The Unincorporated War (26 page)

Al was already reviewing his contingency plans with the re-formed council. He’d blockade the areas of the Neuro that Iago controlled. It was, in the end, insignificant. A mere island in a world controlled by Al and Al and Al and Al and Al and Al …

Neela was pensive. She’d chosen to remain cloistered in her room the first few days after the run-in with Hektor, but curiosity eventually got the best of her—that and the abject boredom of self-imposed confinement. There was only so much exercise one could do. As soon as she felt that she’d re-adapted to Terran gravity she ventured out. She was surprised not to see any of Hektor’s goons waiting outside her door. She knew it wasn’t necessary, that her every move was being watched and recorded somewhere, but still, it was so unlike Hektor not to try to intimidate just a little. She found that just as he’d promised, she did indeed
have the freedom to roam the clinic. The place was so familiar and so empty. There was no Mosh and Eleanor and few of the old gang from the exciting days of Justin’s awakening, except for the facility’s legal counsel, Gil Teller, and Dr. Wong, the clinic’s head reanimationist. They and the few others Neela once had had cordial relationships with were surprisingly friendly. She would’ve expected them to be hostile but instead found that they were genuinely glad to see her, some even going out of their way to make sure she had company. Most were innately curious about the Alliance and Justin and her life in space. She’d initially suspected that they were pumping her for information, but if they were, it was for the silliest non-descript information and requested in the most inept way she could imagine. Once she realized that they were simply curious, she relented and started to tell them things she knew could not have any bearing on the war. They soaked up every word, especially Dr. Wong.

“Neela,” said her new avatar.

“Yes, penelope.

“You have a visitor.”

“Who?” asked Neela through gritted teeth as she slowly clawed her way up a morphing rock wall. “I wasn’t expecting anybody today.”

“It’s Amanda Snow.”

“The Chairman’s girlfriend?”

“Apparently. There are also two R-500 securibots accompanying her.”

For the life of her Neela couldn’t figure out what someone like Amanda would want with someone like her, but she reasoned there’d be nothing to lose by being civil.

“Sure,” grunted Neela through her exertion. “Let her in.”

The door to the gymnasium opened to reveal a slim woman with vibrant blue eyes and silken white hair. She was wearing a long, shimmering thigh-length jacket, tight-fitting halter-top, and calf-length boots. She pushed past the two accompanying securibots. Her stiletto heels echoed across the hardwood floors.

“Amanda Snow,” said the woman looking up toward Neela.

“Neela Cord,” answered Neela, not bothering to look down. She was almost to the top of her climb and made her way up a few more feet with practiced finesse. She then reached up and lightly tapped a small area at the wall’s precipice. Mission accomplished, Neela pushed back and off the wall, twisted 180 degrees in mid-air, and then gracefully floated down to the floor, landing almost directly in front of her visitor.

Amanda extended her hand.

Neela took it firmly and noted with some satisfaction that the handshaking trend her husband had started was still being practiced in a place he was no longer welcome.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,” offered Amanda.

“To convince me to be a good girl, of course,” said Neela, wiping the sweat off her brow with her forearm.

“Well, basically, yes,” answered Amanda, seemingly untroubled by Neela’s curt response, “but shorter term I’d like to throw you a small reintegration party. Have a few staffers, press, some mid-level muckety-mucks show up. That sort of thing.”

“Now why would you want to do that, Ms. Snow?” asked Neela, grabbing a small towel from a rack. “No, let me guess. To somehow put me at ease?”

Amanda shook her head. “You’re a prisoner, Mrs. Cord, and that won’t change anytime soon, so honestly, girl, how much at ease could you be?”

Neela smirked.
At least she’s honest
. She was about to say something, but Amanda spoke first. “Hey, don’t blame me; that’s what
they
want. We both know it won’t work. But I have my own reasons.”

“I can’t wait to hear them,” said Neela flatly, though she had to admit a part of her was truly curious.

