The Unincorporated Woman (52 page)

“Sorry.” Sandra gave Marilynn a quizzical look. “It’s been a while.”

“It’s near the end. You’ll swear the avatars are being hypnotized. They can’t take their eyes off it. Some of them actually break down in tears.”

“Hmm—please continue.”

“Yes, Madam President. Remember that report on ‘shadow’ programs?”

“The fake avatars that humans currently interact with.”

“Correct. Well, I decided to create one of my own.”

“You thought turnabout would be fair play,” grinned Sandra approvingly.

“Yes, ma’am, I did,” answered Marilynn, pride evident in her voice. “Making the shell was pretty easy, but making it interactive was a bust. There is almost no situation in which a human can be with an avatar that will fool the avatar for even a few seconds.”

“Why not? It would seem to be only a matter of coding.”

“It’s hard to code against curiosity. Unlike humans, used to ignoring avatars or kept to a few mundane exchanges, avatars are incredibly fascinated by any human they meet. Even avatars I’ve been with hundreds of times still study me like I’m the most interesting thing they’ve ever laid eyes on. Shadow programming for humans in the Neuro might be useful in the future, but for now I found only one place that it can be used effectively.”

Understanding blossomed on Sandra’s face. “The movies.”

“The movies,” Marilynn agreed. “In that darkened space, avatars and humans are engaged in the same activity. They’re very much like us in that they’ll observe us to see if we’re laughing or crying at certain scenes, but they’re painfully polite and will rarely if ever comment during a screening. I daresay, half my shadow interactions seem to be the use of the word ‘shush.’”

“Go on.”

“Yesterday, I left my shadow at the theater with Dante and snuck out for a routine recon. I thought this might be a good opportunity to see if I could use a BDD to break into his house.”

“What?” exclaimed Sandra, concerned.

“For the past six months, the avatars and the NITES have been testing each other’s security because if we don’t push our limits, Al’s monsters sure as shit will. My only intention was to test Dante’s personal perimeter.”

“Clearly you succeeded.”

“Greater than I could’ve imagined. I intended to leave a box of popcorn on his coffee table. We try to one-up each other.”

Sandra snickered at the petty rivalry, but by slow turns such as this, was beginning to realize how very similar the races actually were.

“The BDD landed me in his secure room.”

Sandra’s face grew rigid. “Security exercise aside, you do realize that you could’ve endangered the entire treaty.”

“Yes, ma’am, I did. But the fact of the matter was, I had already broken into his secure room—even if unintentionally.”

“Philo’s dog, then.”

“Exactly. That’s where I found this.” Marilynn activated the Triangle Office’s holo-tank, procured another data crystal from her pocket, and inserted it into the control panel. She directed the image to appear above the coffee table. Soon Marilynn and Sandra were both viewing a report showing the contents of a storage room in the Nerid facility orbiting Neptune.
Hello, old friend,
thought Sandra as she stared at the suspension unit she’d spent years perfecting. The report talked about the contents of room D4-3E40 and then went on to stipulate that Kirk Olmstead had had knowledge of the Nerid report years prior to his abrupt release of it to Hildegard Rhunsfeld’s database—just days before Justin Cord’s assassination.

Sandra absorbed the information first with an expression of curiosity which quickly grew to one of grave concern. Her eyes dimmed to emotionless orbs as a single name flowed through her clenched jaw. “Olmstead.”

“If we can trust this data,” confirmed Marilynn, “then, yes.”

“Could it be ruse?”

“That would suppose the avatars knew I was lurking about and planted this on purpose.”

Sandra nodded slowly. “But if on purpose, to what purpose?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” suggested Marilynn, “it’s something as simple as getting rid of Kirk.”

“So, replace an effective Security Secretary with one not nearly so effective.”

“And therefore not as dangerous.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so, Marilynn.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a particularly dangerous way for them to go about it. This report doesn’t just implicate Kirk—”

“True,” agreed Marilynn. “A man capable of assassinating one President—”

“—could assassinate another,” finished Sandra.

“Of more conern to me, Madam President, is that it implicates the avatars as well.”

“Not all the avatars, Marilynn.” Sandra’s eyes narrowed and her face became as rigid and cold as finely chiseled stone. “Just the two we’re most dependent on for winning this war.”

