The Unincorporated Woman (29 page)

En Route to Ceres, Alliance One

Commodore Marilynn Nitelowsen sat opposite Agent Agnes Goldstein, her current contact to the office of the Secretary of Relocation. She, like Agnes, had been called into the impromptu meeting by the President. Marilynn watched in utter fascination as the President activated her secure DijAssist and sent over a prepared file to a slightly bewildered-looking Rabbi.

“I hope you don’t mind, Rabbi,” said the President, “but despite my high office, there really isn’t a lot of thinking I get to do.”

“Of course, Madam President.”

“I realize my doctorates are a good three hundred years out of date, but that doesn’t stop my desire to feel useful. I’m sure it’s probably ridiculous, but I’d consider it a favor if you looked some of my ideas over.”

Rabbi’s eyes flittered over the table of contents the President had just sent over and then looked back up, teeth glinting in a wide, bright smile. “You know, Madam President, I never ask my children what they’ve learned in school.”

“No?”

“I ask them, ‘Have you asked any good questions today?’”

The President, noted Marilynn, blushed slightly.

“Your desire to contribute is laudable, whether the suggestions are used or not.”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” asked the President, “since we’re all here now, giving it a quick once-over. I’d like your take on some of the overall suggestions.”

“Not at all.” Rabbi picked his DijAssist up off the table and continued to scan the document, slowly stroking his beard as he did so. After about ten minutes, he finally looked up. “Madam President, after a cursory review I can honestly say that the ideas here are solid.”

The President’s response came in the flash of a grin.

“Are you sure,” asked Rabbi, “that perhaps
you
shouldn’t be running this department?”

“Now you’re just buttering me up, Rabbi. And I thought lying was against your religion.”

“It is—as it is with most—and no, I wasn’t buttering you up. Really, Madam President, there appear to be some very good suggestions in here—though I’m no expert—and I’d be more than happy to review them with my staff.” His eyes twinkled humorously, “You know, the people who actually do the work.”

“Very well, then,” accepted the President, getting to her feet. “If you or anyone on your staff ever needs to ask my advice on anything, I’m just down the hall, possibly twiddling my thumbs.” The President smiled brightly, all sugar and charm as she escorted Rabbi and Goldstein out the door.

But Marilynn Nitelowsen was not fooled for a moment.
She just took over the Relocation Department,
mused the commodore.

10 Whispers in the Dark

Half-Day Standard Boost from Mars in the Direction of Ceres

Admiral Omad Hassan stood, arms crossed, gazing out a port window. His eyes were pensive and probed about as if watching a battle and not the busy crew of the mobile repair vessel now making quick repairs to his ship. He knew he’d become withdrawn since the assassination of his best friend, Justin, and the murder of his fiancée, Christina, and knew also that that withdrawal was a preparation for his eventual death. The rage, the loss, the fire all stewed comfortably within. Waiting. He’d learned to feed silently off his own bitterness of heart. He could not be frightened, because there was no longer anything to fear. Could not be wounded, because he no longer bled. There was only the waiting. He’d disengaged from his crew, his friends, his life because he’d already gone on, and would go on alone, until the true and pure ferocity of his rage could be spent. For Omad Hassan, every battle, every fight was only kindling toward a final and spectacular pyre that held within it the promise of release.

His flotilla had been in active combat since the battle began, four days earlier, and they—like the man who led them—had been merciless and unrelenting. Omad obeyed the order to return only because his original force of fifteen ships had been whittled down to nine, all significantly damaged to one degree or another with even his own having to be towed.

For its part, the enemy paid a heavy price for the damage exacted: thirty-one ships lost, including eight cruisers and one battle cruiser, plus four ships captured—all at the hands of a bunch of frigates. Under almost any other circumstance, that loss ratio would’ve put Omad’s fleet firmly in the “W” column—but this was not a typical circumstance, because Omad had been forced to retreat. That meant that the left wing of the fleet also had to retreat. And when that happened, the rest of the fleet had to follow. The UHF should have broken. At the very least, paused to regroup, but they hadn’t. They just kept on attacking. And Omad and every other member of the Alliance fleet knew why: Samuel U. Trang.

