by Dani Kollin
And so in a fit of anger, he’d spent the first part of the night sexually humiliating Neela Harper. When he grew bored with her—which, he noted, seemed to be happening with greater frequency—he sent her off for the night. Soon, he decided, he was going to have start finding ways to spice things up again. Perhaps even “sharing” her with people, but he would have to be careful. She’d need a disguise.
Bored, and feeling the need for camaraderie, Hektor invited over some of the Cabinet members for an impromptu game of poker. They arrived shortly, and after a few stiff drinks and a couple of hands, things finally started to loosen up. Hektor was beginning to think the night might not be a waste after all—even if he was losing.
“You know, Porfirio, I am the fucking President.”
Porfirio’s eyes rose slowly from behind the cards he was holding. “And?”
“And you could let me win every now and then.”
The corners of Porfirio’s mouth tilted up. “Mr. President, I most certainly could not.”
“Because?”
“If I did—” Porfirio put his cards down on the table, faceup: two pair, kings and tens. “—you’d never trust me.”
Hektor shot him a half smile as he threw his third losing hand down onto the table in abject disgust.
“Mr. President,” interrupted an overhead voice.
“What is it?”
“You have a visitor.”
Hektor viewed the time on his iris head-over display. “At this hour?”
“Yes.”
“All right … I suppose,” answered Hektor, clearly dour. “Who is it?”
“Neela Harper, sir. She insists it’s important she see you.”
For a moment, Hektor had a powerful vision of Neela being the entertainment for the three men and two women sitting around the table, but he put the idea on hold. Although he was sure Porfirio and the titular head of the Libertarian Party, Carl Trang, would enjoy the dalliance, Franklin would not. He was an oddly cold fish. Same with Brenda. But he was equally sure that Tricia would have no issues whatsoever—especially if it involved doling out a little punishment. The idea had merit, but he’d have to plan it for a different night with a more select group.
“Tell her it’ll have to wait till morning.” Hektor cut the connection, picked up the cards Franklin had just dealt, and drew them close to his chest. Three threes. Finally, he thought, making sure his face didn’t betray his emotions.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, Mr. President,” came the overhead voice.
Hektor looked at the group and smiled acidly. They paid the intrusion no heed; it came with the territory.
“You do realize,” Hektor said, “that your job is on the line, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Go ahead.”
“Dr. Harper says she has information concerning Amanda Snow. Her exact words were, ‘sensitive and time dependent.’”
Hektor saw Tricia’s left brow raise slightly. He knew if he didn’t get to the bottom of it, his Minister of Security would. And if it did turn out to be something of real import, she’d make him miserable for it. “Fine, send her in.”
Two minutes later, Neela appeared. There were beads of sweat on her forehead, and her eyes were sunken and almost lifeless. Her breathing was labored and, noticed Hektor, she seemed to be trembling.
Hektor’s demeanor changed instantly. “Neela,” he asked, rising from his seat, “are you all right?”
Neela didn’t answer but instead weaved her way toward the back of the couch and leaned against it, catching her breath. There was something about her movement … almost purposeful, noted Hektor, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Porfirio, closest to her, stood up from the table and began to reach out to help.
What happened next took only seconds, but were to be the longest of Hektor’s life. Neela released a hidden compartment in the back of the couch, and as she did, Hektor went stock-still. His eyes widened and he felt suddenly queasy. He’d created many such compartments—all with hidden weapons, all for just such an event—and unfortunately for him, Neela knew some of them. Neela’s tremulous hand pulled out the flechette gun and brought it to bear on her puppeteer. Hektor tried to push his chair back so he would fall to the ground, but in the Mars gravity, it seemed to take forever. All he could think about was how much faster he would’ve been on the ground had Neela tried to assassinate him on Earth. He watched in macabre fascination as the flechette gun spit out its tiny points of death. Part of his brain knew it was impossible for him to actually see the four hundred darts per second the gun had just released, but he could swear that he saw each and every one.
