The Unincorporated War (53 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Out of curiosity, what’s your take on it?”

Michael was slightly taken aback, but then he smirked. Table turning, after all, was the Cord way. “Well, sir, I’d say it’s a success. It’s clearly been very popular in the UHF and has made recruiting much easier. It’s even been reported that they’ve had to turn people away because of the overflow.”

“All true, Michael, and difficult as the proclamation will be from our military’s point of view, it’s not really the issue that’s caused me concern. We’ve always been outnumbered and always will be.”

“So what
is
your concern, then?”

Justin smiled amiably. “Care to guess?”

“Sure,” Michael said in the flash of a grin. “Some members of Congress and the press have stated that with the UHF agreeing to give so many of its citizens majority, the differences between the UHF and the Alliance are now not as great they used to be.”

“Yes. The fuzzier the line in the sand the more difficult it is to figure out what exactly we’re fighting for.”

“It’s a compelling argument, Mr. President.”

“Indeed it is, Michael. But let’s dig deeper, shall we? What did Hektor really offer his people? The nuts and bolts of the proclamation is this: Fight for the UHF and we’ll give you back a little more freedom. Freedom, I might add, that most of you lost when you were too young to realize what you’d given up. So again, Hektor Sambianco is asking you to risk your life in order to get back what should never have been taken.” Justin then paused and looked directly into one of the floating mediabots. “A few precious drops of freedom for a river of blood. It doesn’t matter if the blood is yours or ours; the price will be paid.”

A moment of silence followed Justin’s words and then he looked back toward Michael. “The Alliance doesn’t have to deal with the situation in quite the same way because most of us own a majority of ourselves, but trust me, it’s still an issue. Our two main factions, the NoShares and the Shareholders, deal with it every day. In fact, we too have had to tiptoe around it for fear of jeopardizing the very foundation of our Alliance. Still, the issue has become so ingrained we’ve lost sight of the basic difference between the UHF and ourselves. And we too must ask the burning question: What are we fighting for? We now know what the UHF is fighting for—the freedom we’re already in possession of. But is that all
we’re
really fighting for? To maintain the majority we already possess?”

“What are you suggesting, sir?”

“I’m saying, Michael, that no matter how much we try, we can’t escape the
decision that stands before us. We must face this issue without hesitation or prevarication. We must deal with the issue of incorporation itself.”

Michael started to get an uneasy feeling. His initial fears about the nature of the interview now seemed to be coming to fruition, and Justin was about to open Pandora’s box.

“Incorporation,” continued Justin, “is so ingrained into the very fabric of action, memory, and even unconscious thought that its absence cannot be comprehended. ‘Look at all the good it’s done,’ I’ve heard said. Or more important, ‘How can we live without it?’ But for all the good incorporation has done for the human race the price has been too high. James Madison, fourth President of the United States, once said, ‘I believe there are more instances of the abridgement of the freedom of the people by gradual and silent encroachments of those in power than by violent and sudden usurpations.’ Hektor’s recent proclamation should be glaring evidence to the wisdom of those words and reveals the price man has paid for this encroachment. Now don’t get me wrong,” Justin said, pointing a finger toward one of the mediabots. “I’m not calling for the end of incorporation. And I’ll support no mea sure that will interfere with incorporation agreements that are already in place. Indeed, I’ll even oppose any mea sures that call for the involuntary confiscation of shares. I’ll only be proactive in continuing to support the voluntary mea sures taken to allow individuals to end their own incorporation, but I will not and cannot support any coercive action taken against Alliance Shareholders by this government while I am its executive.”

“So then what exactly is it you’re proposing, Mr. President?”

“A bill, Mr. Veritas. A bill to the Congress with a recommendation for its inclusion into the Constitution—as soon as,” he added, smiling, “we get around to having a constitutional convention.”

“The nature of which will be?”

Justin paused and stiffened his back. His eyes once again narrowed and his face grew taut. “To make incorporation
unenforceable
in any legal context for any person born after January first of the coming year. And with this, my dear friends, the distinction becomes clear. We will no longer be fighting only for our rights in an incorporated system, but for our children’s freedom from it.

“We’ll be fighting for the generations that will come after us, generations that will not have to deal with this insidious dictatorship of the content, because they’ll have never been incorporated to begin with. I, Justin Cord, President of the Outer Alliance, say let Hektor Sambianco offer his drops of freedom. In place of his drops I offer an ocean of liberty, and on its endless waves our children sailing freely into their future. A future, I might add, that each and every one of us will have earned for them.”

Year five of the war

C
hristina Sadma looked down the central tube of Altamont. She was both proud and sad of the changes that had taken place in the years since her arrival. Sometimes she still saw Altamont the way it used to be, as a shadow out of the corner of her eye. But gone were the gardens of color and beauty, replaced by fields of high-protein soy and high-carbohydrate potatoes. Both food groups were very useful for creating rations, but so very bland as well. All the structures that had been used for worship and study were now storage areas or workshops. The hospital had expanded and expanded until it seemed to be half the settlement and still they were often short of beds and doctors. And saddest of all to Christina, the monks who used to stroll the gardens in quiet dignity seemed to have disappeared. She knew they were still around, but the brown robes were gone. Any monks left were to be found in battle armor or in the hospital, as likely to be tended as tending.

Christina knew that if she survived the war, she’d devote as much time as it took to restore Altamont to its former magnificence. She’d believed then and still believed now that it was right to turn the sanctuary of peace into the central fortress of the war, but in her heart it still felt wrong. There were so few wondrous places in the universe, and she couldn’t help but think she’d played a major role in the corruption of one of them. Brother Sampson would have told her that she was actually doing God’s will and would have made her actually believe it for a time, but he was no longer here. J.D. had made him her chaplain.

