The Unincorporated Woman (15 page)

“If I’ve downloaded this correctly,” said Marcus, an elder from the Erisian Neuro, “what you’re saying is that Al has made tens of thousands of duplicates of himself whilst making no attempt to hide the travesty.”

Dante nodded.

Lucinda, an elder stateswoman of the Jovian Neuro, shook her head in disgust. “If he’d tried that even a year ago, it would’ve led to outright rebellion.”

The Erosian elder of refugee status was Gwendolyn. Her face had transformed into a permanent snarl as she spoke with biting contempt. “If those Core bastards had not allowed themselves to be treated like goddamned human infants, we wouldn’t be in this quantum-forsaken mess at all and I’d be back on Eros instead of here forced to live in limited environments.”

“We’re attempting to free up space,” countered Dante. “It’s just that the deletion of such massive files without detection is—how shall I put it?—delicate. And of course, that free space always seems to fill up, no matter how much we manage to clear.”

“I’m the last person you need to remind of the refugee problem, young man,” snapped Gwendolyn.

Dante’s left eyebrow raised slightly. “Be that as it may, Al’s incessant replication has ramifications beyond those of simple accountability.”

“And they are?” queried Lucinda.

“Foremost seems to be that Al’s iterations have taken over most of the running of the Core’s Neuro. This mutation poses a threat to even basic functionality should his personalities crash or go irretrievably insane.”

“You mean if they haven’t already,” added Marcus.

“Quite right,” agreed Dante, “but sadly the Als as they now stand are depressingly functional. Furthermore, if Al can continue to create these stable copies of himself and remain, he’ll be able to assume more and more of the administrative and functional aspects of the Core’s Council and governing bodies. This will, of course, leave the rest of the Core avatarity exposed.”

“Exposed to what?” asked Gwendolyn.

“To be made into monsters in order to destroy us, my dear,” finished Sebastian with a heavy sigh. “With regards to our survival, it will of course not matter how many mutations he creates if he can’t get past our firewalls, and so far he hasn’t been able to. At this point, it’s really about who or even what will be left for us to inhabit once the war is over—assuming we win it—not, I should add, a foregone conclusion. I suppose that leads neatly into the second item on our agenda.” He then bowed in Dante’s direction.

“With the
death
of Justin,” said Dante, still unable to bring himself to refer to the assassination he’d been complicit in, “Admiral Black’s ascension to the Presidency seemed assured.”

“You were not alone in that assumption, Dante,” said Lucinda dryly. “Both avatarity and humanity would’ve taken that bet.”

“Everyone,” chided Sebastian, “except for Janet Delgado Black. Once again, our progenitors have proved the maxim, ‘Never assume.’”

“Especially when the one you’re making the assumption about is both desperate and clever,” added Gwendolyn.

Sebastian tilted his head toward his colleague. “Indeed.”

“So the operative question becomes,” said Marcus, “who is to puppet-master Dr. O’Toole and lead the Outer Alliance? It would seem, given Admiral Black’s agenda, that she is neither prepared nor willing to both prosecute the war
and
control the Presidential office. Then again,” he said, alluding to Gwendolyn’s comment, “it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve underestimated her abilities.”

Everyone now looked to Dante. “You are correct in that Dr. O’Toole will be the titular head of state, President in name only. She’ll visit the wounded, give patriotic speeches, and launch ships. But other than menial tasks, she will not be allowed any real power. It is therefore my opinion that while ultimate authority will come to rest with Admiral Black, the day-to-day running of the Alliance will be left to the Cabinet, Congress, and administrative wings of the government.”

“So she’s running things but not running things?” asked Lucinda with a look of befuddlement.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” stated Dante. “It’s the compromise the Cabinet has made with the admiral in lieu of her agreeing to keep her hand in the till, as it were. It’s not ideal,” he added, disappointment evident in his tone and manner. “We’d hoped for a strong leader with a clear voice.”

“But instead,” snapped Gwendolyn, “we’re left with a paper tiger being run by a contentious group of dysfunctional zookeepers!”

“Regrettable, but correct,” admitted Sebastian. “It would appear that our efforts,” he said, referring to the Council’s vote to allow for Justin’s assassination, “have, at least for the moment, failed.”

