The Unincorporated War (71 page)

Hektor stood uncharacteristically still. He did absolutely nothing but stare at the now-empty space where his mistress had just exited.

“My dear Miss Harper,” he said through a rictus of cruel delight, “you don’t even know the meaning of the word.”

Later that afternoon Hektor got a message from Dr. Wong. By the time he called her back he was looking forward to a conversation not bogged down by the insufferable platitudes of bureaucrats or the interminable indulging of the pennies. He’d clearly forgotten the old adage about being careful what you wished for.

“Doctor,” he said, “what do you have for me? And please don’t tell me it’s a bud get problem.”

“Well,” she answered, a little too straight-faced for his liking, “it doesn’t have to do with my bud get. But we may have a real problem with our … um … postwar plans for the Alliance.”

Hektor knew immediately what she was referring to. He’d known that occupying and controlling an area the size of the Alliance even after a military victory had given them complete military control would be a difficult and expensive task. Especially when every credit would be needed recovering from the devastation of the most destructive war in three centuries. Hektor planned to make extensive use of his secret shadow-auditing program during the postwar reconstruction. If there was a problem with that strategy he needed to know about it as soon as possible.

“I changed my mind, Doc, Make it a bud get problem.”

Wong didn’t laugh. “I did a full profile on the woman you sent over. Sampson was her name.”

“The one with the superstitious belief?”

“That’s the one, but we can’t call it superstition. I can psyche-audit for superstition. Faith is what they call it and it’s a whole other ball of wax.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“We tried a shadow audit after a full mapping.”

“And?”

“It caused a cerebral collapse.”

“What the … she was trip-wired?” asked Hektor, referring to the seldom-used practice of adding sleeper nanites programmed to activate should a brain-altering attempt be made.

“I wish she had been,” answered Wong. “This was not, I repeat:
not
an artificial defense. Near as we can figure, what happened is when we altered some of her pathways to make her more amenable to a proper way of thinking it created a conflict with her faith and she went catatonic. We thought we had the areas of the brain that deal with faith fully mapped, but when we attempted to alter them we were left with a brain-dead lump.”

“Then let’s do more experimenting,” Hektor said with a hint of desperation.

“Mr. President, I know my job. I requisitioned five more subjects with this faith complex. Every subject I tried the shadow audit on brought about the same or similar result as the Sampson woman. Three were immediately reduced to childlike states and will need reeducating. One was functional, but with obvious impairment, and one went catatonic again. The whole purpose of shadow auditing is to make a change that goes unnoticed or at least appears to be organic in nature. This ain’t it.”

“Doctor,” said Hektor as he nervously ran his fingers through his hair, “given the suspicions the Alliance already has about Neela, if our prisoners were to come out like these test subjects we’d have more unrest than if we left them alone with a crate full of plasma grenades.”

“I’ll keep working on it, Mr. President, but without a major breakthrough it will be enormously difficult to alter a brain against its faith without it being obvious, which of course—”

“—makes shadow auditing useless for my reconstruction plans,” finished Hektor, suddenly looking very tired. “Take as many resources and subjects as you need. Keep me posted. I’ll work on it from another angle.”

When the call ended, Hektor leaned back and thought long and hard about the implications of the conversation. After a few minutes he shook his head and his face twisted into a petulant grin. “Justin Cord, you son of a bitch,” he said, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

He then straightened up. “iago, call a cabinet meeting and tell them it’s about a new Alliance threat.” Hektor paused. “No … on second thought, tell them it’s about an
old
Alliance threat.

“You got it, boss.”

