The Unincorporated War (51 page)

But few things could match the wonder Justin felt whenever dedicating a ship in the Via Cereana. It never ceased being, in his mind, the absolute ninth wonder of the world, and as far as he and many others were concerned the Cereana was undoubtedly one of the greatest feats of human engineering. Many had argued that the genius lay in the simplicity of the concept: Drill a hole two miles wide through the five-hundred-mile core of Ceres and then spin it on the resulting axis. But that’s not what captivated Justin. It had been what they’d filled it with. All the docking ports, ramps, repair stations, fueling depots, passenger areas, and myriad facilities that made up the active spaceport. Whenever Justin looked up and out he’d be treated to one of the busiest hubs ever created by humanity. When he could, he’d sneak out of the office, find a crevice somewhere, and sit, mesmerized by all the goings-on. In the center of the tube, ships were moving at high speed and always in the same direction. Even at a mile away, they were awesome to behold. They came in all different types and sizes, representing the genius and, in the case of some of the more antiquated ships, suicidal bravery of the people of the Alliance.

To match the wonder of the grand procession of ships majestically sailing through the central tube were all those leaving and entering its unrelenting flow. Ships would pull away, slow down, approach a docking station, and connect to Ceres. They could be tiny, hardly big enough to hold a crew of three bringing back ore samples to be tested by one of the big laboratories. Or they could be megahaulers with container after container of … Justin often didn’t know. They might be transporting a herd of cows specially bred for low-gravity farming settlements or be filled with hundreds of two-person flyers. They could also be the large passenger liners bringing, it sometimes seemed, all the people of the Alliance to Ceres. It helped that the dwarf planet could replicate almost all gravity environments. Another advantage of its central tube was that the closer one
was to the core, the lower the centrifugal gravity. Naturally Ceres had accommodations, shops, and ser vices available at all gravity conditions, from micro to the two-thirds that made up the main habitat levels. In fact, Ceres’s gravitational flexibility had been a consideration in its choice as the capital of the Alliance. It was one of the few places that had the ability to accommodate so many in such variety.

Justin was sorry that he’d have to miss the ballet of commerce and humanity today, but a ship awaited her official naming and there’d be no time. As soon as he arrived, almost all of his annoyance at having been called away from work vanished. When he saw the spacers of the Alliance waiting for him with that look of hope and pride he could do nothing but strive to be the leader they’d envisioned.

It was almost always the same. These “new” crews were usually from other ships that had been damaged beyond repair or just as often from the same settlement. Admiral Sinclair had set up an abbreviated but still effective boot camp for them. Whenever possible the crews or settlers were usually kept together, but the ships they’d be manning were often so large that different groups who might normally never have even known about the other’s existence were suddenly thrown together. Sinclair always leavened them out with experienced spacers from other ships in the Alliance, often but not always men and women who had been wounded and were returning to duty. These vets brought with them a dose of reality as to the dangers of fighting not only the usual enemies of vacuum, radiation, excessive gravity, and high-velocity debris but the added joy of other highly trained human beings doing their level best to wipe them off the face of the grid.

It usually took a few weeks of rigorous training and some strenuous extracurricular sports—fleet slang for fighting—but soon enough the crews became cohesive and began to think the word “us” meant anyone in their crew. It was then and only then that they were assigned a ship. And it was a fact that whichever one they were given promptly became the best damned one in the fleet. And if they were really lucky, the President, a man who’d defied the corporate enslavers and showed the best part of humanity the road to freedom, would come down and personally name their ship.

Justin found himself standing in front of one of the bigger battle cruisers he’d ever christened. She had had some special modifications that J. D. Black had briefed him on. What she’d referred to as “modifications” he’d called “aces up the sleeve.” J.D. and Kenji’s aces had become the signature of the Alliance and had allowed them to stay one step ahead of the UHF. J.D. had trounced the enemy with defeat after crushing defeat, and if need be she’d continue to do so until the core was made to realize that the price of war was too high. This latest ship with her three main rail guns in its central axis would help. But it was the
name that the crew had chosen that Justin found particularly intriguing. She was to be called
God’s Hammer.

