The Unincorporated Woman (11 page)

The woman known as Lisa got up from the booth and quickly exited the café. For the first time that day, she noticed the weather. It was early afternoon, and there was a cool breeze being funneled through the campus buildings. The cold air felt good against her face and somehow added purpose to the immediacy of her task. If all went well, she’d be leaving Mars in the next few hours. Visiting her apartment was out of the question.

The transit tube took her to downtown Burroughs in a little under ten minutes. The provincial city of over twenty million had grown into a major transportation hub that, as capital of the United Human Federation, had become responsible for the lives of nearly thirty-six billion. After President Sambianco had insisted on moving the capital from Earth to Mars, its rapid growth had been assured. In the brief span of five years, it had managed to get itself ordained as the most prefabricated city in human history. Even the Presidential complex was made of interchangeable hard foam that would normally have been used as offices for a temporary construction project.

But what should have been a prescription for a dull cityscape turned out to be anything but. The city’s new immigrants, used to a certain level of culture and visual stimuli, had refused to take the drab material on its merits alone. So by virtue of a popular technique called flo-motion color injection, plus the addition of minor architectural trimmings, they’d managed to breathe visual life and energy into a material meant to be devoid of any. As such, Burroughs from above looked like a massive hodgepodge of seemingly independent, in-motion, colorful, and oddly geodesic structures. The intrinsic exuberance of the buildings was simpatico with the street musicians, food vendors, and souks selling everything from captured Alliance uniforms to exotic fruit kebabs. As in any great city, the sidewalks and fly zones were filled with a mad rush of people going to and fro, dressed in all manner of fashion from street chic to corporate cool.

The
other
loved the palpable energy of the place, especially the dwellers themselves, who had about them the quiet confidence of diplomats buoyed by the rightness of their mission. The
other
knew that Lisa loved it here too, but not for reasons that the
other
did. Lisa, like those busily passing by, actually believed in the UHF and what it stood for, while the
other
could not understand how they could all be so easily fooled. But that no longer mattered. She took a tube transport to Old Town, the artistic center of Burroughs and the only part of the city not prefabricated. It was off to the west, closer to the sea, and made up of two- and three-story buildings constructed by the original settlers. The
other
walked down a few alleys until she arrived at the place she was looking for: the John Carter Chess Club—a quaint establishment decorated like a Victorian gentlemen’s smoke room but themed out to the famous Edgar Rice Burroughs character. Besides the decorative brass and leather trimmings, there were also mementos under glass, artwork on the wall, literature lining the shelves, and of course, a life-sized statue of the hero himself.

The club had made a name for itself even before the UHF’s arrival transformed the once sleepy city. The atmosphere was relaxed, and its clientele were mainly of the upper class and, barring that, the filthy rich. The war alone had introduced a whole new category of scoundrel, the likes of which had not been seen in hundreds of years. The scoundrels were tolerated not only for their money but also because they performed a vital function—the movement of goods, people, and ordnance. The club, though, was private, and membership was by invitation only. There was still a large area open to the public, and this was where the
other
’s journey momentarily came to a halt. She took in the room. It was a warm and inviting space at the center of which was a large hearth piled high with burning logs. A few well-placed sofas and an ample number of brass-dimpled overstuffed leather chairs surrounded the fireplace. The din of visiting tourists ogling the life-sized sculpture of John Carter could be heard mixed in with the sporadic crackling of a falling log.

As Dr. Gillette was playing chess in one of the reserved areas of the club, the
other
had to wait patiently while being announced. A human messenger was sent—a DijAssist notification would have been too unbecoming—and a few minutes later, the
other
was gratified to see Dr. Gillette emerge from behind one of the many richly embroidered velvet curtains that separated the waiting room from the private areas.

His face beamed at the unexpected surprise. “My dear Ms. Herman,” he exclaimed, “what on Mars brings you out here? Is everything all right?”

Her mouth formed an awkward smile. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, sir. Dr. Harper tells me how much you enjoy this time to yourself.”

“Ms. Herman,” he confided, inviting her over to some open chairs by the fireside, “you took me away from a game that had lost my interest.”

“Because you were winning?” she asked.

“Actually,” he said with a rueful grin, “I was being roundly thrashed by a player so much better than I that the only thing I was learning was abject humility. Inasmuch, I am now
humbly
”—his bushy eyebrow shot up as he stared at her—“in your debt. How may I be of assistance?”

The
other
feigned concern, slipping over her words. “We … I … um, I suppose we should use a good privacy booth.”

“That will not be a problem, Ms. Herman. There are many good ones here. I’ll just—”

“I was thinking someplace,” she interrupted, biting her lower lip as her eyes darted about nervously, “less conspicuous, please. If you wouldn’t mind, that is.”

“I see.” Dr. Gillette’s amiable mood was replaced by appropriate concern. “Did you have someplace in mind?”

“The orport seems like a good place to get lost in a crowd, and … I—” She looked around nervously once again, then said in a tone so low, the doctor had to tilt his head forward to hear, “I think that would be best.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” he whispered back, “what’s this about?”

“I … I think,” the
other
replied
,
matching his tone, “that Dr. Harper and the … the President may be—”

Dr. Gillette put his hand on her shoulder and with a conspiratorial look indicated that she stop talking. “Let’s wait till we’re at the orport, shall we?”

“Of course, sir.” The
other
allowed him to take the lead. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

“No reason why you should be, Ms. Herman.” The doctor gently lifted her elbow prodding her to stand. “You were an electronics technician, if I recall … who became a military trauma revival specialist, yes?”

She nodded too eagerly, almost as if confessing to a crime.

“Well, then,” he said with a reassuring glance, “I hardly see how this would equip you to the life of a spy.”