AWS
Spartacus
, Gedretar Shipworks, Ceres

Omad Hassan slid his feet off the desk, stood up, and greeted Sergeant Eric Holke with a rare, genuine smile. “Sergeant,” Omad roared, returning Holke’s stiff salute with one far less perfunctory, “damned if it isn’t good to get a load of your ugly mug again.”

“And, um, yours as well, sir.”

Omad stared down at his cybernetic appendages. “For someone nicknamed Legless, you mean.” He then looked back up at the speechless sergeant. “Like ’em?”

“Sure … sir.”

“I coulda gone all out and got the premier line, but really, who needs that much tech below their legs? More shit to go wrong, if ya ask me. Plus,” added Omad, pulling a pant leg up to proudly display the new appendage, “these things practically walk themselves. And ya know, the whole ‘legless’ thing has kind of grown on me.”

“You could say that, sir.”

“Yeah, shitty joke, I know. But I’m sure you didn’t come out here to check out my legs.”

“Afraid not, sir.”

“Thought so. When a grand admiral and a President both come to visit at the same time, you know it can’t be good.”

Holke nodded. “Something’s rattled the cage, that’s for sure.”

“That’s all you got?”

Holke’s eyes pivoted left and then right. He lowered his voice. “I think part of the UHF fleet is moving.”

Omad’s irascible grin returned. “Listen, son. Stop by for a moment post this meeting, will ya?”

Holke nodded as the room informed the two of them that the Presidential contingent had arrived. Two of Holke’s security detail entered the room, immediately followed by President O’Toole and Admiral Sinclair. With a curt nod from Sinclair and a slight smile from Sandra, Holke and the two guards made their exit.

“Can I offer anyone a drink?” he offered, beckoning the two to have a seat. “Goddamned ship’s so damn big, they actually put a bar in my quarters.”

“You’re in a battle cruiser,” insisted Sinclair, “because admirals should not be conducting battles in a frigate.”

Omad shrugged off the grand admiral’s logic with the flick of a wrist. “The
Dolphin
was a good ship, sir. The old girl got me and her crew through most of the war.”

“It’s not as if you haven’t been making the UHF miserable in
Spartacus,
here.”

“She’s a good ship too, sir, but I won’t ever give up missing the
Dolphin
.”

“Nor should you, Admiral. My first ship, back when I just started working for one of the mercenary companies, was called the CSS
Corporate Raider
.” Sinclair paused on the look he got from Omad and Sandra. “Go on, laugh. I was tempted to at first. It should’ve been scrapped, it was so old. And I’d swear on a stack of requisition forms that I spent more time repairing that piece of junk than actually flying it. Still, there are times I’d give almost anything to be back on her bridge. You never forget your first, Omad.”

“No, sir. And now that we’ve successfully accessed memory lane, mind telling me why we’re all here?”

“As you’ve probably already heard, Gupta’s on the move. Jupiter bound, by all accounts.”

Omad shook his head and smiled. “That does it. It’s not enough that she’s a better admiral than me, now she’s gotta go and become a prophetess?” Omad looked up to the ceiling, shaking his head disapprovingly. “You took my legs, Lord. Was it too much to ask for a little foresight?”

“It was a calculated guess,” offered Sinclair. “A good one, for sure. Anyhow, Gupta should be there in two to three weeks, depending on how much of his fuel he wants to burn.”

“Closer to three,” figured Omad. “It’s not as if he can surprise us. He wants to smoke out J.D.—if she’s there. He may as well arrive with more fuel—gives him room to maneuver. What are my orders?”

“About the same. In twelve hours, you’re to take your flotilla and begin what will appear to be another raid of UHF positions in the occupied Belt. You’ll even be dropping supplies to various resistance groups. Disrupt what you can, but once you’re clear, head deep into the Belt. We want them to think you’re going back to Eros.” Sinclair had a sad look about him as he stood up and gave the now standing Omad a perfect salute. “The President has some questions for you, Admiral Hassan. Please give her your full cooperation.”

Omad’s brow rose perceptibly. “
Full
cooperation, Josh?”

“Full cooperation, Omad.” Sinclair then bowed respectfully to Sandra, turned and left.

