought up and be ready to tour in twenty minutes. Black out.”

J.D. spent the next ten minutes turning her shuttle from a bedroom back into an office, stowing the bed and dresser, restoring the desk and chairs, getting cleaned up, and then finally donning the jumpsuit with the rank insignia she preferred. She spent the final few minutes going over the never-ending stream of reports that needed her attention. She used to answer every communication from any person under her command. But when her crews realized she was taking the time to answer each and every one of their posts the messages slowed to a crawl. She’d been told and had agreed that she’d only get messages after they’d been vetted. If after the rigorous process her ju nior officers still felt the communication warranted her attention it would then be passed on to Lieutenant Nitelowsen, who would then pass it on to J.D. What ended up happening most of the time was that the act of bringing the problem up with everyone but J.D. usually got it solved before she could ever lay eyes on it. She was both gratified and a little worried that her crews worked so hard not to bother her. But the system seemed to be effective, so she let it stand. Plus some of the messages that did get through actually lightened her load rather than burdened it. The one she found herself currently viewing was asking that she officiate at a wedding. It seemed that a comm officer had gotten engaged to an assault miner on another ship and they were both wondering if J.D. would be so kind as to do the honors. She would have to give it some serious thought, but J.D. immediately replied with a congratulations and the promise to respond to their request within twenty-four hours.

By the time Marilynn arrived, J.D. was ready to go. They spent the next ten hours touring various ships, the newly captured shipyard, and a few of the supply depots. J.D. found it was no longer possible to surprise people by just showing up in her shuttle, because her command crew had insisted she travel with an escort of four armed fighters. But her visits still served the purpose of letting her see how the fleet was doing and, more important, be seen by the crews.

She often wondered about what separated her brand of leadership from Justin’s. His allure, she saw, spread over the whole Alliance, and even into parts of the core. Her relationship was limited to the fleet, but it seemed far more intense. Every time she saw a sailor leap to attention or a work crew cease all activity to stare at her, slack jawed, she resolved yet again to be worthy of the adulation. She even seemed to have a strange effect on the civilians who were caught up in the capture of the shipyard. Their reactions ranged from abject fear to an awe that almost seemed as strong as the one in the fleet.

Her crew had been busy. Working around the clock, they’d managed to bring
the fleet back up to thirty-eight battle-ready ships. It helped that they’d been able to grab parts of the shipyard necessary for repair, as well as put to work captured civilian personnel. She didn’t think that the commanding officer of Operation Vulture, the shipyard’s salvaging effort, would be too upset. The truth was, the yard was so big he was pretty much working full-time prepping the outer sections for flotation back to Alliance territory. But she made sure to make all her orders concerning fleet repair into requests and, where possible, accommodate his mission. The courtesy helped, but both knew what would happen if a choice between her priorities and his ever arose. The captain in charge of the salvage operation wisely made sure no such conflict ever happened.

Finally J.D.’s shuttle returned to the recently “donated” hospital ship. J.D. was escorted to the door of the private recovery suite where her most prestigious prisoner was recovering from his near-fatal wounds. Much to the surprise of the armed escort that had met her at the loading bay, but not to Lieutenant Nitelowsen, J.D. searched for a command console to press her hand into. She was flustered by the lack of any. She was then politely reminded that she was not on a warship, or any ship, for that matter, designed and constructed in the Alliance.

“Their war vessels use permiawalls?” she asked, referring to the molecular technology that could sense approaching objects and thereby melt away as needed. Warships and Alliance craft did not have fluid wall portals. They’d purposely over engineered and hardened bulkhead doors that, thought J.D. thankfully, whooshed and closed with a reassuring thud. As she entered the room, part of her was surprised how much the permiawall doorway bothered her. The old Janet wouldn’t have minded, wouldn’t have noticed even, but J. D. Black did and was going to have the damned things replaced at the next opportunity.

But that thought ended as soon as she saw the man in the bed sit up straight and give her a perfectly correct salute. Although not mercenary-trained, she returned the salute as if she’d attended West Point. Once the formality was done Admiral Gupta relaxed.

“Won’t you please have a seat, Admiral Black?” he said.

“Thank you, Admiral Gupta. I’d be delighted to.”

After she was seated, Gupta continued, “I’ve been wanting to thank you. I was visited by as many of my bridge crew as survived, and they told me you’ve been unstinting in your care of my wounded and absolutely correct in the …” He paused at a catch in his throat. “… in the care of my p.d.’s.”

“We always honor the p.d.’s, Admiral. They fought with bravery and honor. To treat your personnel, living or dead, in any other way would be an abomination.”

“They did fight bravely,” he said sadly. “I only wished they’d had a better leader.”

