The Unincorporated War (46 page)

Then she saw something else she wasn’t expecting. She’d hoped to capture not only the transports, which would’ve helped in the next invasion she’d been planning, but also the soldiers within them, thereby depriving the Federation of tens of thousands of trained fighters. But those transports suddenly exploded. And then they exploded again. By the time she reviewed the sensor data she was impressed and a little annoyed that she hadn’t thought of the tactic herself. The officer in charge had strengthened the sides of his ships to withstand a properly spaced atomic blast and then used those atomics to almost instantly turn his ships around. He then kicked in his more conventional rear blasts to make a hasty retreat. And he had enough distance, J.D. knew, to make it work.

“They’ll be sore as hell, even injured, acceleration couches or no,” she said to Lieutenant Nitelowsen, “but they’re going to make it.” J.D. was trying to decide what to do when events decided her actions for her.

“Admiral,” said the comm officer, “the enemy is beginning to evacuate the downed ships.”

“All ships prepare for boarding. We need to take those ships now!” J.D. knew if she could get her people in before the Feds got theirs out, then the ships wouldn’t self-destruct. It was a risk, but J.D., touching the scarred side of her face as her orders were carried out, knew all about risk.

In its first publication, the
Alliance Daily Star
is proud to announce a major victory in the war against the corporate enslavers. Dubbed “the Battle of the Needle’s Eye,” this victory is considered to be the greatest by the Alliance so far.

The battle took place about two days’ standard boost Marsward. Although outnumbered three to two, the Alliance only suffered the loss of four ships while capturing between thirty and forty Federation warships.

Fleet Admiral J. D. Black won this stunning victory using a new weapon developed by the scientific geniuses of the Alliance. Though no details have been given, it is surmised that Kenji Isozaki of Gedretar had come up with the new weapon. The only losses were due to the
Federation implementation of self-destruct orders to deny capture and some of our vessels being caught in the resulting explosions.

It’s rumored that J. D. Black personally led the attack on the enemy flagship and captured her second commanding admiral. If it’s true, being named admiral to a Federation fleet may end up being the only way a Federation officer ever gets to see our Admiral J. D. Black.

Related stories:

“Why We Keep On Winning”

“The God Factor: The Surprisingly Large Number of Faithys in Our Ranks”

“Consumer Goods Becoming Expensive as War Continues”

“Economic Turmoil in the So-called UHF”

Alliance One, twenty-four-hour standard boost from Ceres

Justin was being given a tour of the fleet. The fact that there were still a number of Federation warships in Alliance space made the journey more, not less, desirable in his eyes. He came in a requisitioned corporate transport that had been renamed, presumptuously in his mind, Alliance One. It amazed him that the echoes of his past life continued to pop up in the oddest of places, the naming of the presidential barge being one of them.

J. D. Black had fumed at the unnecessary risk he’d taken. Justin then politely reminded the admiral that she’d just led a boarding party onto a ship that had been rigged to explode and therefore didn’t really have a leg to stand on. He saw from the subtle cues of her personal guard and aide that they were completely in his camp. And so J.D., not liking to get into fights she had no chance of winning, backed off.

But Justin knew that no matter what J.D., his cabinet, the Congress, or Admiral Sinclair thought, he’d done the right thing. And every time he went up to a spacer and thanked them for their bravery and valor, the look in their eyes confirmed his determination. He’d tell them how important it was to win this war, but they already knew that. He’d tell them they had the best admiral alive, and they knew that too. But when he told them that what they did was vital and that he appreciated what each day, hour, and minute of ser vice meant, their eyes truly lit up. He was the most recognizable human being in history, the leader of the Alliance and their commander in chief, and he’d come to tell them personally how proud they’d made him. Through his eyes they were able to see that they truly mattered.

I was there and I remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday. I remember what I wore; I remember what I ate at the mess hall before.
I remember where I stood. But for the life of me I can’t remember a word that was said. You’d think it would bug me, but it doesn’t. If you were there, you’d understand; if you weren’t, you can’t.

—Sergeant Eric M. Holke
Eighty-second Cerian Volunteers

Michael Veritas looked over the Alliance fleet and the dark shapes that they were hauling back to Ceres as prizes. He asked for and got permission to take a two-person scooter and positioned it to take a holo-image that was destined to be one of the most memorable of the war. He used an enhancement imager to increase the light that was acting as a backdrop for the fleet. The effect was to show the fleet in stark light and shadow. The battle damage was visible on the ships that had taken hits and/or had been too close to the Federation ships that had destroyed themselves. But the effect was made even more pronounced because many of the damaged ships were towing the captured Federation ships completely blackened by total lack of internal power. He made another adjustment and the faint lines of magnetic energy could be seen between the ships being towed and the ships doing the towing. At that moment Michael knew he had his perfect shot. It would be the first of what would eventually be four seminal images of the war. The second, strangely enough, would occur within an hour of the first.

But Michael had other things to worry about as he hurried back to the
War Prize,
late for an interview with a rail-gun loader. Ever since the conflict began he’d become more pop u lar as a journalist in the Alliance while simultaneously becoming reviled in the UHF. Michael had taken an angle right at the start of the war that seemed to sit wrong with his peers and readership in the core; he’d committed the unpardonable sin of humanizing the conflict. He refused to concentrate on interviewing politicians, admirals, and industrialists. He certainly could have, given his connections with Justin Cord, but it had never been much of a priority. Michael had heard enough spin and had spent the better part of his life attempting to parse that spin into newsworthy stories. But in the belt there was always something unfolding, and more often than not it had nothing to do with those situated at the top. So he’d begun at the bottom. He’d interview and write about a private in a miner assault battalion or a corpsman dug in on some Damsah-forsaken asteroid. In fact, since the war had begun most of Michael’s articles had been about the little guy or what the UHF would consider pennies. Some, even on the Alliance side, were still considered pennies, but that thinking had begun to dissipate as more and more people joined the NoShares. Actual Political parties were forming on the issue to contest the first official elections to the Congress of the Outer Alliance, elections Michael intended to cover.