“The truth is no one talks to me anymore except with his or her Hektor filters on. For Damsah’s sakes, did you see what escorted me to your gym?”

Neela nodded even though she hadn’t actually seen the well-armed metallic goons.

“It was bad enough when he was the Chairman of GCI but now as the soon-to-be war time President he’s getting worse.”

Neela was incredulous. “Are you seriously telling me you need a friend?”

Amanda let out a churlish giggle. “Don’t be foolish, child. We’ll never be friends. But I do need someone to talk to who’ll actually say what she thinks. And barring my defection to the Alliance, you’re it. Besides, think about all the secrets I can tell you knowing you can’t tell a soul, and before you say ‘no,’ just think—if you actually do manage to escape imagine how useful all that information will be.”

Neela smirked and began to towel herself off. Then she put her hands on her hips and looked Amanda squarely in the eyes.

“Alright, Ms. Snow,” she said, now using a small cloth to wipe the chalk from her fingertips, “you can throw me a party, but only on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“You stop calling me ‘Mrs. Cord.’ I’m young, but I’m not
that
young.”

Amanda laughed. “Agreed, but only if you call me ‘Amanda.’ Oh …”

“Yes?”

“Dr. Gillette will be there too. He might even be staying awhile.”

Neela listened as Amanda went on chatting. She still didn’t feel at ease but had to admit she did like the woman’s company.

Hektor waited patiently in his t.o.p. for Amanda to return. He looked up from his small command center of holodisplays as she entered, threw her shopping bags to the floor, and propped her legs up on a chaise lounge.

“So?” he asked.

“Success,” she answered wearily. “I found the exact shoes I wanted. Now can we please leave this Damsah-forsaken cesspit?”

“Amanda …”

“Fine … I don’t see what you hope to accomplish, Hektor. She loves him and hates you. She won’t help us, no matter how nice we are to her.”

“She’ll come around,” said Hektor, returning to his work. “Just give her time.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Hektor didn’t respond because he didn’t have to. Amanda knew the look. It was all the answer she needed.

Neela was having a tough time with her patient. Physically he was fine; it was his psychological state that concerned her. The patient had recently died in combat and needed a fair amount of nanorepair prior to his revive. But even though the repair had gone well and the patient’s brain hadn’t suffered any serious damage, she’d still found herself saddled with a well-trained combat marine from one of the premier mercenary companies crying in her arms and refusing to let her go. She’d held on to him for so long that her legs were starting to go numb. For all her training and therapeutic skills all she could do was sit there and speak softly, offer comforting words, and let him cry. As she rocked the marine in her arms she thought back on the events that had led up to her current predicament.

It had been the presence of Dr. Thaddeus Gillette at her reintegration party. Thaddeus had been his old bumbling, insightful self and until that moment Neela hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the old coot. They’d had a heart-to-heart conversation where he had admitted to her that he’d almost gone to the Alliance but in the end felt that the price of societal change would be too high and cost humanity too much. She hadn’t agreed with his naïveté but also didn’t want to argue with the one person she considered a real friend. During the course of their conversation he’d surprised her, saying that he was going to be setting up a military revival clinic in Boulder. He’d asked her to participate, something that Amanda assured Neela she could get Hektor to agree to. Neela had refused outright,
not wanting to aid the enemy, but Thaddeus had been relentless. She’d finally agreed, for the sake of their friendship, that she’d only consult. After a week Neela had discovered that the line between consulting, helping out, and finally participating was fine to non-existent. In the end she stopped worrying about the slippery slope, having come to the realization that the men and women coming out of suspension were not the enemy—just shattered human beings in need of her professional help. There was also a very small part of her that felt some responsibility for the war, which was causing these few so much harm.

When she’d held the poor man as long as she felt necessary she left him with his unit with orders to take him out on the town, get him drunk, and listen to every word he had to say. She knew from his profile that he’d be a teary drunk as opposed to a violent one; and what he needed more than anything was to be with family and friends who supported him. As she was writing up her case notes for the session Dr. Gillette appeared.

