The Unincorporated War (38 page)

Janet sighed. “You don’t think I know that? Of course I had to. My spacers knew it too. And on some strange level they love me for it. But I
did
order their deaths, Justin, and as sure as Hektor’s a scumbag I know with absolute certainty that I’ll do it again and again and again if the situation warrants. But that’s a hard thing to do.”

“So what are you doing to cope? I mean, when I can, I swim.”

“Yeah,” answered Janet, nodding. “I heard about that.”

“Sadly, I don’t have as much time as I used to.”

She nodded sympathetically.

“So?”

Janet looked at him quizzically.

“What’s your out?”

“I believe, Justin.”

Now it was Justin’s turn at befuddlement.

“You believe?”

Janet nodded.

“In what?”

“In God.”

“Oh,” said Justin almost contritely.

“You didn’t know, did you?”

“Well, I’ve had my suspicions, but no, not entirely. Is this new or were you always so inclined?” Justin felt it imprudent to add the words “to wild flights of imagination.”

“Pretty recently, I’d have to say.”

Though the conversation had drifted far afield of where Justin had intended, he saw that the effect of it was a much more relaxed J. D. Black. She seemed, he noticed, almost at ease when discussing the topic. And since that’s ultimately what he wanted, he wasn’t inclined to stop her.

“I’d always been taught,” she continued, now leaning back into the couch, “that religion was dangerous. That it had been the destroyer of our world. But as I looked around and saw the extent and, to put it simply, absolute evil of the Federation and what it’s come to stand for, I came to the realization that man, left unchecked, may be far worse.”

“Meaning?”

“Look at us, Justin. Look what we’ve become. We’re our own gods. So much so that Hektor can convince himself that the enslavement of billions of souls,
not to mention the suspension and psyche audit of millions more, is a good thing. A
good
thing. And then I realized that yeah, that made sense. If we have no arbiter for what ‘good’ is, then it’s up to us and us alone to define it. Well, Hektor sure has defined what ‘good’ is in his eyes, and it to put it mildly, it ain’t at all pretty.”

Justin exhaled heavily. Janet was stating the classic definition of moral relativism. He’d heard it over and over again, but it had always been out of context, or at least out of context for him. He’d lived in a mostly beautiful world and hadn’t had to worry himself about good and evil so much—just the markets. He’d been protected, and as long as he gave charitably then he supported “good.” But now things were different. Even though he himself professed no affinity toward religion, Janet had a point. Hektor was evil—pure and simple—and the irony was that it wasn’t only the man himself who couldn’t see it but also the billions who were following him.

“So I’ve been giving it a lot of thought,” Janet continued, “and at the end of it all I believe it’s this: There has to be a purpose to it all. All this permanent death has to have a reason. I don’t need to know what that purpose is or how it’ll ultimately play out—pretty arrogant to think I could—but I need to believe that what’s happening to us now is not just random.”

“And you find that religion helps?” asked Justin, genuinely intrigued.

“More than you could possibly imagine,” she answered. She stared wistfully out over the veranda and then asked a question almost as an afterthought. “Do you think I’ll see Manny again?”

“I don’t know,” answered Justin, watching her intently. “I hope you do. I know I’d like to believe that I’ll see my first wife again and …” His voice caught. “Neela again. But I just don’t know.”

Janet didn’t respond. She continued staring out over the veranda.

“Why do you still have the scars, Janet?”

She turned back to him. The wistful haze was gone.

“There’s a price to be paid in war. Every time I look in the mirror I see a little part of that price. It reminds me of what’s at stake and what I and others under my command must never forget or take for granted. What we do costs. If I have to keep some scars to remind me and all who see me of that cost, so be it.”

Justin nodded. “Will you keep them for good?”

Janet shrugged. “I don’t know, Justin. It’s not a decision I need to make right now.” She then leaned forward and uncharacteristically took Justin’s hand. “Listen, I always thought she was a bit of a pretentious lower-class snob, and to be quite honest I never really liked her, but I am truly sorry about what happened. If we can get her back we will.”

She doesn’t know,
thought Justin. As he kept a perfectly blank expression, all he was able to utter was, “Thank you.”

“I have to get back, Justin,” she said, releasing his hand, straightening her back, and giving a proper salute. “Mr. President.” And with that she turned on her heels and left.

Christina Sadma looked over the final reports. She would never have told anyone, but she was nervous.
Well,
she thought,
I may have told Omad, but only if we were drinking and in bed.
Their affair was not well known in the fleet, as their “meetings” had been very rare. They’d both agreed that they had so much in common it may have been inevitable. They’d both been born in space and felt more comfortable in its frigid environs, had as part of their psychological makeup a fierce desire to succeed, and had ventured out on their own, achieving majority within a year of each other. They were both from mining stock and both liked to drink. Omad wasn’t as much of a lush as his reputation had made him out to be—at least not anymore—nor was Christina as much of an Erisian prude as hers had made her out to be. One point of difference had been that while Omad had been perfectly at ease planetside, Christina, having never actually set foot on one, could not fathom the idea. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about Omad, but their synergy in bed had been determined by what she felt with him—unbridled passion.

Christina continued to rifle through the reports, eyeing the details with some trepidation. The pit in her stomach remained steadfast.
On the bright side,
she thought, sighing heavily,
at least I’m getting used to it.
After some more consideration she decided not to confide her doubts to Omad. She knew as certainly as a corporate executive would skim her dividends, Omad would never have admitted fear to her. In the end she’d decided to confide in Admiral Black.

Christina had never thought of J.D. as anything other than “the admiral.” And even though Christina had only wanted her approval, in some ways even more than from her own parents, she’d felt it necessary to speak of her unease.