What he did, in fact, see was the bulk of the flechettes punch into Porfirio’s throat and face, pulverizing the flesh and bone. Neela’s hand became more erratic as she seemed to lose more control of her body, and her next few shots were wide. As Hektor’s chair finally tipped backwards and he fell to relative safety behind the poker table, he was sure a whole swarm of the tiny darts had flown right past his nose. He was to learn later that he hadn’t been too far off the mark. His left calf took three darts, and his right earlobe—or what was left of it—took one.
Then time seemed to move more normally again. Sound caught up with the panicked screams and din of alarms going off as he heard first a thud and then Neela crying out in rage. Brenda too was cursing, and when Hektor looked over the edge of the table, he saw that his Economics Minister was on top of his would-be assassin, having pinned her to the ground. The flechette had been prudently shoved to the side of the room, and Neela was not putting up any resistance whatsoever. Rather, she was shaking even more violently, and her eyes had begun to roll up into the back of her head. Her jaw hung languidly, and the bit of drool that had formed on her bottom lip began running down her chin.
Hektor slowly approached, in shock. Brenda looked up to her boss for orders. With a quick head movement, he indicated she could move. He then bent down onto one knee and cradled Neela in his arms. She focused on him momentarily and in that moment everyone in the room saw the unparalleled look of hatred emanating from her. Hektor ignored it and gently caressed his lover’s cheek, wondering if there would ever be a woman who, like Neela Cord, could know him for what he truly was. As Neela died in his arms, the loathing slowly faded from her eyes until all that was left were two lifeless orbs looking straight up and past Hektor Bandonillo Sambianco. And it was in that moment that Hektor almost, almost felt love.
4 And a Plague Shall Fall on Both Their Houses
The Cliff House
Ceres
The reports from Mars were confusing: There either had or hadn’t been an assassination attempt and some sort of shake-up of the Cabinet. Rumors also abounded as to the apparent disappearance of Angela Wong, architect of the UHF’s infamous application of psyche audits as compliance weapon. But the reports emanating from the asteroid belt were perhaps the most disturbing of all. The UHF had begun there what Gupta had left off at Jupiter—the annihilation of any Alliance citizens left in that occupied territory. Whereas before, there had been at least the pretense of “overwhelming force” against supposed “insurgents”—more often than not, code for the use of excessive force—now no such pretense was given. It was as if all the rules of warfare had been tossed to the wind. The UHF, according to Alliance intelligence, had begun a scorched-asteroid policy that had, to date, seen the deaths of at least 100 million souls—with at least two-thirds of those permanent. The UHF would pull up to an asteroid and then with a volley of rail gun fire from groups of heavy cruisers, pulverize the rock and all within it. Those fortunate enough to escape would be hunted down, and those who managed to escape that had no choice but to suspend themselves and pray their shuttles or pods—ships were too easy a target—would be found. Once it became clear there was to be no negotiations, the remaining settlers had risen up in revolt with a few actually succeeding in liberating themselves. The UHF couldn’t be everywhere, and some asteroids had either
managed to stave the assaults through sophisticated minefields or direct one-to-one combat, while others had managed to move themselves far enough away to be too inconvenient to attack. Those who did break clear inevitably sent out desperate calls for help to what remained of the shattered Outer Alliance. But other than words of encouragement, the government had been unable to give any help at all.
Padamir’s face betrayed his consternation. “There must be something we can do.”
“Padamir,” answered Mosh, “we’re in the middle of evacuating nearly eight hundred million refugees from Jupiter. We must take care of them and we need the fleet to make sure they arrive safely with the components for the new Jovian Shipyards. On top of which, the refugees from the Belt are still arriving with their settlements. Damsah be praised, they, at least, have intact habitats. But they’re in desperate need of spare parts for recyclers, condensers, fusion reactors, and maneuvering thrusters—and that’s just to start. We still have to get them all settled. And I needn’t remind you that without them, we’re finished as a manufacturing power.”