Apparently the majority of the medics training with the crews had come from the communities of belief, and they’d had a profound impact on the captain of the about-to-be-commissioned ship. The captain, who’d seen more combat than most, having fought in almost every major battle of the war, found solace in the teachings of the believers. Justin wasn’t sure how he personally felt about the recent revival of religion but remembered the famous maxim about there being no atheists in a foxhole. And if faith brought comfort to his spacers he wouldn’t lessen that comfort by voicing his own skepticism.

Justin arrived at the port in Alliance One, which he personally thought was a ridiculous waste of time, since he already lived on Ceres. But the fleet loved it when his starship would dock next to the ship about to be commissioned. He’d then disembark with all the pomp and ceremony fitting the office of the President. Justin thought it quite amusing that for a people who made a big deal about how much they didn’t make a big deal about anything—“unlike them tradition-bound core dwellers”—they still seemed to love it whenever he showed up—official decorum in tow.

He would then give a rendition of his standard commissioning-a-ship speech. He’d of course add personal notes, usually concerning the bravery and ser vice record of the newly promoted captain. He’d comment on something concerning the new name and then finish off with a thank-you to all those present for what they were doing for the Alliance and the future of the human race. The last part was never anything other than sincere. This time was no different, and when Justin officially pronounced the name the space-suited men and women on the newly commissioned AWS
God’s Hammer
yelled into their helmets’ radio mikes and stamped their space-suited hands and feet on the bulkheads. Justin saw that some of the more adventurous even detached from the hull and did some somersaults till they were retrieved by their more levelheaded shipmates. Justin and the captain gave each other a salute and then shook hands in full view of the crew and mediabots. Then, with the same coruscations with which he’d arrived, Justin would depart. He knew that, barring an emergency, the newly commissioned crew would be hitting the more entertaining parts of Ceres in the eve ning and would tomorrow be joining the fleet, where J. D. Black would begin training them in the reality of joint ship operations.

Justin entered Alliance One, stripped out of his space suit, and immediately got back to work. Of course he could’ve just gone back to the Cliff House via any one of the docking ports nearest
God’s Hammer,
but the spacers liked to see him leave in Alliance One almost as much as they enjoyed watching him arrive. Besides, it would give him an excuse not to be in the Cliff House for another hour.

Even though the docking port for Alliance One was only ten miles away from
God’s Hammer,
it was in the wrong direction. And while Alliance One may have been the President’s personal transport, even he couldn’t buck the universal rule that traffic flowed only one way in the Via Cereana. Justin was going to have to go around like everyone else. It was a rule he agreed with and liked because it showed the Alliance that the rules applied to everyone. Besides, there was little he could do in the Cliff House that he couldn’t do in the ship.

Justin was reviewing a yield estimate on hydrogen extraction around Jupiter when the alarms suddenly sounded. He was out of his bunk and on the way to the bridge before he even realized he was moving.

“What’s going on, sebastian?” he demanded.

His faithful avatar sounded from the DijAssist attached to Justin’s belt. “A transport ship from Pluto, Justin; they’re experiencing drive failure. They cannot decelerate or control vectors.”

“Can the Cereana use its magnetic grapplers to guide it into an emergency channel and slow it down?” asked Justin as he continued on his way to the bridge.

“I’m afraid not, Justin. They’re too far out. Without any intervention they’ll impact Ceres.”

“How many on board the transport?” Justin asked, now entering the bridge.

“Over twelve hundred,” answered Cyrus Anjou, who’d guessed Justin’s destination and beaten him to it. “Around seven hundred of which are suspended. They’re on the way here for medical treatment that can’t be gotten elsewhere.”

“Closest ship?” asked Justin.

“That would be us,” answered the ship’s captain, swinging around from his command chair.

“Captain Baitmen, we need to get close to that ship and see if we can use our magnetic adhesion skids to attach to the superstructure.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll also need to divert that ship from Ceres, so let’s get over there and see if we can get their systems back online. I’ll be suiting up if anyone needs me.”

“Captain, disregard that order,” said Cyrus coolly. “Presidential guard to bridge,” he then said to his DijAssist.

