The Unincorporated Woman (5 page)

J.D.’s shoulders dropped slightly and her body deflated as she absorbed the truth of Mosh’s words. She also realized that Eleanor hadn’t stopped him—a tacit approval of his line of reasoning.

“But enough of what we already know,” asserted Mosh. “The Alliance doesn’t have the time for you to accept the inevitable. The Cabinet has been granted a writ of executive authority for two weeks. The only reason that compromise was acceptable to the Congress was because I made it known that you were going to be present at all the Cabinet meetings.”

“But I can’t possibly—”

“I know that, Janet,” agreed Mosh, interrupting. “Hell, they even know that. But under the guise of your needing time to acquaint yourself with the issues, everyone’s quiet—for now. But at the end of that time, Congress
will
choose a new President, and it will be you. There’s simply no one else. You must assume this office, Janet. It’s either that or we sue for peace right now.”

J.D. glared at Mosh but there was little if any fire left in her eyes. “I can’t win from behind this desk,” she insisted, “You know that and I know that.”

Mosh nodded, resigned.

“And now you want me to sit here, hold hands … maintain coalitions?”

“Yes.”

“And have this face,” chided J.D., pointing at her mangled features, “kissing babies?”

“Yes, Janet. That’s exactly what
we
want.” Mosh looked over to his wife for support.

Despite both Mosh’s and J.D.’s furtive glances to the Congresswoman-Elect, Eleanor remained stubbornly silent, offering help to neither.

“What about Trang?” proffered J.D., referring to the UHF’s greatest and most disruptive admiral. “Have you given any thought to that? He’ll be here as soon as he’s done with the 180. And when he comes, it’ll be to finish this war.”

Mosh nodded, shifting uncomfortably in place.

Sensing a rope, J.D. grabbed for it. “I know I can beat him, Mosh. Do we have anyone else who can?”

“No,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Well, then,” she demanded, thumb pointing over the back of her shoulder towards Justin’s desk, “how do you propose I do it from there?”

Mosh buried his hands in his pockets, frowning. “I don’t have that answer. But you and I also know that we can’t win this war
unless
you’re behind
that
desk.”

The standoff was interrupted by the sound of door chimes—a relic Justin had insisted on for all his rooms. For all three present, it was yet another painful reminder of their leader’s absence. It took a moment for J.D. to realize that both Mosh and Eleanor were waiting quietly. Whether on purpose or by unconscious design, they were already forcing J.D. to exercise authority where she felt none should exist. Irritably, she leaned over the desk and stared into the holodisplay. Her annoyance was tempered by whom the display showed to be waiting on the other side of the door—her personal chaplain, Brother Sampson. His dress uniform made her realize that she’d lost track of the time.

She opened up the communications panel. “Already?” she asked softly.

Mosh and Eleanor both noticed the change in her demeanor.

Brother Sampson nodded. “Yes, Admiral. Lieutenant Nitelowsen has your dress uniform waiting for you in a secure room near the landing bay.”

“I’ll be right out.”

The brother bowed slightly.

While her present company bided their time, J. D. Black allowed a quick sigh and closed off the display. Then, with an effort of will, she straightened her posture, left the Triangle Office, and walked into her future.

2 Tunnel Vision

Day Nine—Days of Ash, Altamont Orbit

Grand Admiral Samuel Trang was comfortably positioned. From his seat of command, he had the advantage of two distinct views—one of which gave him great pleasure. It was the sight of Altamont a mere hundred kilometers away, surrounded by his fleet. The great rock had been blasted through at various points along its circumference and was now effectively open to the vacuum of space. The fact that his fleet was still taking fire showed that Altamont’s defenders had no intention of surrendering anytime soon. He hadn’t thought they would, given the nature of their leader, but as it had taken him over four years to get to this spot, he wasn’t complaining. Altamont would fall; of that, he was certain.

The other viewing item filled him with disgust. It was the battle report from Omad Hassan’s recent shellacking of the Alhambra flotilla. Trang was absolutely horrified at Hektor’s and his Cabinet’s decision to launch an attack on an undefended civilian outpost—no matter what the nature of those who occupied it. Had Trang known in advance of the Cabinet’s plans, he was certain he would’ve tendered his resignation. Their seemingly rash act was now going to make his job of occupying the asteroid belt that much more difficult. And for what—removing the titular heads of a religious movement already doomed to failure by its archaic logic?

He gazed pensively at the report. The more he read, the more labored his breathing became. His eyes scanned down to the orders given to the condemned admiral. What incensed him more than anything was the fact that the idiot had complied without registering the slightest protest. If she had, or if she’d even asked for a clarification of orders, Trang would’ve gotten wind of them. It would’ve been enough to countermand the decision, Cabinet be damned. Trang was having a difficult time wrapping his brain around it. What idiot accepts an order to take an untrained crew out with a flotilla of ships so new, most of their systems haven’t even been debugged? Worse, then accepts a mission to destroy a defenseless asteroid settlement. Trang’s cinched brow was the only clue to his silent litany. The irony was that he’d purposely left Admiral Mummius on Mars, thinking the harm she could do there would be minimal. If he’d known the admiral was capable of that much stupidity, he would’ve made her his aid—if only to keep her out of trouble. Trang was hoping that Mummius would not be typical of the officer corps he’d have to work with, but suspected that hope was for naught.