He was still a citizen of the core and had purposely not become a citizen of Ceres or the Alliance. However, once his articles and commentaries began to appear it had been widely agreed that he was about as neutral an observer as the Alliance could ever hope to find. In all of his articles and images—a recently acquired skill—what came through was that he was trying to report and understand the events transpiring around him and that he was well aware of the fact that he was reporting perhaps the greatest event in human history.

Michael docked at the
War Prize
and checked in. Though they all knew him well, he was still made to endure the rigorous security protocol. He never once complained, feeling honored that he’d even been allowed in the famous vessel’s hallowed halls. Once he was cleared he gathered his belongings and cut through the interior of the ship on his way to the appointment—
late,
he thought irritably. His agitation threw him a little off course, and as he made his way past large groups of spacers and miners and through an unfamiliar jumble of passageways he stumbled quite accidentally into one of the assault bays. It was, he could see, a large cargo hangar modified for the supply and launch of troops and equipment. He knew the type—it could open many doors simultaneously, one at a time, or the entire hangar depending on the payload. But it wasn’t being used for any payload-specific functions now.

The large, cavernous room was filled with some of the toughest-looking combat soldiers Michael had ever seen. From the tired but intense look in their eyes he could tell that they were all hardened vets. The sheer lethality of the assembled men and women permeated the air and was obvious by the confident ease with which they carried themselves. Their uniforms were sloppy, but their equipment was pristine. They looked like they might have just come off of some sort of training drill. But they weren’t training now. They were encircling a small open area occupied by a single man, the back of whose head was all that Michael could make out. He figured there had to be nearly a hundred sitting, all looking toward the center. Behind those were other vets standing up. And farther back, perched on top of the assault shuttles and leaning out their open doors, were even more.

Without thinking Michael picked up his holo-recorder and took a single shot. He was never able to explain why he hadn’t set the device to record, but his second image in as many hours would end up capturing something so stirring and personal that many would later argue it should never have been caught in the first place.

All the faces of the men and women emanated contentment and understanding as they looked toward their President. Justin had turned profile into the camera and his face had a gentle yet deeply wistful smile. But it was also the love he felt for each and every one in that bay that the picture had so perfectly captured.
It was the bond of a father to his children. Of the 312 men and women positively identified in the picture fewer than 20 were to survive the war.

Burroughs, Mars

Hektor Sambianco looked through the reports and felt a moment of deep and abiding rage. It was inconceivable to him that he could lose this war. But it seemed that that was what every incompetent moron in a uniform was trying to do. The Alliance had victory after brilliant victory and all he had were two, both of which paled in comparison to any one of the enemy’s. Not for the first time or the last would he think about Janet Delgado and the strange twist of fate that made her the premier military talent of the age as well as a citizen of the Alliance. But now he had a cabinet meeting to attend. He took the short walk from his purposely utilitarian residence to the presidential office and then into an adjoining chamber. The press had made good use of the fact that this President, working in conditions many a penny could relate to, was living up to his minority background.

Hektor walked into the cabinet room and immediately sat down, tossing his stack of notes and crystals onto the table. Sitting across from him was Brenda Gomutulu, the former head of GCI Accounting whom Hektor had taken with him into the presidency. She was settling into her new role as minister of the economy and he could already tell by the way she was eyeing him that he was going to get hit with some bad news. To her left was Irma Sobbelgé, his minister of information. To Hektor’s left sat Moftasa Narajj, the minister of defense. He had a dark complexion, thin slits for eyes, and a mouth that always looked like it had been sealed shut until actual words came out. Hektor was beginning to realize that he was also a man who was far out of his depth. He’d have to be replaced, and soon. To Brenda’s right was GCI’s former DepDir of Special Operations and now the minister of internal affairs, Tricia Pakagopolis—renowned for her successful capture of Neela Harper. She was of medium build with a finely sculpted face, dark black hair, and possessing a subtle yet standoffish beauty. To Tricia’s right sat the minister of justice, Franklin Higgins IV. Though Higgins didn’t look a day over thirty-five, he had the weathered mien of someone who’d seen it all. His lightly flecked hair, permanently arched brow, and well-manicured nails bespoke his pedigree. Higgins had been from money so old it had been rumored that they had majority before there was majority.

“OK,” said Hektor, looking around the table. “Who has the worst news?”

Tricia spoke first. “The pennies have coined a new slogan. It’s going to hurt our recruiting efforts.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the draft, would it?” asked Hektor.

Tricia nodded soberly.

“We have the legal right to draft minorities at will,” groused Franklin. “The precedents will hold up in court.”

“Yeah, until Cord comes to the rescue of the ‘poor’ pennies and burns your precious court house to the ground,” said Irma evenly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” answered Franklin. “He’d never get that far.”

“He will if fifteen billion pennies revolt all at once,” answered Irma, “which is what’ll happen if you try to draft them against their will.” Irma may not have been a penny—someone owning the bare minimum of themselves allowed by law—but she’d once been a minority and it was obvious she didn’t like Franklin’s condescending tone.