“Cyrus,” asked Justin, swinging around to face his friend, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“My job. Captain, prepare the shuttle for immediate departure. Mr. President, come with me to the shuttle please.”

“Cyrus,” Justin replied through clenched teeth, “stop being overprotective.” He then turned to the pilot. “Captain, I’m giving you a direct order.”

“Captain,” interjected Cyrus, “your primary duty is ensuring the safety of the President.”

Captain Baitmen hesitated only a moment. “Sorry, Mr. President, but I cannot obey.”

“But those people will die if I don’t help them!”

“Mr. President,” answered Cyrus, “if you want to help them, then get off this ship. Once you’re off, Alliance One will attempt a rescue—but not one second before, and as you’re well aware, every second counts.”

“Those are my people, Cyrus. I will not continue to sit on my ass while others take all the risks. They need me and I’ll help them if I have to go through you to do it.” At that moment five well-armed men appeared led by the now stone-faced Sergeant Holke.

“Mr. President,” intoned Cyrus, “they are
all
your people. You have to live for all of them. As a matter of fact, four billion people need you to live—not to mention the uncounted billions waiting to be born.” Cyrus then placed both his hands on Justin’s shoulders, forcing direct eye contact. “Justin,” he said in a surprisingly calm voice, “you no longer have the right to risk your life. You get on the shuttle and we’ll rescue the transport, I promise.”

Every fiber in Justin’s body wanted to leap regardless of the danger, but he’d been forced to swallow the bitter truth of Cyrus Anjou’s words. “Let’s go to the shuttle,” Justin said, grabbing Cyrus. “You’re not getting off that easy either; you’ll have to come with me.”

“Mr. President, I can help. In the Jovian system,” sputtered Cyrus. “I used to run transports to the ice fields of Europa—”

Justin was pulling Cyrus and signaled the sergeant to grab the other arm, which the sergeant did expertly while increasing speed to the shuttle. “No way, Cyrus; I’d be hard-pressed to keep Jupiter playing nice with all the others without your advice. Is there anyone else who can do what you do and knows what you know?”

Cyrus, being dragged along, remained mute.

“Didn’t think so.”

They got to the shuttle and were both shoved in by the sergeant. “You too, Sergeant,” ordered Justin. “I can’t be left without any security, can I?” Justin could see that Sergeant Holke wanted to argue but in the end slung his rail gun over his shoulder and got in the shuttle.

Three days later Justin visited all the rescued Plutonians. That visit and the award ceremony for the crews who rescued the malfunctioning transport both ended up making great stories for the press. The report showing that the ship had left Pluto without backup systems was given less play. Apparently she’d stripped her backup system for use in other ships, a practice becoming so common as to elicit almost no surprise.

The Eros front or what the Alliance calls the 180 front is starting to heat up. The return of Samuel Trang has led to new offensive operations in the area between the forces of the UHF and the forces of rebellion. Commodore Trang seems to be avoiding any all-out battles with the Alliance forces and is instead concentrating on a slow and steady approach. His strategy is to take and hold every settlement and asteroid of substantial size as he advances slowly toward his goal—the settlement of Altamont. The large asteroid is home to a group of religious fanatics who it’s rumored have given their absolute loyalty to the forces of rebellion and chaos. All this reporter can say is, can anyone really be surprised by that?

—N.N.N.

Admiral Joshua Sinclair was sitting on the Cliff House balcony having breakfast and following a new tradition, giving the President his morning briefing. Sinclair had ordered a cup of Earl Grey tea that had been grown in one of the farming settlements near Ceres. It had been part of the export market to Earth, but as that market was now cut off, Ceres and indeed the whole asteroid belt were being sold large amounts of high-quality tea at prices that were making it a very popular drink. It was helped by the fact that the core had almost all the coffee plantations and so coffee was both expensive and viewed as a slightly disloyal beverage to consume. At times the admiral missed his cup of joe, but there was a variant of tea called Imperial Gunpowder that he was becoming quite fond of. However, the President always drank Earl Grey and therefore so did Sinclair.