by Dani Kollin
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To our father, Rabbi Gilbert Kollin. Our dedication to him is but a pale reflection of that to his children, grandchildren, family, friends, and congregants.
Acknowledgments
We would like to acknowledge our editor, David G. Hartwell, and everyone at Tor, without whom the making of this book would not have been possible. A special note of thanks goes to Alan M. Steele for all the work he didn’t do. Buy him a drink, and maybe he’ll tell you about it sometime. Or hell, buy us a drink for that matter, and we’ll tell you.
Dani would like to thank Deborah for loving him alone while he labored over this book and Eliana, Yoni, and Gavi for making him the proudest dad in the universe.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
1. Unbridgeable Divisions
2. The Battle of Ceres
3. An Eye for an Eye
4. And a Plague Shall Fall on Both Their Houses
5. Coup
6. Dissension
7. Endgame
8. Hairsbreath
9. Exodus
Epilogue
Tor Books by Dani Kollin and Eytan Kollin
About the Authors
Copyright
1 Unbridgeable Divisions
Transorbital pod (t.o.p.)
Low orbit of Mars
Hektor Sambianco, President of the United Human Federation, savior of the incorporated system, and stolid voice to billions of minority shareholders, clasped his arms stiffly behind his back and set his penetrating gaze on the approaching planet. Though others competed for attention—Saturn had its multihued rings; Earth its striking visage as a luminous marble cast against the firmament—Mars still reigned supreme. It was Mars that captured the imagination; Mars that provoked awe; Mars that dazzled as the coruscating emerald atop the solar system’s crown. Perhaps its favored status was a result of its bearing the godlike imprimatur of man, changed from a rust-colored, dust-filled wasteland to a fertile Elysium in under a century. It was, after all, humanity’s first and arguably greatest bioengineering success, and it was well that they continued to marvel in it. To approach this planet was to approach the dreams of humanity realized.
Yet Hektor Sambianco felt none of these things. Though his dark and probing eyes watched as the blanket of green, pale blue seas, and dotted lakes drew nearer, his heart did not swell with even the faintest glimmer of joy, and the magnificent vista filling the observation deck before him elicited no awe. His mind was dwelling on a war that would not end and an enemy that would not quit. Within minutes, his t.o.p. was on the ground. Within seconds, he heard the euphonious chime that indicated he had a visitor.
Hektor activated the t.o.p.’s internal scanner. Tricia Pakagopolis, the United Human Federation’s Minister of Internal Affairs, stood cooling her heels outside his private quarters. The woman, he knew, had devoted over eighty years of her life to building a well-deserved reputation for ruthless efficiency and, to accompany it, an appearance designed to elicit immediate apprehension. Just not from me, mused Hektor as a smile twitched at the corner of his lips. Though outwardly barely twenty years of age, Tricia dressed in a wardrobe that was hardly youthful. She wore her trademark geometric pantsuit, whose statuesque angles seemed to defy the shapely figure hidden within, and her thick black mane was pulled back so tightly, her eyes seemed like two determined beasts straining at the leash to press forward.
The corporate system had been good to Tricia. It had constrained and channeled her individual abilities and desires into the productive ends of the larger group and ultimately the all-powerful market. But Justin Cord had changed all that. His mere existence—his very unincorporation—had caused a rift in the incorporated world that had at first festered and then finally burst into outright civil war.
And it was people like Tricia, Hektor knew, who had benefited most. Not because she’d agreed with Cord. Her psychological profile attested to the fact that she thought the man an idiot; that his preaching the drivel of freedom and individuality to the masses could only lead to the anarchy that had inevitably followed; that individuals were fools who could no more revel in their freedom than in their servitude; that the brilliance of the incorporated system was in confining the idiots to the bottom while elevating the more worthy to the top. No, realized Hektor, Tricia could never have lived in Cord’s world. But she could and had exploited the very idea of it to suit hers.
The Unincorporated War that had resulted from Cord’s coalition of the Outer Alliance meant that the Core Worlds’ incorporated system had to change; had to become harsher, more efficient, more cruel—something Tricia Pakagopolis had been ideally suited for. No longer needing to cater to the whims of stockholders, boards of directors, or corporate governance, Tricia had, under Hektor’s guidance and protection, blossomed from a mere cutthroat to an accomplished killer, and the only person she feared was now watching her fidget under the glare of the high-security array blocking her exit into his chamber.
“Let her in, iago,” commanded Hektor to his personal AI.
“As you wish.” The avatar obeyed, quietly releasing the door’s mechanism, relaxing—only slightly—the hidden weapons trained on the visiting minister.
Hektor greeted Tricia with the traditional bow and indicated a seat in front of his workstation. “What’s the latest on Ceres?” he asked.
“We’re on the threshold of certain victory.”
Hektor’s brow arched upward. “Really?”
“Unconfirmed but yes,” she affirmed, ignoring the obvious doubt etched into her boss’s question.
Hektor laughed with so little mirth, it might have been mistaken for a cough. “Is Trang to be our savior, then?”