The shoreline by the Cerean Sea was ideal for picnicking. Justin hadn’t been back much since Neela had been lost. But Dr. Nesor had somehow managed to get him and Fawa to accept a few hours respite from their busy schedules. Justin was intuitively aware that it wouldn’t be wise to offend one of the leading religious figures in the Alliance. He knew that Fawa wouldn’t have taken offense if he’d refused, but the truth was, he liked and found comfort in the religious
leader and could see why Janet had become so enamored of her. Fawa seemed to have a core of peace and certainty that radiated from and around her. He was doubly pleased when he found out that Brother Sampson would be present. Pinning medals on war heroes was one thing; actually getting to spend some quality time with them was another.

Justin soon found himself enjoying a swim with the brother. As they floated on their backs and looked at the “roof” far above, Justin couldn’t help but notice that Sampson had some rather large scars.

Sampson smiled sheepishly. “My sister would call it the sin of pride, and I fear she may be right. But I, like the blessed one, feel that I’ve earned these,” he said, looking onto his torso, “and to remove them now would be a disservice to the memories of ones who are, in this world, now only memory.”

“If your sister’s in the fleet,” said Justin, “we could always ask if she’s keeping hers. Might alleviate the whole ‘sin of pride’ thing.”

Brother Sampson’s normally beaming face suddenly dimmed. “She was recently captured. I haven’t heard from Patricia for over three months now. Notice was sent from the UHF that she was suspended and will be held thus until the end of hostilities.”

“I’m sorry,” said Justin.

“Don’t be. I should be happy that she’s now safe from the dangers of the war, but I …” Sampson didn’t finish his sentence.

“You what?” prodded Justin.

“I know it’s selfish, but I miss our talks. We’d argue for hours on end. But they were wonderful arguments and I … I just can’t escape the feeling that I will not see her again. At least not in this life.”

“I’ll check in on it, Brother. It’s possible that if we get exchanges happening again, we’ll be able to get her traded in the first batch.”

At the beginning of the war both sides had exchanged captured prisoners regularly. This saved both sides the bother of suspending and storing the other side’s soldiers. Unfortunately, one of Trang’s first actions as Grand Admiral of the UHF was to suspend all exchanges indefinitely. He’d figured, correctly, that the exchanges helped the Alliance far more than the UHF. Even when the Alliance offered to exchange three to four UHF soldiers for one Alliance prisoner, Trang had refused. It had caused some resentment in the UHF, but Trang didn’t care; he had the ability to replace his soldiers; the Alliance didn’t.

“I doubt,” said Brother Sampson, “that the misguided though skilled Admiral Trang would do anything so foolish as to reinstitute prisoner trades. And if he does, please do not give my sister any special consideration. She’d find her freedom a burden if she felt that it came at the continued imprisonment of another.”

The call of a woman’s voice over the water informed them that lunch was about to be served. They swam the short distance back to shore, toweled off, and made their way to a picnic table. The next hour and a half was spent eating cold sandwiches and discussing the newly found religious faith sweeping the Alliance. Justin was particularly interested in a conclave being called forth in Alhambra.

“But why do you feel the need to call a religious conclave now?” asked Dr. Nesor.

“When the war started,” answered Fawa, “the communities of belief had adherents in the hundreds of thousands. Now over five years later we have hundreds of millions and the faithful grow in ever-increasing numbers. But they have so many questions and so many fears and so many needs.” Fawa then looked over to Brother Sampson.

“It was felt,” he continued, “that if the greatest imams, priests, rabbis, and monks were to get together we could show the importance and function of our common beliefs as well as our unity of purpose. Faith is one of the greatest and most sublime gifts humanity possesses. But like wealth or talent or love, it’s a gift that can be used badly. Three centuries ago religion was so misused as to almost extinguish humanity. We of the communities of belief are cognizant of the promise and the perils involved with a true and abiding faith. But the newly faithful are not. We must remind them of the dangers and by constant and consistent example show them the way the gift was meant to be used by our heavenly father.”

“It’s a way for his children to find one another,” continued Fawa, “help one another, and rejoice in each other. So we will go to Alhambra, the greatest of our centers of learning. We will have the usual debates, disagreements, and agreements. Once more the Alliance will see that all the faiths are as one in the important matters and will hear our words and know us by our actions.”