Cabinet Room, Ceres

“I don’t see why she needs to be here,” snapped Mosh.

The focus of his ire was President Sandra O’Toole, now standing at the end of the table closest to the door. By common agreement, the best use of her time was to be in visiting the wounded, making condolence calls, and launching ships, not sitting in on mundane Cabinet meetings. There was simply no political or economic advantage to having her there. What she’d done at Oberon was, all agreed, exactly what Admiral Black and her supporters had hoped for. It even made a supporter out of Mosh. Now, more convinced than ever of the idea’s efficacy, he was perplexed that she would be anywhere near the Cabinet Room, much less in it.

“Perhaps I overstepped, Mr. Secretary,” said Rabbi. “I was on my way here, saw her in the Triangle Office, and invited her to join.”

Mosh looked at him quizzically. “What on Ceres for?”

“To learn, of course.” Rabbi’s explanation was delivered as if the answer should have been patently obvious.

“I thought it would make for some good PR,” added Sandra, “but clearly I was mistaken. I’m sorry to have bothered you all.” She turned to leave but was stopped by the loud clearing of a throat.

It was Padamir Singh. “Madam President, if you wouldn’t mind staying for a moment.” Padamir looked directly at Mosh. “She can’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“Bad press. I’m sure you’ve noticed the mediabots and reporters following the President around quite a bit these days.”

Mosh nodded by way of a grunt. Under Justin, the Cliff House had been media sparse, but not now. Sandra understood her job and had insisted that openness be part of it. As long as a person could pass the security check, they could visit, within reason, the Cliff House and see the new President in action—Sergeant Holke permitting.

“If she leaves now,” questioned Padamir, “what will the press observe?”

“That she came into a Cabinet meeting,” stated Mosh, annoyed, “and that she left. What am I missing?”

“That she’s here,” interjected Rabbi, “at the invitation of the Cabinet—by way of me, of course.”

“While it’s true Madam President is a figurehead,” added Padamir, “it’s also true that if we throw her out now after having issued the invitation,” he paused briefly, tipping his head towards Rabbi, “they’ll be reminded that this whole thing’s a sham.”

“But it
is
a sham by her own public admission,” barked Mosh, then more calmly, “admittedly, one that’s working pretty well.”

“Only as long as we maintain the illusion that Madam President has some authority. Kicking her out now … when everyone knows our meeting has just begun, will help destroy that illusion. I move we spin this as an informal briefing. They’ll eat it up.”

Mosh’s pale gray eyes darted from face to face, searching for support. Seeing none, he sighed and then turned his attention back to Padamir. “Fine, she stays, but we don’t discuss anything critical while she’s here.”

Padamir looked toward Sandra. “Won’t you please join us, Madam President?”

“I’d be delighted.” Sandra saw that there wasn’t a chair at her end of the table but that there were some lining the wall. They were mainly for advisers, none of which were present. Sandra promptly found the one closest to where she was standing and settled in.

Mosh’s stiff attitude had now softened. “Since we have the President here,” he said, glancing over to Sandra, “I move we take the Anjou issue to the top of the agenda.”

There were no objections.

“Very well. Cyrus feels he can no longer serve as Chief of Staff to the new President and has accepted the Jovian assembly’s appointment to become governor of the Jovian system. That may upset you, Madam President—”

“Not at all, Mr. Secretary,” Sandra interjected. “Mr. Anjou’s done an amazing job during this transition, but it was obvious he was ready to move on. And to become the next governor of the Jovian system—well, that is a great honor.”

“It is indeed,” agreed Mosh. He opened his mouth to speak further, but Sandra cut him off.

“The administration could not hope for a stronger supporter in a position of growing authority in the Outer Alliance. If I may be so bold, I think we should see him off … at the Via Cereana, that is.” She kept her focus squarely on Mosh, whose top lip twitched slightly.

“Excellent idea,” Padamir said coolly, eyes darting between Sandra and Mosh. “It should play very well for the media.”

Mosh resumed his train of thought. “We’ll need someone to replace Cyrus as soon as possible. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a list—”

“This is not our decision to make,” said the Secretary of Technology, Hildegard Rhunsfeld.