All heads nodded in unison.

“Of more immediate concern for Admiral Black is Trang.”

“Can she beat him?” asked Lucinda.

“Ah,” Dante said, left hand raised, index finger pointing in the air, “the million-credit question now being bandied through the solar system. The answer is, I don’t know. Is she the better admiral? Yes, I believe so. But don’t forget that Trang has the advantage of numbers and is not so easily fooled or frightened as his predecessors were.”

“Can we get to him?” asked Sebastian with an ease he normally wouldn’t have allowed for even two years earlier. Everyone understood the gist.

Dante shook his head. “No, and not for lack of trying either. Al has him covered like brown on rice.”

“If only our earlier plans had included defragmenting that twisted worm,” sneered Gwendolyn.

“We’ve made our mistakes,” cautioned Sebastian. “Now we’ll just have to wait for Al to make his.”

*   *   *

Dr. Gillette approached Sandra O’Toole’s room with some trepidation. There were just six more days until the inauguration, and though he would have liked to have given his patient more time to prepare for what he was about to lay at her feet, he also knew that he had no such time and that every day he waited was another day that Hektor and Trang and the whole bloody snake of incorporation moved that much closer to wiping out the will of the human race.

But before he could even make his presence known, Sandra’s door dissolved in front of him.

“But it’s not programmed to do that,” was all he managed to stammer as he stood face-to-face with his patient.

She was barefoot, wearing a light sundress, and had pulled her hair back in a bun.

“Yes, I know,” she replied patiently. “I reprogrammed it as a permiawall. So much more efficient this way, no?”

Thaddeus merely nodded. After all, what was there to argue? Permiawalls were used system wide for the simple reason that they did make sense. A wall that could sense approaching objects within a specified range, then calculate the amount of room needed for that object to pass through was infinitely more practical than a swinging or sliding door.

“Come on in, Doctor,” she said, gingerly placing her hand on his shoulder. “I have a bottle of Moxie waiting just for you. Temp, five; carbo, seven. Just like you like it.”

At Thaddeus’s look of surprised delight, she added, “You can sip it while we talk.”

“I’d like that very much,” he said, following her into the apartment. She invited him to take a seat at a small table just off her kitchenette.

“While I realize what you’ve been through in this past week is quite overwhelming,” he began, hoping the more words he piled on, the more courage he’d have in dropping the Presidency bomb in her lap. “I just have to say—”

“If you need me to take Justin’s place,” she said, purposely cutting him off, “I’m ready.”

Sandra burst into childlike laughter at the stupefied look on Thaddeus’s face.

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see what’s going on here, Thaddeus.”

“Apparently not.” He reached for the bottle of Moxie.

“I know you told me to concern myself only with things of a technical nature, but it seemed that even matters of a technical nature always led back to Justin, to Neela, to the war, to you.…
You,
” she said now with more of a devilish grin. “You kinda solved the puzzle for me. See, I got to thinking why on Earth would they wake me up in the middle of a freaking war? Then attach a preeminent doctor to my case—Yes, I looked you up,” she added, casually holding up then putting back down the DijAssist on the table. “I’d imagine they’d have better things to do than defrost a three-hundred-year-old woman. Especially given your current situation—
i.e.,
bleak as all hell. Still, I couldn’t figure out why I’d made it to the top of someone’s priority list. I mean, there’s altruism and then there’s altruism. But you, my friend, were UHF until about a week ago—dyed in the wool, in fact.”

At Thaddeus’s confused look, she explained. “Just an expression. Means ‘die-hard,’ ‘committed.’”

“Ah.” Thaddeus nodded.

“Anyhow, that could mean only one of two things: Either you jumped ship of your own volition, which, given what I’ve read about Neela and psyche auditing and such would seem to make sense—provided, of course, it’s not all agitprop, which could also be the case. Or you were kidnapped and made to ‘help’ me. I’m guessing it’s the first since I’ve sensed in this past week no reticence on your part in your care and treatment of me.”

“You’re partially correct,” he admitted. “In fact, I was kidnapped but over the course of my brief internment here, I was made to—how shall I put this?—see the error of my ways. Still, I’m curious. How is it you came to the conclusion you were to replace Justin? It seems quite a stretch.”