The
other
smiled gratefully and stood waiting patiently as the doctor went and checked out his coat and an umbrella. When he returned, they headed out the door, where a taxi was already waiting. The flight over to the Burroughs Interstellar Orbital Port took about fifteen minutes. The orport, though new, was typical in its design—a large dome through which hundreds of tubes pulled in and shot out transorbital pods of various shapes and sizes.

As the
other
and the doctor entered the main lobby, they quickly located and then headed toward a row of dedicated privacy booths used mainly by the corporate class to conduct business on the fly. The
other
was fully aware that the entire area was under surveillance by the Internal Affairs Ministry but also knew that by the time anyone bothered to review the images, she and her precious cargo would be long gone. She and the doctor walked past the booths marked
BUSY
and were about to pass another when a man carrying a small yellow bird in a cage suddenly emerged directly in front of them. He apologized, straightened himself out, and moved on. The
other
pointed Dr. Gillette to the booth fate seemed to have handed them.

Gillette entered the room first but stopped short when he saw a standard UHF military suspension unit parked inside. He was just about to turn around and suggest they find another booth when he simultaneously heard the door close behind him and felt something tickle at the nape of his neck. He was unconscious before he hit the floor, but the
other
caught him just as he fell and then easily lowered him to the ground in the low Martian gravity.

The
other
quickly removed a small pouch from inside her jacket pocket and flipped it open. It contained a small mirror plus a series of tubes held in by soft elastic bands. She pulled a tube of short-term nanoepidermis and used it to change both her and the doctor’s facial features. Then she applied a gel to change their eye color and another to change their hair. Both makeovers took less than three minutes. She then used the small mirror to check out her handiwork. Once the
other
was satisfied, she closed the pouch, placed it back in her pocket, and stood up. She then went over to the suspension unit, input a code, and waited patiently for the hatch to spring open. Inside, she found two uniforms that bore the dreaded insignia of UHF Fleet Intelligence. There was one uniform for her and one for the doctor, with a matching set of identifications based on their new features.

With an ease that came from knowledge and experience, she made quick work of undressing, redressing, and moving the doctor into the suspension unit. She then resealed the hatch and input a few more commands that would see the doctor enter into a much deeper sleep as his body cooled to an unearthly minus-200 Celsius.

She was examining her pistol and checking the ammo capacity when the back wall dissolved. Determined to finish her task, she barely looked up as a man wearing maintenance overalls guided a small load lifter into the privacy booth. There was no exchange of greetings as he perfunctorily gathered her and the doctor’s old clothes and placed them into a shoulder bag then maneuvered the lifter under the suspension unit and began to slowly back it out of the room. When they’d all cleared the room, the wall re-formed behind them. The
other
saw that they were now in a long narrow passageway reserved for official personnel. It led out, she saw, to another area demarcated for government officials only. The maintenance man tilted his head slightly forward, handed her the controls to the load lifter, and disappeared down a side tunnel almost as quickly as he’d appeared. She walked through the passageway with the suspension unit floating silently behind her and emerged into the opening. She then headed for the nearest reservation desk. Without so much as a good day, she handed her DijAssist to the bored-looking young man behind the counter.

“How may I help you, Captain?” he asked, momentarily startled.

“Look,” she said icily.

He noted her uniform with concern, stared once again at the DijAssist, and then his eyes lit up as the blood drained from his face. Not sure what to do next, he saluted.

“Corporal,” she said in a lowered voice still shrill enough to command fear, “you
will
refrain from saluting.”

“Sir,” he whispered back, eyes darting to and fro. “Yes, sir.”

“Further,” she added, maintaining her low, biting tone, “as you’ve undoubtedly realized, this mission is of the utmost importance and secrecy, so unless President Sambianco himself asks, I and my boss,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the suspension unit, “were never here. Is that clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Beads of sweat began to form at his temples. His fingers and eyes worked the holodisplay furiously. “Your t.o.p. is in tube 317, Captain. It has clearance to leave as soon as you and the colonel are aboard.”

“Corporal,” seethed the
other
, “is your tour of duty at this orport so boring, you’d prefer a marine assault brigade in the Belt?”

“Sir?” he asked, befuddled.

“If
no one
is here,” she intoned with the cruel and studied temperance of a spider approaching its trapped prey, “then what’s all this talk about captains and colonels?”

“I, uh…”

The corporal had been rendered mute, stunned into terrified silence. Sweat was now pouring down his face and soaking his collar as he handed back the DijAssist. The
other
checked it briefly, making sure everything was in order. She then looked up at the young man and held him in her gaze, toying. A few seconds passed before the now discombobulated corporal was rewarded with an unfeeling smile immediately after which the
other
collected her few belongings and marched past the counter with her levitating cargo. She quickly found the designated tube, and such was her expression and the nature of her uniform that hardly anyone saluted, preferring not to have her notice them at all.

The sergeant handling tube 317 must have had some experience with covert operations, because all he did was look at her orders and wave her aboard. She secured the suspension unit to the floor with magnetic clamps, took her seat in a chair next to it, and then strapped herself in. A short while later, she and her cargo transferred to a fast UHF covert shuttle. By the time she left Mars’s operational space, she’d gone into stealth mode and sped at near full acceleration toward Alliance space and to her prearranged rendezvous with an Alliance frigate.

Six hours later, the
other
arrived at her final destination. As her shuttle’s hatch opened in the frigate’s small hangar, she gingerly stepped out, smiled as she took in the new surroundings, and gulped in her first-ever taste of Alliance air. She was surprised to find the head of Intelligence, Kirk Olmstead, waiting for her at the foot of the ramp.

He had a wide, embracing smile and stepped up to greet her. “Welcome to the Alliance,” he said warmly, “and may I say on behalf of the entire Cabinet and the billions we represent, congratulations on a job well done.” He then held out his hand.