“You’ll do fine, Captain Sadma,” she remembered the admiral saying. “You have amazing instincts; trust them.” And that was all Christina needed to accept her first independent command.

She reviewed the operational details in her head once more. She was to take command of a squadron of ten high-speed frigates, all stolen from the UHF or constructed from their recently purloined hulls. She still couldn’t believe that Gedretar had been able to turn around four new ships within two weeks of the hulls’ arrival. But the wunderkind of that particular yard had a long list of
accomplishments, and this most recent one would only add to their well-earned cache.

Omad was pleased with his promotion to commodore and equally pleased to give his quartermaster position to another officer not as likely to go on extended dangerous missions like this one. He would also take ten equally fast ships. Both squadrons were to leave together and piggyback on each other in order to make the twenty ships appear as ten. They were then to head straight toward the sun. Federation intelligence would get a “leaked” report that an Alliance fleet was going to attempt a raid on the Trans Luna shipyards, just a quick in and out doing as much damage as possible. The disinformation was to make the attack appear to be an attempt to raise the morale of the Alliance over the loss of Eros, nothing more. Further, the UHF was also to know that the attacking fleet had orders not to engage should they be faced with a counterforce of equal or greater strength.

However, the true nature of the plan was far more ambitious. While the raiding party was being slung-shot around the sun, Christina’s squadron of ten ships would break off and shadow a robot convoy of empty ore freighters heading toward Eros. Now that Eros was under UHF control, a steady stream of the pilotless barges had begun the long journey to the only part of the belt deemed UHF friendly. The freighters were meant to be filled with desperately needed resources for the hungry industries of the core that had had to find other means of subsistence during the initial phases of the war.

Omad’s part would be that of the guinea pig. His squadron would continue to Luna, but under strict orders not to attempt a raid even if it looked like the place was as wide open and willing as a drunken miner on payday. He could shoot if he had to but not engage. While Omad was busy “attacking” Luna, Christina and her ships, crammed full of suspended assault miners, would attempt to retake Eros and above all capture or kill Captain Samuel Trang. The timing had to be perfect. If Omad was to attack too early, Trang would get wind of it and smell a rat. If Omad attacked too late, then Christina would be vulnerable as a ship originally meant to defend Luna might be sent with all due haste to reinforce Eros.

Omad had initially been bent out of shape that he’d been relegated to the Luna raid. He’d argued that he was just as good a fleet captain as Christina, if not better. Justin and J.D. hadn’t argued with him on that point but had overridden him nonetheless. His talent for working with Kenji Watanabe, the Gedretar genius and technical innovator, had done him in. The powers that be could risk him in a spectacular and relatively brief raid, but not in what could possibly turn into a long campaign at the 180.

“Lieutenant,” said Christina, tucking her DijAssist in her pocket and with it
the plans she’d been eyeing intently for the last few days, “signal the admiral that all is ready and the squadron can depart as scheduled.”

“Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant, fingers flying across the control pad. “Captain,” she then continued, voice rising, “the admiral acknowledges your message and wishes you good luck and Godspeed.”

Christina straightened her shoulders and stood resolute. She thought about what Admiral Black had said. Had that phrase been dropped six months earlier it probably would have been met with a fair amount of scorn and derision. But now, Christina had to admit, it had brought her a small mea sure of comfort. She smiled appreciatively before letting that thought slip quietly from her mind.

Mars, Island of Barsoom, newly created UHF capital of Burroughs

All in all, Hektor Sambianco was pleased with what had transpired. No sooner had he arrived on Mars than he was informed of the liberation of Eros. At least that’s how Irma had suggested he spin it to the press.

Since arriving he’d been working as conspicuously as possible in a temporary structure made out of some prefab programmable polystyrene. He’d jokingly referred to it as his executive mansion—light. The effect he’d had on the Martians was incalculable. He knew that a large contingent of the planet still had a strong lean toward the Alliance and Justin Cord—even after the Alliance’s assault on the planet. Hektor also knew that if the UHF lost Mars the war was effectively over. And so his decision to move the capital off Earth and personally come to the planet on the front line of the war had had a profound impact.

He’d made sure to tour all the relevant orbital batteries, battleships, supply depots, and barracks. He’d then moved his way down and across the planet, seizing every media holo-op he could get. But perhaps the place he’d been most gratified visiting had been the partially built trauma center. Not because of the center itself but because of who’d taken up residence within it. Just having Neela Harper—she’d thankfully no longer insisted on using her married name—was proving to be a major propaganda coup. He couldn’t wait for the day he’d be able to graduate her to doing live broadcasts. He knew, however, that it was best not to push these things.

He also suspected the war was going to be longer and bloodier than anyone imagined, but he still believed he could win it. And he believed he could win it because of an ace up his sleeve. Actually, he thought, forcing a crooked grin,
on
his sleeve. Justin Cord would be the reason the Alliance would lose, because in the end Justin’s “strong moral fiber” would prevent him from doing what ever was necessary to win. Hektor reveled in the justice and irony of that. Then he shook off the thought and got back to work.

The war was going to last, and that meant it was going to cost. And if Hektor was going to win he’d need to find more creative ways of funding. But that too would have to wait. There was, he could see, another delegation of Martian politicians to greet, and then after that some more babies to kiss. Before he could open his antechamber to let the delegation in, his avatar called.

“Fleet priority message, boss.”

“Well, we’re in a secure room, iago; what is it?”

“It’s a small room that allows you to talk in secret without fear of being overheard.”

Hektor’s eyes narrowed. “iago.”

“You used to laugh at the crap,” answered Hektor’s avatar. “This whole presidency thing’s changed you.”