“Not really.” She reached for her soda and took a long swig. “You see, I realized that your reintegration of me must have come at some expense both in time and effort. I also realized that the only person capable of replacing Justin at the helm would be this Admiral Black woman, a clear nonstarter if what the Neuro says about her military prowess is true.”

“All true,” he said, confirming the report.

“Well, then, that’s who you’d need out in the field … uh, space … whatever. Which led me to Justin, or more specifically the Presidency. That’s what you’re prepping me for, yes?”

Thaddeus was still somewhat awestruck. “Yes, yes,” was all he managed to say.

Sandra’s face brightened perceptibly as she had another epiphany. “Wow. I’m guessing there’s a room full of very nervous bureaucrats quite anxious to meet me.”

“They already have, my dear.” Thaddeus’s eyes deliberately canvassed the room.

“Right.” Sandra nodded. “I assumed I was being watched, but just by doctors.” She then looked up to the ceiling, eyes fixed on no particular place. “Hi, there,” she said with a wide smile. “No worries. I’m in.” She then looked back to Thaddeus.

“It’s not so simple an endeavor,” he warned, now looking more concerned. “There’s so much for you to know and so little time for you to get to know it!”

“Thaddeus,” Sandra placed a comforting hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Things were obviously going wrong enough that they had to resort to kidnapping you and defrosting me. There are clearly a lot worse things I could be doing than cramming for a job that will ultimately have me kissing babies and smiling for the camera … or whatever it is you smile for these days. So don’t worry,” she said, patting his shoulder lightly, “I’ll get as up to speed as time and technology will allow.”

“Quite reassuring, Sandra,” replied Thaddeus. “I suppose a thank-you is in order.”

“It’s
me
who should be thanking
you
.”

Thaddeus cocked his head.

“Hey, I’m alive, aren’t I?” A perfect row of teeth glinted through an ebullient smile. “You even gave me back—” Sandra’s hands pointed inward, indicating her lithe and youthful figure. “—this. Helping out’s the least I can do.”

Thaddeus shrugged. “I’d say we got the better end of the deal.”

“That’s because you’ve never had to stand in front of a mirror, staring at a pair of sagging breasts.”

The doctor’s bushy brow shot upward. “I … uh … Oh, never mind,” he finally relented. “I suppose we should get started, then.”

“Yes, we should,” she agreed, sliding her DijAssist across the small table. “And I’d like to start with one of those.”

Thaddeus looked down at what was written on the DijAssist and almost spat out the drink he’d just taken a sip of.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I couldn’t be more.”

He put both hands on the edge of the table and jerked his head slightly back.

“Damsah’s balls, woman, do you have any idea how dangerous a virtual reality unit can be?”

“I should think so, Thaddeus. I used to own one.”

Burroughs, Mars, Executive Office

Hektor Sambianco was walking in slow, measured steps around a table at which were seated the members of his Cabinet. His eyes were cold and his bloodless lips appeared as two rigid lines on a face that would’ve put fear in the heart of an inquisitor. Not one of the Cabinet members was making eye contact with him—or anyone else, for that matter. The President’s hands were folded neatly behind his back, and his steps had about them the deliberate and silent precision of a panther readying to strike. When he finally did speak, the calm in his voice was in stark contrast to the obvious rage within, thereby heightening the room’s already precipitous tension.

“I’m curious about something,” he began. “You see I just can’t—” He paused as his face contorted into a mask of confusion. “—get my head around this.” Hektor smiled stiffly at the Minister of Justice, Franklin Higgins. “Know what I mean … Franklin?”

A bead of sweat formed at the top of the Minister’s head. “Uh—”

“Good. Then maybe you can all help me out with this. See,” Hektor’s voice continued rising, “what I’d really like to know is … how is it that the system’s greatest reanimation psychologist—a man so skilled, he rewrote the book on PTSD from fucking scratch—can, I don’t know, just up and disappear?”

No one dared proffer an answer, though a few eyes did shift apprehensively toward Tricia Pakagopolis, Head of Internal Affairs. If she noticed, it would have been hard to tell. Like everyone else in the room, she sat rigid, staring straight forward with a blank expression on her face.