The Unincorporated Woman (9 page)

Although there had been rumors of his death, the number of previously failed attempts on Justin Cord’s life made the press corps of the UHF leery of giving them much stock. But news sources in the rebellious outer reaches have confirmed what so many have hoped so long for: The Unincorporated Man is dead. News reports picked up from the Outer Alliance state that his death was either the result of an unfortunate accident or a successful assassination. Given how many loathed the Alliance’s Chief Instigator, it seems pretty obvious to this news organization which of the two it was. With the death of the man who has been at the heart of this, the most destructive war in the history of the human race, celebration has broken out in all the worlds of the UHF. The gatherings on Earth, Luna, and Mars have been particularly exuberant. They’ve even surpassed the elation caused by Admiral Trang’s stunning victory at the 180. A victory which, we hasten to add, split the Belt down the middle and saw the death of one of the enemy’s greatest admirals, Christina Sadma.

Indeed, the celebrations over the death of the Unincorporated Man are so raucous as to be compared to Mardi Gras. Although some members of the UHF assembly feel it unseemly to celebrate while the war continues, others are encouraging the revelry and calling for the assassination to be marked as a system holiday.

Between the death of Justin Cord and our great and decisive victory at the 180, well over five years of horrific warfare may finally be coming to an end. Some politicians are even suggesting the President call for peace now that it should be obvious to even the most die-hard Alliance fanatic that victory is hopeless. Others insist the President fight out the war to an unconditional surrender in order to make the cost of rebellion so high as to remove its threat from future generations. President Sambianco has remained silent on this issue but is enjoying the renewed support that has eluded him in recent years. It’s even rumored that a movement to change the constitution is being organized so that the President can run for reelection in two years’ time, when his six-year term expires. When asked how he felt about the assassination, the President had this to say:

An evil, scheming man has died and we have won a great victory. It is right to celebrate the great achievements that our industry, bravery, and endurance have granted us. I myself plan to get as drunk as a wartime president might be allowed—HOD nearby, of course. The truth is we’ve earned it and I’m proud of all the citizens of the UHF who’ve struggled so hard and lost so much over these past five years. What we’re doing is for the good of the entire human race, and our incorporated system will be preserved for all the children of humanity forevermore. So let us enjoy this time of respite. Just don’t forget that the rebellion Justin Cord inspired is still fighting against the principles of incorporation and humanity. After our brief celebration, we must—we will—finish what they started. Nothing will stand in the way of our ultimate victory.

NNN

The lab J.D. now viewed was typical of what she’d come to think of as “Alliance practical.” To be Alliance practical, the place or object or person had to follow a couple of simple rules. First, it had to have obviously been something else prior to its current usage: a luxury yacht serving as a hospital ship or a space tug, for instance. Second, it had to be something that only years of warfare would make acceptable, like the use of children in busing tables so the droids normally given the task could be stationed elsewhere in the war effort. And third, the place, object, or person had to really make a lot of sense when viewed through the eyes of the war weary.

Thus it was that Admiral J. D. Black stood in the luxurious environs of what had once been the finest French restaurant in Ceres and possibly the whole of the Outer Alliance. It had been called La Fontaine Bleue, and was located in the lunar level of Ceres, so called because it was placed far enough from the Via Cereana to give the level a gravity one-sixth that of Earth’s and therefore equal to Earth’s moon, known as Luna. If anyone prior to the war had told her that the restaurant would make a perfect spot for the advanced cryostasis laboratory and research facility, J.D. would have laughed out loud.

But now she saw the logic in the decision. The restaurant was on a level that would not be getting much use otherwise, as its greatest appeal had been to those from Luna, firmly in the UHF camp. And for obvious reasons, tourism from that region had not been a moneymaker for a number of years. The restaurant’s loss had been the Alliance’s gain. The low gravity made it easier to move equipment and corpses, but without the hassles that came from moving large objects in zero gravity, where things never seemed to stay put unless battened down. The restaurant had been a large three-story affair with lots of separate dining areas for special events and parties, all of which made it easy to turn those cavernous spaces into specialized labs. And because it was already zoned for the highest privacy standards, given its former clientele, it made further securing of the lab quite easy. The former restaurant also had an excellent power transmission and backup system, so that no patron would ever be inconvenienced by the slightest delay in communication or service. The eatery’s new name, Le Cadavre Bleu, was a little morbid, but, mused J.D., that was laboratory techs for you.