“And whose would it be?” asked Mosh, “our sham President’s?”

“Yes, actually.” Hildegard pointedly spoke to the rest of the Cabinet members. “The Chief of Staff, as do we all, serves at the discretion of the President, sham or no. Justin made sure that was very clear when he formed this government.”

“The President also has the right to make war on enemy states,” snapped Mosh. “Are we to relinquish that role to her as well?”

“I don’t think anyone’s prepared to hand over
that
kind of power,” piped in Kirk Olmstead with unusual calm. “However, I think what Hildegard is trying to say is that given how closely the new Chief of Staff will have to work with President O’Toole, it makes more sense for her to choose that position.” He turned to Hildegard for confirmation. She inclined her head.

“Then, if it’s not stepping on anyone’s toes,” asked Sandra as half of the room was once again forced to turn their heads, “I’d prefer Commodore Nitelowsen.”

Her words were followed by an uncomfortable silence as the Cabinet members’ eyes flittered from one to another.

“You do realize, Madam President,” explained Admiral Sinclair almost apologetically, “that Commodore Nitelowsen is, for want of a better description, Admiral Black’s watchdog.”

Sandra nodded.

“And as such Black’s reports eventually work their way to me.”

“Yes. I just figured that since the Commodore is my shadow and has to report on what I do anyway, why shouldn’t she just be in charge? I’ve read her record—her last job wasn’t that much different than what she’d be doing for me.”

Sinclair shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’ve no objections.”

Neither, saw Mosh, had anyone else. “I suppose it’s all right, and since the agenda’s changed, I propose the next item be an update on the battle. That’s an open enough secret that I don’t think we’d be revealing anything too sensitive.”

All nodded their agreement. Admiral Sinclair stood up and activated the holo-tank. “This battle is unlike any other fleet-to-fleet engagement we’ve had so far. It’s more like what happened at Eros, a long, drawn-out battle of attrition.”

He fiddled with the control panel as an image of the two fleets appeared: one outlined in blue and the other, a considerably larger group, outlined in red. “I should also add that it’s turned out this way because no one’s attempted a decisive move.”

“The reason being?” asked Padamir.

“Well, for starters, they outnumber us by at least a third. They’re also closer to their primary support areas than we are to ours. But that’s not the main reason.” He paused for a moment. “They have Trang … and frankly he hasn’t screwed up badly enough for us to risk something decisive.”

“Do you believe he will?” asked Sandra. All heads swung towards her. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she exclaimed, embarrassed, “am I not allowed to ask questions either?”

“That’s quite all right, Madam President,” Sinclair reassured. “You can interrupt me any time you like. And the answer to your question is, if she sees an opening, she’ll take it, even if it means doing it with her bare hands. The reason she hasn’t so far is because Trang hasn’t given her the chance.”

“But we
are
falling back,” Mosh said, more as a question than a statement of fact.

“Hell yeah, we’re falling back. Unlike the other admirals the UHF has been kind enough to send against us, Trang seems to know that the war ends if he destroys J.D.’s fleet, so that’s his goal, body bags be damned. He could try to disengage and get to Ceres, but that would give J.D. an opportunity.”

“For what?” demanded Kirk.

“Doesn’t really matter to Trang. He knows as long as Admiral Black’s out of his sight, she can do something …
will
do something unexpected. He won’t take that chance.”

“Then why bother heading here?” asked Hildegard, knowing the question would be weighing heavily on everyone’s mind.

“He doesn’t give a crap about this rock, but he knows that we have to. If we lose Ceres, it would be like them losing Burroughs. It could cost us the war. At the very least, we’d be discouraged as hell, not to mention what the loss of the Gedretar Shipyards would do. It’s no longer half of all our warship production like it once was, but it is over a third. Not to mention the thousands of small but vital manufacturing facilities in and around Ceres that have been built up over the years and are for all intents and purposes irreplaceable. We definitely have to fight for Ceres, and he’s using that.” Sinclair hit a control on his DijAssist, and the fleets arranged themselves into two formations. The red UHF ships formed a huge half sphere with three blocks of ships behind acting as a reserve. One ship, in the middle of the third reserves formation, was tagged
UHFS LIDDEL
.