The report of the battle itself was what he’d expected. The war-hardened Alliance fleet, though heavily outnumbered, had been in no real danger of defeat. Conversely, the untrained crews of the UHF had been so misbegotten that they somehow managed a twelve-ship collision.
There’s a reason,
thought Trang, shaking his head in disgust,
that they call it “space.” There’s plenty of it. Only a moron of superior talent could manage a collision of that magnitude. Hell, it might even be a record
.

As he scanned further, it became quickly obvious how the thing had spiraled out of control. Systems had crashed or hadn’t worked at all, because various safeties had not been removed, live programs had been incompatible with one another, and emergency protocols had not been implemented, much less taught. The entire fiasco was yet another demonstration of what Trang had been saying all along—only properly trained crews, properly led, should actually engage the enemy. Otherwise, all you’d get was unmitigated slaughter. Mummius’s defeat was a perfect case in point.

The fact that not one UHF marine had been taken alive spoke to a more disturbing suspicion—they probably weren’t given the opportunity to surrender. The truth was, Omad Hassan had probably saved him the trouble of trying to court-martial the bastards himself, which, realized Trang, would have put him in direct confrontation with the Defense Secretary. But none of that mattered now. The marines who’d died were still his people, and their wanton slaughter by Admiral Hassan, no matter how justified, could not be without consequences; otherwise, morale would suffer.

Before he could work it out, his DijAssist informed him of a call from his number two. She was, he saw by the display readout, bringing up the line approximately forty thousand kilometers away. Even through the interference of radiation, debris, and residual jamming, he could tell that something wasn’t right.

“Zenobia,” he said, trying to force a smile through a face grown rigid by the past hour’s ruminations, “why do I have the feeling this is not good news?”

“Because, sir,” came the scratchy static replication of her voice, “it’s not.”

“Proceed,” Trang commanded grimly.

“My intelligence … eam picked … up … ansmission a few hours ago. I just finished reviewing it. It was go … to be … your afternoon debriefing, but I thought … ou’d better have a look at … now.”

She transmitted the file.

A few seconds later, his display notified him of its arrival. “Got it,” confirmed Trang as Zenobia’s image saluted and then disappeared. He quickly scanned the headline:

UHF
INTERNAL
REPORT

TO
:
GRAND
ADMIRAL
SAMUEL
TRANG

FROM
:
ADMIRAL
ZENOBIA
JACKSON

SUBJECT
:
MASS
EVACUATION

SOURCE
:
TERRAN
/
CORE
-
BASED
TRANSMISSION

RELIABILITY
:
CONFIRMED

Perfect,
Trang mused, beginning to feel the veins on his temples bulge ever so slightly. He read further:

R
ELIGIOUS
F
IGUREHEAD
C
ALLS
FOR
M
ASS
E
VACUATION

A
LITTLE
-
KNOWN
RELIGIOUS
FIGURE
REFERRED
TO
AS
“
R
ABBI
”
HAS
CALLED
FOR
A
MASS
EVACUATION
OF
THE
B
ELT
.
B
ECAUSE
R
ABBI
IS
ONE
OF
THE
FEW
RELIGIOUS
LEADERS
LEFT
AFTER
THE
ELIMINATION
OF
A
LHAMBRA
,
HIS
MESSAGE
HAS
BEEN
TAKEN
VERY
SERIOUSLY
BY
MANY
OF
THE
A
STRAL
A
WAKENING
’
S
NEWEST
BELIEVERS
.
R
ABBI
’
S
ARGUMENT
APPEARS
TO
BE
PRIMARILY
RELIGIOUS
AND
AS
SUCH
IS
HAVING
A
PROFOUND
EFFECT
ON
THE
DEBATE
NOW
TAKING
SHAPE
WITHIN
THE
HUNDREDS
OF
THOUSANDS
OF
SETTLEMENTS
THAT
OCCUPY
THE
B
ELT
.
M
ANY
APPEAR
TO
HAVE
ALREADY
HEEDED
R
ABBI
’
S
CALL
FOR
“
DIASPORA
,”
ABANDONING
ORBITAL
SLOTS
OF
GREAT
VALUE
AND
LONG
STANDING
AS
THEY
AND
THEIR
ASTEROIDS
SLOWLY
MAKE
THEIR
WAY
TO
THE
OUTER
ORBITS
.
S
O
FAR
,
THE
OFFICIAL
RESPONSE
FROM
THE
CARETAKER
GOVERNMENT
AT
C
ERES
HAS
BEEN
UTTER
SILENCE
.