She and Captain Nitelowsen walked down a few corridors, finally ending up in a large conference room much unchanged from the restaurant’s initial setup. The small chamber had apparently been needed for the planning sessions required to host the restaurant’s myriad events. And as no functioning body, both corporeal and corporate, had yet figured out a way to survive without the need for a meeting, the room had stayed mostly untouched. J.D. had called an emergency Cabinet session and arranged for the Unincorporated Woman’s suspension unit to be moved into the room, feeling its presence might in some way influence the donnybrook she knew was coming. Upon entering the chamber, J.D.’s eyes immediately fell upon the green-etched, black sarcophagus. She stared at it with such intensity that her ever-present aide thought her boss might be trying to wake the body inside by force of will alone. When J.D. and Marilynn heard the voices of people approaching, they immediately took their seats, as J.D. had wanted a better view by which to gauge the reactions of those entering.

The first to arrive was Kirk Olmstead. The former deputy director of GCI Special Operations had become a natural fit for the Secretary of Security, and J.D. had to grudgingly admit he was doing an excellent job. But she never liked or trusted the guy, either from the days they served together on the board of GCI or now. He retained his corporate good looks but wore an outfit that fairly screamed Alliance patriot. Gone were the expensive five-piece suits made from the latest nanoweave fabrics. In were the gray coveralls that proclaimed propriety and efficiency. He gave the suspension unit a momentary glance, then shot J.D. a look that was both curious and hostile. The lack of affection went both ways, but he couldn’t suppress the curiosity sparked by the locale chosen for the meeting and the surprise floating quietly on a maglev within it.

Next to enter was Cyrus Anjou, Justin’s Chief of Staff. His mood, like everyone’s of late, was less than upbeat. The enormity of the situation was made more pronounced by the fact that Cyrus, normally ebullient in the toughest of times, appeared gaunt and moribund. He barely noticed the unit as he walked through the door. What scant attention he gave it dismissed it as yet another prop in yet another room in yet another meeting.

By Allah, has he actually lost weight?
wondered J.D.

The loss of Justin had crushed something in the man’s soul. He continued to do his job, but only with the mechanical action born of instinct rather than passion. When Padamir Singh, the Secretary of Information, came in and looked with concern upon his Jovian sparring partner, J.D. knew that something would need to be done. Padamir was a Cerean from a wealthy and politically connected family who had a famous relationship with Cyrus based on deep affection and public insults. The fact that he was now treating his friend with kid gloves let J.D. know just how serious the situation was. After Cyrus, Padamir glanced at the unit, his face placid. He’d long ago trained himself to hold off on opinion, whether verbally or nonverbally, lest he give anything away prior to making a reasoned assessment.

Joshua Sinclair, her official boss both as Grand Admiral of the Outer Alliance and Secretary of Defense, came in with Hildegard Rhunsfeld, the Secretary of Technology. Although Hildegard usually arrived with Mosh McKenzie, it had been technological audacity almost as much as chicanery that had kept the UHF at bay, and as such, Sinclair and Hildegard had been spending a lot more time together. They too noticed the suspension unit but, like Padamir, kept their feelings from view. Unlike Padamir, their reasons were more pedestrian. They didn’t care until they were told they had to. When Mosh finally arrived, his eyes darted quickly from the sarcophagus to J.D., showing obvious displeasure at both. Without bothering to sit down, he fixed a persistent and angry glare at the fleet admiral.
That was quick,
mused J.D.

Before the meeting could be called to order, Mosh blurted, “It’s not going to work, J.D.”