“I am so glad you’re helping with Corporal Wu,” he said, pulling the soldier’s chart from the top of a large stack on Neela’s desk. “A truly difficult case.”

Neela remained appreciative, if not a little amazed, that she continued to be treated as an equal by a man she considered preeminent in the field.

She looked up from the report. “It’s nothing you wouldn’t have done, Thad-deus.”

“Now, Neela,” he answered, flashing his trademark goofy grin, “I’m happy to take credit where credit is due, but this barhopping therapy is quite interesting. I wouldn’t have thought of it. Which is surprising given how much I like spending time in bars.”

“It’s a very limited and experimental process, Thaddeus. Let’s be honest, how many patients can really make use of it? They need family or a close-knit group of friends who can act as such and they need to be rated as not likely to be violent in social situations. All in all a small portion of the patients we have.”

“But with those few patients it’s proving marvelous,” he answered, tossing the chart back onto the stack. “And it’s not the only therapy you’re developing.”

“What choice do we have? This war is forcing us to develop techniques that revival therapy has never really had to deal with. There’s simply no plan or source that’s reliable or relevant. Most of the data on combat trauma is centuries old and doesn’t take into account reanimation, modern technology, or even space travel for Damsah’s sake. I’ve read through it looking for clues and some is helpful, but in the end we have to create it.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.” Gillette looked proud to the point of bursting. “Neela, I want you to publish.”

Neela stared at him, speechless.

“You have to, my dear. What you’re doing is some of the most groundbreaking
work in decades. I have three scientific journals who’ve been clamoring for anything I can send them. I want to send them your case notes, written for publication of course.”

“You mean you want to cite me as source?”

Thaddeus looked confused. “I wasn’t clear?”

“Uh, yes. But won’t your colleagues mind? I mean given who I am and all.”

“Not in the least. The name Neela Harper will absolutely be in the
Terran Journal of Medicine.
They don’t care who you are; they just want to get this information out as quickly as possible to help others who’ll start to encounter these cases if the war continues as I fear it may.”

“My name is Neela
Cord,
” she said with some heat. “Of course it is, dear; have I ever called you otherwise?”

“You just did.”

“Sorry, se nior moment. The last time I saw you, you were Harper. Things have happened rather quickly.”

“Yes, they have,” she admitted, calming down.

“Look,” he continued. “You’re married to Justin Cord and have every right to call yourself what you will.”

“The rest of the Confederation doesn’t really see it that way,” she reminded him gently.

“Be that as it may, what you can contribute to human knowledge and the alleviation of human suffering is surely worth the sacrifice of your married name. You must realize how much good you can do. I’ll beg if I must, but I’d really look ridiculous on my knees. Still, if that is what it takes …” Dr. Gillette began to get to his knees in so ponderous a fashion that Neela couldn’t help but laugh.

“Tell you what,” she said, giggling. “I promise you I’ll at least think about it if you just get up.”

“What more could I ask?” he answered, rising to his feet, grinning from ear to ear.

A week later the first of many narticles appeared on war time revival and integration techniques, by Neela Harper.

There always seemed to be some crisis to deal with, some fire to put out or yet another delegation of politicians who needed mollycoddling. Through them all Justin had managed to keep one item on his private agenda. He’d put that issue on the back burner, recognizing its need to be suborned for the greater good of his running the fledgling government and orchestrating of the war. He finally
called a meeting when he’d convinced himself that the timing was right and that the request he wanted to make was valid, given that its implementation would not unduly interfere with the running of his affairs. Invited to the meeting were Cyrus Anjou, Admiral Sinclair, Kirk Olmstead, and Mosh McKenzie. Justin was surprised to see Eleanor walk through the door. Though she hadn’t been invited and Justin wasn’t sure what she’d be able to bring to the table, he greeted her warmly, reasoning that what ever Mosh knew Eleanor knew as well.