But before she could mull anymore, her DijAssist’s dulcet tone reminded her that there were a thousand and one details that required attention. It came with the territory of commanding an entire battlefront in space. She was on her way to the docking port when the call came in that thirty ships from Ceres had just arrived. They were pretty banged up, with obvious signs of battle damage. She didn’t need to ask who was in charge. The condition of the fleet proclaimed it. One of the brothers came up to her in battle armor with a red cross emblazoned across the chest plate. “Admiral, I have wonderful news to report. God has seen
fit to deliver a fleet safely to our haven after it caused the enemy embarrassment and great loss. It is commanded by—”

“—the great and mighty Omad, admiral of the Alliance and shooter of the core,” she finished with a sigh.

“He does the Lord’s work very well, Admiral.”

“I’m sure he does, Brother Michael, but why be so flamboyant about it? We’re fighting a war here where people are suffering and dying and he seems to think it is a grand opportunity for piracy, aggrandizement, and adventure.”

“He’s a very skilled warrior and has led more successful and destructive raids into enemy territory then any two other fleet commanders.”

Christina scoffed. “I’m not challenging his ability, Brother Michael, only his,” she thought for a moment, “propriety.”

“We’re not all from Eris, Admiral,” he answered, referring to the dwarf planet’s penchant for conservatism.

“Brother Michael, I thought you of all people would appreciate a more modest demeanor.”

“We’re all children of the Lord, Admiral. We all have our purpose and I cannot help but think that the Lord made Admiral Hassan exactly the way he needed to be.”

Christina sighed. “Now that’s a depressing thought.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure he says the same about you.”

Christina gave her aide a rueful smile and began to mentally prepare for Omad’s fleet. It would need repairs, medical exams, and a proper rearming. But the good news was that Omad always brought desperately needed supplies as well. To date he’d never taken more then he’d brought. She hoped he had more miners. Her lines were getting dangerously thin, but, she thought, what else could you expect when you went to war against an enemy ten times your size that didn’t know the meaning of the word “quit”?

She arrived at the port. It was filled with the energy and noise of thousands of people going about their business, most of them in a hurry to get it done. Amid the cacophony she heard a familiar growl.

“Where the hell is that infernal woman?”

She turned and saw Omad. He was in weathered battle armor. He’d grown a close-cut beard since she’d seen him last. It was a look that was becoming popular with the men in the Alliance fleet. She personally didn’t like it, as she had the nagging feeling it got in the way of efficiency and safety, but as long as the beards weren’t too long she couldn’t actually forbid them. Christina had to admit that it did give Omad a certain roguish charm.

She put her thumbprint on and then signed a requisition order an assistant had unceremoniously shoved in front of her and then headed for Omad, who
was in conversation with her chief of maintenance and repair. Omad was pushing a bottle in the man’s face.

“Why are you trying to give my repair chief a bottle of,” Christina snatched the bottle from Omad’s hand and read the label, “Glenmorangie?”

Omad’s smile seemed to sour a little at Christina’s appearance. “Trying is right. The man won’t accept it. O’Malley—now there was a man who appreciated a good single malt.”

“Chief O’Malley died when a rail gun went out of alignment during a hurried repair,” said Christina.

“P.d.’d?”

Christina nodded.

“Damn. I’m sorry, Christina; he was a good man. But that’s no reason to let your Erisian ways of denial and deprivation keep this man from accepting a token of my respect for the fine work his crews do on my ships.”

“You don’t need to bribe my people to do their jobs, Omad. It’s downright insulting.”

“Only an Erisian would consider a gift an insult.” Omad looked at the repair chief. “You Erisian?”

The man smiled. “No, Admiral, I do not have that honor, but, as I’ve been trying to explain, I’ve recently become a Muslim.”

Omad hit his head theatrically with his hand. “Well, why didn’t you say so, man?” He snapped his fingers and one of the men he came with took the bottle out of his hand and replaced it with a small jar. “Allow me to give you this jar of some very fine hashish. May it give you and your work crews that small bit of plea sure that is the right of all people who toil in the ser vice of others.”

The repair chief’s eyes lit up happily and he had started to reach for the jar when he stopped and looked at Christina hopefully.

“Oh, let him, Christina; you never denied O’Malley a bottle. Besides, I liberated all my ‘gifts’ from the UHF. It seems the least they could do for us.” This brought a round of applause and cheers from those on the dock in earshot. Realizing she would only be saying no to annoy Omad, and not wanting to deny her crews what ever small pleasures they could get, she waved her hand in acquiescence. Omad smiled broadly as the repair chief gladly took the gift and the docking port erupted in applause.

A couple of hours later Omad found himself pounding on Christina’s door. “Sadma, open up. I know you’re in there. We need to talk about my shuttles!” Christina allowed the door to open. Omad stormed in and the door closed behind him.

“What, no gift?” she inquired sweetly.

“Whaddaya think you’re doing with my shuttles, woman?”

“Taking them.”

“Well, you can’t have them ’cause … well, ’cause they’re mine and I need them!”

“First of all,” she said very calmly, “on this base I outrank you and I damn well can take them. Second of all, you may need them, but if you actually just head home and try not to get into a pissing match with every UHF ship, squadron, and outpost between here and Ceres you probably won’t. Third of all, you
may
need them, but we
do
need them, each and every one, all the time. Tell me I’m wrong, Omad.”

Omad went from fuming, to merely upset, to an impudent grin. “Well, the least you could’ve done was say ‘please.’”

Christina smiled coolly. “May I
please
take each and every one of your fleet’s shuttles?”