“Still, Mosh,” argued Padamir, “we must do something. Perhaps attack Mars … draw them off, anything.”
“Trang already has a fleet of over five hundred ships at Mars,” answered Eleanor, attempting to quash another Battle of the Martian Gates scenario, “and it will only grow larger.”
“It’s true that Trang has ships,” added Rabbi, “but it’s equally true that he has no crews.”
“Every ship is manned, Rabbi,” said Mosh sternly.
“Yes, but it takes time to train them. Perhaps Padamir’s idea has merit.”
“Crews or not, you do remember what happened the last time we attacked the capital.”
“Mosh,” said Sandra, a bittersweet tone to her voice. “The ‘capital’ is where we reside. You of course mean their capital.”
Mosh looked about to complain when he saw his wife shooting him a look, shaking her head slightly. He took a deep breath and swallowed. “Of course, Madam President. I meant it was suicide for us to attack ‘their’ capital.”
Sandra acknowledged the retraction with a slight tip of her head. “I’m afraid I must agree with the Treasury Secretary with regards to the folly of an attack.”
“They don’t need to actually attack the place,” said Padamir. “Just going in there to shoot out a few satellites will be more than enough to help improve the morale of the citizens we now have under our control.”
“And what happens if Trang chooses to fight us at Mars?” asked Mosh.
All eyes turned to Admiral Sinclair.
“Truth is, if we avoid the orbats, Trang would have to come to us. Rabbi’s got a valid point. Trang has more ships now, but away from the orbat field, he’ll have to depend on his crews, and there’s a lot of green in those spacers.”
“Let’s say he does come out, even with the green crews,” asked Eleanor, “do you believe J.D. could take him?”
“She won’t get better odds than she’d have now; I can tell you that.”
Sandra looked first at Eleanor and then at her new Secretary of Technology, Ayon Nesor. Both of them had different pieces of a puzzle that only Sandra saw in completion. Eleanor knew that with Hektor’s failed assassination attempt, Sandra would be desperate to try something else—and soon. Ayon, however, knew—because she was now overseeing it—the last trick in the Alliance’s bag. And Sandra had seen in the Technology Secretary’s eyes that consequences concerned her greatly.
“In that case, Admiral,” said Sandra, “I propose that we send J.D. and the fleet to Mars.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Madam President,” said Sinclair, “with what orders?”
“Not at all, Admiral. With orders to do as much damage as possible to any outlying military targets. It’s a win–win for us. As Padamir said, it will certainly aid the war effort and, as you said, should Trang show up, we won’t get better odds.”
Sinclair did not argue with her logic. On his silence, she continued. “I will, of course, accept the vote of the Cabinet as binding on this matter, as we’d be sending in the only military force we have left. Further, I believe my judgment should be tempered by the wisdom and experience of those here.”
Sandra watched as the room nodded in agreement.
“Secretary Singh,” asked Sandra, “how do you vote?”
“Madam President, I vote aye.”
“One for the measure. Secretary Nesor, how do you vote?”
“I…” She paused momentarily. “I ask for you to come back to me, Madam President.”
You’re hoping the vote will tilt one way or another and you won’t have to choose, thought Sandra. I can’t blame you. “Secretary Ayon passes. Secretary Wildman, how do you vote?”
“Madam President, I vote yes.”
“The vote is two for the motion. Admiral Sinclair, how do you vote?”
“Madam President, it’s our last stone. I must vote no.”
Sandra looked at him, surprised. She’d counted on his support, not through collusion but rather through logic. If she lost the motion now, it would be at least a week before she could realistically repropose it.
“Two for and one against.”
“Treasury Secretary McKenzie, how do you vote?”
“We have too much to do here. Let them come here and die again, if they must. I see no reason to go there and try to kill them far from our homes. I vote no.”
“The vote is two for and two against. Intelligence Secretary McKenzie, how do you vote?”
