The Unincorporated Woman (25 page)

“Fatima?” he said, trying to connect the annoying little girl he once knew to the young woman now standing before him.

She nodded gleefully.

“I can’t believe it!” he said, slapping the side of her arm with enough force to throw her slightly off balance.

Her momentum nearly caused her to knock down a team of passing orderlies. They both broke into a fit of laughter at the angry stares they got from the passing group as it composed itself, then Tawfik and Fatima gave each other a big hug.

Tawfik took a step back to look at his old friend anew.

“How … how—?” he sputtered.

“—did I end up here?” she finished, coming to his rescue.

He nodded.

“I signed up for the fleet just as soon as they let me. Tested well and got assigned to officer training, made communications. Though,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “I’m not exactly sure how I got this plum job. I thought for sure I’d be off to Sedna or some other Allah-forsaken outpost.… Luck, I guess … not that I’m complaining.” She then took in the immediate surroundings as if happily sizing it up for some future renovation.

It was at that moment that Tawfik knew
exactly
how Fatima Awala had been assigned to the ship,
his
ship. Mother. She’d mentioned Fatima to him at their last fateful meeting, and he’d ignored her then as he always did when she tried to intervene in his life. She must have arranged this “chance” encounter—with Admiral Black’s blessings, no doubt. There was no other way to explain it.

“I don’t think luck had anything to do with it, friend.” He smiled gamely at Fatima.

At first she was taken aback by Tawfik’s assertion, but on realizing the implication, became more serious. “I am so sorry for your loss—” Then her face hardened. “—and I rejoice at the death of each one of her murderers.” Fatima took Tawfik’s hand firmly, and he once again went mute, caught in the conflicting feelings of loss and the warmth and happiness of longing.

“She was the best of us, Tawfik. Guided by Allah all the days of her life.”

“And I will honor her memory all the days of my life,” he sputtered as if in a trance.

“As will I,” she affirmed, eyes locked on his. It took a moment for the both of them to realize the tiny corridor had grown rather quiet. Their faces reddened as they saw the knowing smiles from those who’d taken a few seconds out of their busy day to stop and watch the little bit of spaceship theater taking place. The two quickly broke contact.

“I have a meeting I need to start, Fatima, uh … Ensign Awala.”

“Yes, I have an orientation to get to, Tawf … I mean Chief Engineer Hamdi.”

“If I can call on you later to, uh, show you the mess hall,” he finished, his normally strong and decisive voice wavering slightly.

“I would like that very much.” The answer had more enthusiasm than one would expect from the prospect of cafeteria food served to thousands a day. As they slowly drew away from each other, those watching from the corridor burst into loud applause. The two departed quickly, with their faces glowing red. In an amount of time that would give light speed a run for its money, the ship was made aware that their normally taciturn chief engineer, favored officer of the Blessed One, had gotten himself a girlfriend.

*   *   *

Janet Delgado Black, sitting alone in her shuttle, shut down the link that had allowed her to follow Tawfik’s encounter with Fatima. She then shut her eyes and sat motionless, thinking back on her savior and mentor, Fawa Hamdi, desperately missing the friend whose shoulder she could no longer lean on. How the old woman would have loved this moment. Fawa had insisted that all her obdurate son had to do was take one look at the raven-haired beauty his childhood friend had become. One look and it would then be only a matter of time until Fawa became a grandmother. In this, as in all things, Janet’s dearest friend had been proved correct.

The memory of her cut to the bone. Janet opened her eyes and stared across at a small mirror on the wall. There she was, fleet admiral of the Alliance, fearless in battle, someone whom her assault miners would gladly give their lives for—sobbing like a child for the friend who would never return and the grandchildren her friend would never see.

8 Mentsch Tracht, Gott Lacht

Executive Office, Burroughs, Mars

Hektor Sambianco reviewed the plans while his two most trusted Ministers—Porfirio Baldwin and Tricia Pakagopolis—sat waiting for him. Porfirio swirled a glass of bourbon like he had all the time in the world, while Tricia waited with her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“So,” Hektor said, switching off the holodisplay, “you really think this next battle can win the war?”