Brother Sampson’s face was alight. “Fawa, you have said in a simple paragraph what many of us would have taken two days to express.”

“I am a simple woman in the service of God, so it’s of no surprise and not worthy of notice that I speak simply.”

“You speak clearly and well, Sister,” affirmed Brother Sampson.

“Thank you, Brother. But of course you will join us at the conclave in Alhambra.”

Brother Sampson shook his head. “Please accept my apologies, but I have to report back to duty. The blessed one has seen fit to have me continue as her chaplain.”

“Surely she would be willing to detach you for so important a matter. The war has quieted down as of late, except for the continued bloodletting of the 180, and you’re not going there.”

“Begging your forgiveness, Fawa, but I must go where the Lord and Admiral Sinclair wish me to.”

“I’m sure I could arrange a little furlough,” said Justin.

Brother Sampson’s serene face suddenly seemed less so.

“He doesn’t like being in the center of attention,” said Dr. Nesor, coming to his rescue. “In a religious conclave he can’t help but be one of the most sought after and talked about. His articles and his example of personal courage in battle after battle as well as the Seacrest raid have made our dear brother a most romantic figure. His only hope of being left in some peace is to stand near someone who draws even more attention. Who better than the ‘blessed one’ J. D. Black? Only our President offers as much attraction as a distraction … but,” she continued with a slight twinkle in her eye, “he only needs a smidgen of religion.”

The group broke into polite applause over Nesor’s clever wordplay, Justin dropped the idea, and Brother Sampson mouthed the words
Thank you
to the doctor as the afternoon slowly wound down.

Justin headed back to a meeting at the Cliff House. He was coming to hate the place and had determined to resign his presidency when the war was over, let the Congress pick whoever the hell it wanted to replace him, and then he would grow cabernet sauvignon grapes somewhere in the caverns of Sedma. But he wouldn’t abandon his duty. He’d work at his appointed tasks until they were completed. Justin figured if he hadn’t been killed up until now, he was pretty sure that he’d be able to survive while protected by some of the fiercest warriors the Alliance had ever produced.

Since it was an official cabinet meeting Cyrus had set it up in the newly built cabinet room, the creation of which had caused no small amount of protestation from Secretary of Security Kirk Olmstead. Cyrus being Cyrus, he couldn’t resist setting up an almost festive side table with light snacks as well as all manner of gastronomic delights. But no one would confuse the bright smorgasbord with anything other than a picayune embellishment to a room in which decisions affecting the fate of billions were made. The oval table, the dark-painted walls, the top-of-the-line holo-tank in the middle of the table, the comfortable chairs, and the guards posted at a door with the presidential seal behind them all spoke to the magnitude of the space. All of which was why Justin preferred the balcony.

This time all five of his cabinet secretaries as well as Cyrus Anjou were in the room as Justin arrived. They all stood and Justin was glad he’d followed Dr. Nesor’s advice and changed out of his shorts and sandals into his daily presidential garb. “Glad you could all make it,” he said, sitting down. “Sorry I’m late.”

Sinclair jumped to Justin’s defense. “Begging your pardon, Mr. President, but only you’d call getting here on time ‘being late.’”

“One of the cardinal rules of business and bureaucracy, Admiral,” said Justin, acknowledging the compliment, “is that the last person to the meeting is always late, no matter what time it was called for.” Justin then got right down to business. “What’s the latest from the war?”

“They’re rebuilding their fleet at Mars much as we suspected,” answered Sinclair. “The orbats are so dense as to make any assault almost impossible to succeed.”

“Naturally,” said Justin, “that means J.D. wants to attack.”

“Yes, Mr. President. She has a good fleet. And even though her repairs are taking longer than usual, the UHF doesn’t have squat that can challenge us. Plus they wouldn’t dare leave the safety of the Martian orbats in their present state.”