Omad sat back down and stared at his lone visitor with cool detachment. “When did you become the President, Madam President?”

“Depends whom you ask,” Sandra replied courteously. “And I’ll take that drink if the offer’s still on the table.”

“That offer is
always
on the table, Madam President.” Omad hopped up and went over to the bar. “What’ll it be?”

“Ever heard of a drink called Essence of Burning Village?”

Omad was intrigued. “I have not. But if you tell me how to make it, I’m sure I can find the ingredients.”

“Really wish I knew. I had it once and only once when I was in university. It was at a dorm party. Someone handed it to me, told me what it was called, and then disappeared. The only thing I remember is the strange tingling sensation it left on my tongue.”

“You must remember something else about it, Madam President, or why else try to replicate it?”

Sandra nodded, her eyes getting a little misty. “It’s like those books you shouldn’t read or those roads you shouldn’t travel. I woke up the next day on the floor of a friend’s dorm, sucking dust bunnies.”

Omad roared in laughter. “I know that herd well. Mean little suckers.”

Sandra giggled at the vision. “Anyhow, I’ve never been able to find anyone who knows anything about it. I did find one gentleman who claimed to have had it at a dorm party at another university. He likened the experience to being a Mongolian warrior raiding a burning village while simultaneously being the raided village.”

Omad shook his head, chuckling.“And you’ve been looking for it ever since?”

“In a way, it’s my personal quest. I searched the Internet in my time and the Neuro in our time, but so far nothing.”

“You must realize if you haven’t found it by now, Madam President…” began Omad.

“I know it must seem hopeless, Admiral.…”

“Please. Omad’s fine. I’m getting tired of Admiral this and Legless that.”

Sandra’s smile grew warmer. “Omad, then. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Omad’s eyes sparkled. “Best kind.”

“Why the legs?”

“You mean why haven’t I had ’em regrown?”

Sandra nodded.

“J.D.”

Sandra tipped her head respectfully. Admiral Black had been very upfront about why she’d chosen to keep the left half of her face scarred. To her, it was a constant reminder of the awesome responsibility of her command. Omad was now doing the same.

“So,” probed Omad, breaking the silence, “why don’t you tell me about this drink of yours.”

Sandra laughed. “I know it seems hopeless, but I can’t help the feeling that one of the reasons I’m here is to find out how to make an Essence of Burning Village and restore it to the general knowledge of humanity.”

“A worthy endeavor if ever there was one.” Omad then emerged from behind the counter with two drinks, one of which he brought over and handed to Sandra. “These, Madam President—”

“Sandra.”

“These drinks,
Sandra
, are called Sledgehammers. There are many variations. The one you’re now holding in your pretty little hands is quite popular with the fleet, which isn’t too surprising.”

“And why is that?”

“Rumor has it”—Omad lifted his glass—“this stuff’s strong enough to fuel a warship.”

“What about the Muslims?”

Omad tilted the glass to his bottom lip and then with a slight jerk tilted it upward, draining half of it. “Them too,” he agreed with a throaty gasp.

Sandra rolled her eyes. “I’m serious, Omad.”

Omad held up his forefinger while he searched for something on the small table resting between himself and the President. His face brightened when he found what he was looking for—a small data pad. He picked it up and covered exactly half his face. With one eye narrowed he mustered his best J.D. voice. “Senior fleet officers must constantly be aware of the example they set for spacers and assault miners under their command, especially in matters of faith.”

Sandra regarded the admiral dubiously.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I like to keep things simple. Way I figure it, anyone I’m drinking with must not be a Muslim—least while I’m drinking with ’em. What they want to call themselves outside this room or wherever I happen to be knocking some back is completely up to them.” Omad drained the Sledgehammer. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” echoed Sandra, taking a slug. As the drink went down, her tawny eyes bulged wide then teared up. “Jesus H. Christ,” she sputtered, neck jutting out slightly, “what the hell was in that?”

Omad answered with the flash of a grin. “Tunnel rats never tell. One more?”

Sandra thought about it, then blessed the miracle of the HOD alcoholic neutralizers. “What the hell.”

Omad laughed at the President’s moxie. “Your funeral,” he warned, getting back up. “And just so you know, nanites can scrub you clean, but this shit lingers.”