“Not all at once, no,” cautioned Porfirio, “but if Trang defeats Black at the Gates of Ceres, then yes, the war will be over.”

“And the Oort cloud?”

“Another couple of years, but inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.”

Hektor nodded.

“There’s still the occupation to deal with,” warned Tricia.

Hektor’s face became grimmer. “Please explain.”

“Well, as you saw in the report, we have control of only thirty percent of the Belt. The removal of Trang’s forces and their replacement with the new ships and even greener crews is slowing down our ability to occupy the rest. Still, by my estimate, it will be a delay of weeks only. Two months from now, we should have effective coverage, excluding a twenty-degree circumference centered on Ceres. And if Trang really is as good as the bitch he’s up against, even getting that coverage may not be a problem.”

Porfirio looked up from his drink. “So then, the operative question is how long it will take your security services to—” he smiled thinly, “—secure it.”

“Four years.”

“Damsah,” Hektor said, brows arched. “Four years?”

“If we were allowed to kill the rebels and take hostages for every ship we lost, it would be shorter. But with the restrictions the press and the Assembly have put on our handling of the war, four years is a pretty safe estimate.”

“What if we could arrange—” Hektor paused, mulling his choice of words. “—atrocities?”

Tricia tilted her head. “My staff has taken into account the likely tactics our opponents might use as well as what might be the Core population’s response to them. Arranged atrocities were part of that equation.”

“I see.”

“It’ll be all right, sir. By the time any of this becomes a domestic issue with political consequence, the war will be over and victory will give us the cover we need to run things as we see fit.”

“What about the rest of the Alliance?” challenged Porfirio. “Lotta space out there.”

“Actually,” countered Tricia, unflustered by her fellow Cabinet member’s now familiar barbs, “that should prove easier. Planetary systems are, despite their size, relatively compact. Besides, we’ve predicted that with their eventual defeat and our generous terms, a split will occur between those who want to keep fighting and those who don’t. It also helps that most of the occupation forces will be made up of former Alliance personnel.”

“Do you really think they’ll betray their own?” asked Porfirio.

“There are always factions,” assured Tricia. “All we have to do is support one against the other.”

Hektor absorbed the conversation, registering his understanding with a slight nod.

“Thank you both. This has been quite informative. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting to attend.”

Both Ministers bowed their heads respectfully and made their exit.

Hektor sat back down and scanned his DijAssist. The meeting, he saw, would be with his Minister of Information, Irma Sobbelgé. His mirthful eyes were the only indication of the delicious irony he felt upon reading the topic: Liberating the Belt through the use of misinformation.

Martian Revival and Reintegration Facility, Barsoom, Mars

Neela Harper had become increasingly withdrawn on the news of Justin’s death. At first she kept waiting to feel something, but the waiting had been for naught. Then she used self-hypnosis to go looking for what she was sure must be buried in the deepest recesses of her soul—still nothing. And that’s what had been so discomfiting. In the end, all she could muster was a sort of dark apathy. But that apathy couldn’t, she’d reasoned, be the totality of her feelings, because she kept finding herself awake in the middle of the night, sheets clutched firmly to her breasts, screaming out in terror as tears ran down her cheeks. But screaming at what? The night terrors, she knew, were a visceral response to locked-away emotions, but her inability to reach those emotions on any cognitive level felt like an itch impossible to scratch. To make matters worse, Thaddeus Gillette, the only person she’d ever think of conferring with, was gone and, if the gossip was to be believed, now working for the enemy.

Short of Gillette, there was one other person she knew who could, at a minimum, provide some solace. And it was why she was now waiting in the VIP section at the Burroughs orport. Any minute now, a t.o.p. would be arriving from the new orbiting hub station in synchronous orbit above the UHF capital. The doors to the t.o.p. would open, and a mass of humanity would pour out and downward in a human waterfall of colors and chatter. All Neela needed to see was one particular person.