“Madam President, I respectfully vote no.”
Padamir Singh could be heard muttering under his breath about Shareholders but with a withering look from Sandra curtailed his diatribe.
“The vote is three against and two for. I vote for the measure.” Sandra then looked over to Ayon. “That makes it three to three.”
All eyes now turned toward Ayon. Though her face remained staid, it was obvious from her pressed-together lips and intensely focused eyes that she was struggling over her answer.
The rest of the Cabinet, with the possible exception of Eleanor, in all likelihood had attributed Ayon’s reticence to the fact that this, her first-ever decision, might end up getting some people killed, but Sandra knew differently. Ayon knew what a yes meant, knew what even Sinclair had not been told about.
“I vote … I vote yes.” The tight line on her face dissipated, replaced by a slight grimace.
“By order of the President of the Outer Alliance,” said Sandra, “Fleet Admiral J. D. Black will take all available resources at her disposal and attack the UHF capital of Mars and inflict the maximum damage possible that will aid our war effort. May our actions find favor in the eyes of the Lord.”
AWS Otter
Main battle fleet of the Outer Alliance
Orbit of Ceres
J.D. made her way to the shuttle bay of the frigate and saw that Suchitra was there as ordered, with the twenty surviving captains of her flotilla. They all stared at Omad’s once second-in-command with a veneration J.D. found comforting. Suchitra Gorakhpur’s actions at the Long Battle and Omad’s Last Raid had shown her to have that rarest of all gifts; leadership in battle. The Alliance didn’t wait when it found something like that; it pounced. The hypocrisy of valuing that veneration when it was directed at Suchitra but disdaining it when it was directed at her never crossed J.D.’s mind.
The salutes were sloppy by fleet standards, but Omad’s flotilla had always worked by a slightly looser set of rules. J.D. was hoping she could tighten up the discipline now that Omad was gone, but part of her was hoping she would fail.
“Commodore Gorakhpur,” J.D. began, her voice effortlessly carrying throughout the shuttle bay and to every ship in the fleet. “Your assumption of command took place under the most trying circumstances. In doing so, you showed daring, courage, and a ruthless dedication to the destruction of the enemy. Admiral Hassan could not have done better. He chose well when he made you flotilla sen
ior captain.”
The shuttle bay exploded in a storm of cheering. “That being said, Fleet HQ has reviewed the circumstances of your field promotion and has decided it is not appropriate for you keep the rank of commodore you received under battlefield conditions.”
Suchitra was able to restore order with just one glance amid a few howls of protest.
“Therefore by order of President Sandra O’Toole and with the full concurrence of both myself and Grand Admiral Sinclair”—J.D. could not hide the grin now—“Suchitra Kumari Gorakhpur, you are hereby promoted to full admiral of the Outer Alliance, with all the privileges and responsibilities that your new rank—”
J.D. words were drowned out by the continued cheering that reverberated through the hull. She gave up trying to finish the official ceremony and instead stood there smiling next to one of the few people left who she felt could help her win the war.
AWS Warprize II
Suchitra was sitting on the floor, playing with Katy and enjoying herself immensely. The child was curious about everything that had to do with the fleet. She was intent on learning all the ships, battles, officers, and even logistics. She also appeared to know more about fleet nutrition supplements than even Suchitra. But it was the toy ships that Katy seemed to love the most. Apparently, the engineering department of the Warprize had been willing to use ship time and materials to make to scale gold models of many of the ships in the fleet. Or to be more precise, gold for the Alliance ships and lead for those of the UHF. Katy did not have all the ships because Tawfik brought her a new one only when he came for a visit. The result was the young girl demanded that Fatima bring the chief engineer to J.D.’s quarters whenever possible, something that Fatima hadn’t minded doing at all. But Suchitra was annoyed that none of the ships of Omad’s flot—she corrected her thought—her flotilla were represented. She scanned the ships to get the proper scale and determined to have her engineering department make the additional models.