“What’s not going to work?” asked Hildegard, oblivious to Mosh’s opening hostility.

“Please, Janet,” invited Mosh disdainfully, “fill us in on your
brilliant
plan.”

J.D. looked with some satisfaction on the small group gathered around her.

“We’re going to wake up our three-hundred-year-old jack-in-the-box over here…” Janet glanced over her shoulder. “… and spring her right into the Presidency.”

The room exploded in protest. Janet remained unmoved by the cacophony but was intrigued by Padamir’s reaction. He remained quiet, looking at her in a manner she couldn’t ever recall having seen from him before—admiration.

“Janet,” sputtered Mosh, “of all the harebrained—”

“What makes you think,” interjected Kirk, “that this woman could possibly be President?”

The room went silent, as all eyes fixed on J.D.

“If I thought for a moment she was actually capable of being President, I’d keep her frozen for the next thousand years. The reason I
do
want her is precisely because she’s
not
capable of being President.”

Padamir’s face registered the confusion everyone seemed to feel. “And this,” he finally said, “will help us survive the war, how?”

With a brief hand movement J.D. flung the latest headlines into the center of the table’s holo-display. They floated above the table for a moment before fading from view. “As you can see, she’s already being hailed as the Unincorporated Woman, and some of the religious are even calling for her to be awakened in order to fulfill God’s divine plan.”

“Is that what this is all about?” interjected Cyrus. “Are we to be saved by
your
god?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Cyrus. Of course not … and she’s not my god. She’s everyone’s … whoever wants her, that is.”

“It was you who raised the point, Admiral,” returned Cyrus, “not I.”

“I raised the point only to show you that there’s a desire to have her out of that thing. You know me, Cyrus. I leave my god on the sidelines when it comes to leading but keep her close by when it comes to fighting.”

“Indeed I do,” agreed Cyrus, “but you more than most know that those headlines represent the desperate ramblings of a desperate people. They’d do anything, say anything, just to fill the void left by the President’s death. Even as we speak, many are already making a ‘pilgrimage’ to his space suit.”

“Of course I understand that,” thundered J.D. “What’s your point?”

“I’d have thought it would be obvious. My point is that the polity is simply not capable of making a rational choice. It does not become us to feed into their mania with—” His eyes shifted over to the suspension unit. “—false hope.”

J.D. paused before answering. When she finally spoke, it was with a conviction born of exigency.

“The Alliance needs hope, Cyrus. It needs it very badly. So badly, in fact, that they could give a flying crap whether it’s false or not. You don’t think they know that a three-hundred-year-old reanimated corpse will make a lousy President? They do. But they won’t care, because as you so eloquently stated, they’ll take their hope wherever they can get it.”

Kirk cleared his throat, drawing all eyes upon himself. “It’s a fine idea …
for the people,
Admiral, but not so much for the Congress. And we both know who really runs things around here. If you ask me, they’ll never go along with this—especially if there’s no upside.”

“Of course they will, Kirk,” countered J.D. “Especially if we let the various factions know that our newly awakened President is just the sort of person needed to help them achieve greater influence.”

“I don’t see how—” started Kirk.

Padamir Singh smiled, tipping his head slightly toward Kirk, who respectfully demurred.

“Each will believe,” said Padamir, “that they’ll have greater influence over the figurehead president and so, by the prospects of greater self-aggrandizement, will allow her into the office.” He considered his words a few moments more and for a second time viewed J.D. with admiration. “That just might work.”

“This is idiocy,” growled Mosh. “We need a President who can actually govern, not one who’ll
be
governed.” Then added a moment later, “As if we weren’t in enough trouble.”

“No, Mosh,” J.D. countered, “what we need is a President who can restore hope and prevent panic. Yes, I can do that.” She then pointed to the suspension unit with a sweep of her arm. “But so can the Unincorporated Woman.”

“I don’t see how,” started Mosh, echoing Kirk.

“By playing it right.”

“And I suppose,” said Mosh in a tone scathing enough to peel paint, “you’ve already got that figured out.”