The t.o.p. arrived on time and as the passengers disembarked, Neela recognized the woman instantly. The trademark silken white hair was the first giveaway, the way in which she managed, in a bustling self-absorbed crowd, to focus all attention on herself was the second, and the two menacing securibots covering her were the third. When the woman came to a gentle landing in the demarcated spot, Neela flung herself across the waiting area and gave her friend a great big hug. The security detachments for both women looked on in mild annoyance, but did not intervene. They knew that anyone stupid enough to anger these women and, by extension, the President had a nasty habit of being assigned off planet if they were lucky and to the front lines if they weren’t.

Amanda Snow took Neela’s hands and stood back to look at her friend. In the unforgiving glare of orport lighting, Neela’s lack of sleep and stress were readily apparent. Her normally ebullient green eyes were dark and lifeless. Her skin was sallow, and there was about her a sad weariness.

“My goodness, child,” said Amanda, still in disbelief about the pathetic creature she was practically holding up, “what’s wrong?”

Neela gazed at Amanda, pensive. “Please, not here.”

Amanda understood immediately. Even an orport’s VIP section was liable to be bugged. They’d need to get to an environment that they could control.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Amanda’s town house. After a thorough scan and Amanda’s reassuring Neela for the umpteenth time that it was indeed clear, Neela finally relaxed and deflated into a well-apportioned couch.

“Now,” said Amanda, flopping down next to her, “what
is
the matter?”

Neela carefully reviewed everything she’d been going through and, figuring she had nothing to lose, confided in Amanda about the night terrors as well.

“Shock, my dear,” offered Amanda. “Between the death of your ex and Thaddeus’s abandonment, who could blame you?”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“Of course it is. The human mind can handle only so much before it hits the air lock. You, better than most, should know that.”

“Yes, of course, Amanda, but I still feel emotion.” She then folded her arms defensively. “In fact, I’m starting to feel pretty pissed right now.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Amanda with a wide, alabaster smile. “You
should
be pissed. I know I’d be. Tell you what, let’s go out on the town, pick a fight with some bitch, then slap her all the way to Phobes.”

“Please, Amanda,” Neela pleaded through a short burst of laughter, “that’s hardly necessary. I—”

“Well, c’mon, girl, isn’t that what all your fancy research tells you to do?”

“Actually, talking it out is the normally prescribed method for this sort of thing.”

“I see, Dr. Smart-Ass. And what, pray tell, did your research say about what you’re currently going through now?”

Neela squirmed a little in place.

“You
did
research this ‘thing’ you’re going through?” Amanda said, phrasing it more as a question than as statement of fact. “Please tell me you did … didn’t you?”

“To be perfectly honest…”

“Oh, for Damsah’s sake, girl!”

“I just figured I could handle it myself. I mean, it doesn’t track like anything I’ve ever dealt with and—”

“And, my ass,” interrupted Amanda. “I betcha it’s not even as rare as you think. In fact,” she said, popping up from the couch, “I’m prepared to slap a cool thousand credits down, says I’m right.”

“I suppose I could check it out,” Neela offered sheepishly.

“Ya think?”

While Amanda busied herself trying to figure out which outfit screamed “start a fight with me,” Neela dived headlong into her DijAssist in an attempt to see if her recent spate of solitude was a condition of her own making.

Cabinet Room, Cliff House, Ceres

“Gotta hand it to you, Janet,” said Mosh, leaning over and whispering into the fleet admiral’s ear, “that was one helluva speech you wrote for the new President.”

J.D. pursed her lips and gave him a one-sided grin. Mosh had not been the first to congratulate her, nor would he be the last. And she couldn’t very well tell him that the woman supposedly under her control had flouted her first direct order. The new President’s petty intransigence was, as far as she was concerned, a minor distraction in a world with much bigger ones. She’d deal with O’Toole in due time. But now all she could do was grin and bear the accolade.

Admiral Sinclair produced a small device from somewhere inside his attaché case and placed it on the table directly in front of him. In a matter of seconds, the small rectangular-shaped device went from black to green.