J.D. gave a short, bitter laugh. “And I only wish they’d a worse one.”

Admiral Gupta looked askance at his captor. “Forgive me, Admiral Black, but I’m the prisoner in a recovery bay of what used to be
my
hospital ship. If I’d been as good an admiral as you say, it would be you in this bed and I’d be the one sitting making courteous, if untrue, statements.”

“Admiral Gupta, I’d lie to you in a nanosecond if I thought there was an advantage, but there isn’t. You fought the battle well. Better than I thought a core admiral could. So be honest, would it have gone better if that idiot CEO from CourtIncorp had been in charge?”

“Damsah, no!”

Now J.D. let some of her bitterness show. “It would have been a perfect trap. You were supposed to send your task force to intercept the ‘enemy’ fleet, see that it was ice, re-scan the entire perimeter, and then and only then find my ships crossing the resource field. You were supposed to turn your fleet around, and just as it was out of maximum position I would’ve attacked you from behind, while my second contingent clobbered you from the front. We would’ve made sure to destroy your ship first. That would have left Commodore Diep in charge. After we captured the second task force almost intact in dry dock, we would’ve made it seem like most of our fleet was knocked out of action. If I read Diep correctly, she would have attacked.”

“She would have,” he said, nodding his head in sudden clarity. “You were going for the whole fleet, weren’t you?”

“Initially, but it wasn’t my main goal.”

“With the fleet gone and an intact task force captured you could have mounted an assault on Mars,” he said, shaking his head. “Brilliant.”

J.D. nodded. “Without fleet support I would’ve taken it with minimal loss of life. By God, they might have surrendered! By the time the core had another fleet ready, Mars would have been reinforced and I would’ve been making sorties to Luna and Earth. The Terran Confederation would’ve been forced to the negotiating table.” J.D. reined in her emotion. “But it’s useless to dwell too long on the might have beens. What happened is you waited, gathered sound tactical data, made a choice, and screwed up my plan. I had to go with the alternate. It still might have worked, but your orders to Diep screwed me good. Now she has twenty undamaged top-of-the-line ships behind some of the best orbital batteries in the system.”

“I agree,” said Gupta, “no better orbats than those.”

Gupta, J.D. could now see, was actually visibly relieved that he wasn’t the screwup he’d worked himself up to be.

“So,” he asked, “when will you be pulling out? When the yard’s evacuated?”

“Maybe.”

Gupta considered her words. “You’re still planning to attack Mars.”

J.D. didn’t respond, but her eyes remained fixed and cold.

“But it’s insane, Admiral,” continued Gupta. “You’ll lose your ships and personnel to no purpose.”

“My people,” she answered evenly, “are the best there’s ever been and we won’t get a better chance. If I don’t try this, we’ll all spend the rest of the war wondering what might have been, wondering if we could’ve ended this thing right here, right now. Trust me, Admiral, I know the odds are against us, but they always have been and always will be. We don’t have the luxury of waiting for the odds to be in our favor. But tell me, if you could end the war in one battle, even if the odds were against you, knowing what a long war would do to both sides, wouldn’t you risk it?”

Gupta thought about it for a moment and was forced to nod his head in agreement. “Yes,” he answered solemnly, “yes. I would have to risk it, but the thought of my men and women ordered to hopeless battle would be quite difficult.”

J.D. nodded. “My people can do anything they set their minds to. It’s risky, and it’ll be bloody for sure, but it
will not
be hopeless.”

Gupta stared at her, impressed. Then his look suddenly transformed to one of growing concern.

“Admiral Black,” he asked with a slight trepidation in his voice, “why are you telling me all this?”

J.D.’s visage didn’t change, as she had nothing reassuring to offer. “Two reasons, Admiral. One, I’m not telling you anything Commodore Diep can’t figure out just by reading a scanner. I’m pushing too hard and building up my fleet too fast to just be defending a salvage operation.

“Two, immediately after our conversation here you’ll be placed in suspension and sent to Ceres.” A look of sadness crossed J.D.’s face. “Admiral, I shouldn’t tell you this, but you’ve earned the right to know and be prepared.”

“For what?”

“Officially you’re to be traded for persons the core holds or may capture in the future. But that’s not likely to happen anytime soon—your government has already blamed you for the loss of the Battle of the Martian Gates.”

“Is that what it’s being called?” he said, resigned.

“By us anyway; so far the convention seems to be winner gets to name the battle. But that won’t matter to you. Your government won’t press hard to trade you back and I’ll make sure, no matter how the negotiations go, that you stay suspended while hostilities continue. You should know and not be shocked that when you wake this will all be over, no matter how long it takes.”