Tricia nodded gamely. “It appears so.”
Grand Admiral Samuel U. Trang had risen to command all UHF forces by virtue of the fact that almost every other high-ranking officer ahead of him had proved too incompetent to lead or unfortunate enough to be killed by the incompetence of others. But Trang had somehow found a way to survive and in short order had proved himself again and again by snatching victory from the sure hands of defeat. As far as the UHF and Trang were concerned, there was really only one impediment to the unincorporated war’s end—Fleet Admiral J. D. Black of the Outer Alliance. Despite being vastly outnumbered in both troops and munitions, whether by chicanery, guts, or both, Admiral Black too had always found a way to win. That is, until Trang burst onto the scene. He’d had no problem using his one great advantage—resources—to full effect. No matter what Black had thrown at him, and it had been quite a lot, Trang could always bounce back—and did—with more ships, more weapons, more fortitude. Up until the recent Battle of Ceres, the two opposing warriors’ brief encounters had always ended in a draw. But now Tricia was telling Hektor something different.
“If the reports are to be believed,” she continued, “he destroyed enough of the orbital defenses around Ceres to begin bombarding the surface. The Minister of Defense has the official repor—”
“Forget Porfirio,” scolded Hektor.
&nb
sp; “I have,” she laughed. “That’s why I came here as soon as you landed. This kind of news couldn’t wait.”
Hektor nodded. As usual, Tricia had been proactive, delivering information not within her purview—her way of letting him know the extent of her network while artfully undercutting a fellow Cabinet member.
“Trang’s battle plan was brilliant—no surprises there—and was even”—the tone of her voice changed to reflect admiration—“suitably ruthless. He’ll offer the Alliance Council surrender, but doesn’t expect them to accept it.”
“In which case?” quizzed Hektor.
“He’ll eliminate the remaining defenses and then shove enough atomics into their hole,” she said, referring to the Via Cereana, a massive throughway running the length of the planetoid’s center, “to blast that putrescent capital of the rebellion to dust.”
Hektor regarded Tricia thoughtfully, nodding ever so slowly. It was a pleasure to envision the Outer Alliance’s greatest symbolic presence getting blown to smithereens, but only for a brief second. It was, he knew, too easy to get caught up in the vision and lose track of the reality. Six years of warfare had hammered that home more than anything. “And if he fails?”
“I don’t see how he can, Mr. President. Black may be able to defeat him, but she’s stuck at Jupiter, being a”—she spat the next word out as if it were bile—“humanitarian. It may have cost us one half of our fleet and the loss of Admiral Gupta, but Porfirio was right about one thing—she can’t be in two places at once. She’s two weeks away from Ceres, which is two weeks too long. By the time she gets back, all that shithole will be is a cloud of dust on its way to Saturn.”
“And if he fails?” repeated Hektor. His face was rigid and his countenance savage.
Caught off guard, Tricia’s eyes flashed concern for a brief second and then quickly retreated to their cold, lifeless beauty. “If he fails, if Black somehow manages to save Ceres, Trang’s damage is already done. Like I said, it’s too late.”
Hektor’s silence prodded Tricia on. “Ceres’s destruction and the near elimination of Jupiter as a center of Alliance activity will allow Irma,” she said, referring to the Minister of Information, “to play up these two recent victories and offset whatever other losses we’ve sustained.”
“Right,” snarled the President. “Let’s talk about those other losses, shall we? Over the course of six years, we’ve lost so many ships, spacers, and marines, I’ve lost count and feeling. Every time we win a supposedly massive victory, they retreat farther into the solar system. We just lost an entire fleet … an entire fleet!—and one of our best admirals at Jupiter. How much did Black lose?”
“Well, according to—”
“Cut the crap, Tricia,” barked Hektor through his clenched jaw.
“Not a single ship.”
“Not one ship or assault miner. Not even one missile. She saved on those,” said Hektor with cold humor, “by using her cruisers to shove whatever crippled ships did make it out of Jupiter’s atmosphere right back in.”
“Singh’s propaganda,” Tricia countered, referring to the Outer Alliance’s Secretary of Information.
“Do you think he’s lying?”
Tricia pursed her lips. “No, sir,” she finally admitted, keeping a level gaze, “I don’t.”
“Good. Now at least we’re dealing with facts rather than fiction. Let’s also not forget that the Alliance managed to evacuate the most productive elements, both human and matériel from the asteroid belt and will soon bring all that production back online far from our centers of power.”
“I have not forgotten, Mr. President.”
“Good. And of course, the pièce de résistance, their destruction of the Beanstalk, the single greatest edifice ever created by the human race, plus the near destruction of the Trans-Luna Shipyards, the biggest manufacturing enterprise in the solar system.”
A heavy sigh was the only answer that emanated from the Minister of Internal Affairs.
“Now,” said Hektor, leaning slightly forward in his chair, “please explain to me exactly how it is you plan on playing all that up as winning?”
Though she remained pensive and her manner formal, it was obvious that a battle was raging within as she searched for the right answer. “Sir,” she offered, “they started the war with four billion citizens and had control of everything from the asteroid belt to the Oort cloud. They’ve lost, by my estimate, two billion citizens to permanent death, capture, or exile; the entire asteroid belt; and now, effectively, Jupiter. They’ve lost their leader,” she said, referring to Justin Cord, “and most of their fanatical religious hierarchy to war and assassination. As you’ve so clearly illustrated, we’ve taken our lumps, but theirs—” She nodded grimly. “—theirs have been far worse.”
“Then why,” prodded Hektor, “are they still fighting, Minister?”
Tricia’s mouth hung open for a brief second and just as quickly snapped shut. The truth was that she, like anyone in a position of real power, had no ready answer. They’d all grasped at straws. In a fit of desperation, they’d sent Admiral Abhay Gupta to Jupiter, where his ceaseless slaughter of 179 million souls was supposed to have been the final exclamation mark on what had until then been a merciless path of destruction. Each bloody campaign, they’d all assured themselves, was to be the last. The Alliance would have to cave under such overwhelming pressure. And yet, it hadn’t. Tricia usually had an answer for everything, but now it was her silence that spoke volumes.
“Something must—”
“Not something, Tricia.” Hektor’s face glimmered slightly—a cat toying with its prey. “Someone. Think.”
“We’ve been over this, sir. While we agreed that the Jew should be watched more closely, I still find it hard to believe that he’d be the reason they continue to persevere. His organizational prowess is commendable, but no one rallies around him. No one screams the name ‘Rabbi’ from their rooftop. He’s not like Justin Cord.”
“No,” agreed Hektor. “Not like Justin Cord at all.” A small smile creased the corners of his mouth.
“You can’t be suggesting—”
“I can and I will. You missed it, Minister. But don’t rush to have yourself arrested. We all missed it. Sandra O’Toole is Justin Cord’s successor in every sense of the word. She is the one directing the energies of the Outer Alliance. She is the one giving them the leadership and the hope to continue this war. She,” he proclaimed with an assuredness that would brook no argument, “is the X factor.”
“But my informants—”
“Have been played like a fiddle.” Hektor reached under his desk, pulled out a file, and slid it across the desk.
She picked it up, and her eyes sprang to life as they scanned the information within. “How did you get this?”
“Like you, I have my sources.”
“It’s quite thorough.”
Hektor nodded. “She, not Rabbi, is the real source of the Alliance’s resistance. I was a fool not to see it initially, but now I know. Now I’m armed with the truth, and it’s telling me one thing and one thing only: With her gone, the war is over. What started with one death,” he said, referring to the Chairman’s assassination, “will end with one death. From this moment on, we must devote our resources to destroying the Unincorporated Woman. Sandra O’Toole must die.”
The Triangle Office
Ceres
Battle of Ceres
Day 1, Hour 3
Sergeant Holke looked about as unhappy as Sandra had ever seen him. The Cliff House was located close enough to the surface of Ceres that every bombardment could be felt and the office shook slightly from the continual impacts.
“Just a couple of more items, Sergeant,” Sandra said as if she were going to a ribbon cutting for a new church or day care center.
“Begging the President’s pardon,” scoffed Sergeant Holke, “but we have to get the fuck out of here—now!” Sandra was the last important official to be leaving the Cliff House. She was
supervising the removal of a painting that had already assumed iconic proportions in the Alliance. It was of Justin Cord talking to the assault miners after the great victory at the Battle of the Needle’s Eye.
“The portrait is secure, Madam President,” said her Chief of Staff, Catalina Zohn. “The sergeant is right—you must leave now.”
“Nonsense, dear,” Sandra said airily. “I’m just a figurehead doing figurehead things. If I were lost, the Alliance would survive.”
Both Catalina and Sergeant Holke exchanged yeah, right looks. They both knew that ever since the Sermon in the Park, as the Alliance was calling Sandra’s memorial service after the Long Battle, she’d become more than a mere figurehead. Though even they would be hard-pressed to describe exactly what her being President meant, they did agree on one thing as they turned to her.
“Get out.”
With a sigh, Sandra took one last look around and then grabbed the briefcase that was attached via a thin cable to her wrist. It would look to the world that she was taking her important data disks or small objects of value. And indeed, there were those articles in the briefcase, but they were simply camouflage for the real objects of her power. An ancient VHS tape of a movie called Tron and the ribbon it was wrapped in, actually a high-density data cord. And finally a beautifully wrought gold and silver circlet that was in actuality a VR headband.
The office was shaken by a blast so large, all three were lifted off their feet. They floated in place for a moment until their internal magnetism could adhere them to the “floor.” But before Sandra could get both feet on the ground, Sergeant Holke had grabbed her by the upper arm.
“You’re out of here, now.”
Sandra didn’t argue with the sergeant as he hustled her out. She feared she knew what the blast meant. “Sergeant Holke, did they just use—?”
