The Unincorporated War

by Dani Kollin

  It had been the presence of Dr. Thaddeus Gillette at her reintegration party. Thaddeus had been his old bumbling, insightful self and until that moment Neela hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the old coot. They’d had a heart-to-heart conversation where he had admitted to her that he’d almost gone to the Alliance but in the end felt that the price of societal change would be too high and cost humanity too much. She hadn’t agreed with his naïveté but also didn’t want to argue with the one person she considered a real friend. During the course of their conversation he’d surprised her, saying that he was going to be setting up a military revival clinic in Boulder. He’d asked her to participate, something that Amanda assured Neela she could get Hektor to agree to. Neela had refused outright, not wanting to aid the enemy, but Thaddeus had been relentless. She’d finally agreed, for the sake of their friendship, that she’d only consult. After a week Neela had discovered that the line between consulting, helping out, and finally participating was fine to non-existent. In the end she stopped worrying about the slippery slope, having come to the realization that the men and women coming out of suspension were not the enemy—just shattered human beings in need of her professional help. There was also a very small part of her that felt some responsibility for the war, which was causing these few so much harm.

  When she’d held the poor man as long as she felt necessary she left him with his unit with orders to take him out on the town, get him drunk, and listen to every word he had to say. She knew from his profile that he’d be a teary drunk as opposed to a violent one; and what he needed more than anything was to be with family and friends who supported him. As she was writing up her case notes for the session Dr. Gillette appeared.

  “I am so glad you’re helping with Corporal Wu,” he said, pulling the soldier’s chart from the top of a large stack on Neela’s desk. “A truly difficult case.”

  Neela remained appreciative, if not a little amazed, that she continued to be treated as an equal by a man she considered preeminent in the field.

  She looked up from the report. “It’s nothing you wouldn’t have done, Thad-deus.”

  “Now, Neela,” he answered, flashing his trademark goofy grin, “I’m happy to take credit where credit is due, but this barhopping therapy is quite interesting. I wouldn’t have thought of it. Which is surprising given how much I like spending time in bars.”

  “It’s a very limited and experimental process, Thaddeus. Let’s be honest, how many patients can really make use of it? They need family or a close-knit group of friends who can act as such and they need to be rated as not likely to be violent in social situations. All in all a small portion of the patients we have.”

  “But with those few patients it’s proving marvelous,” he answered, tossing the chart back onto the stack. “And it’s not the only therapy you’re developing.”

  “What choice do we have? This war is forcing us to develop techniques that revival therapy has never really had to deal with. There’s simply no plan or source that’s reliable or relevant. Most of the data on combat trauma is centuries old and doesn’t take into account reanimation, modern technology, or even space travel for Damsah’s sake. I’ve read through it looking for clues and some is helpful, but in the end we have to create it.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.” Gillette looked proud to the point of bursting. “Neela, I want you to publish.”

  Neela stared at him, speechless.

  “You have to, my dear. What you’re doing is some of the most groundbreaking work in decades. I have three scientific journals who’ve been clamoring for anything I can send them. I want to send them your case notes, written for publication of course.”

  “You mean you want to cite me as source?”

  Thaddeus looked confused. “I wasn’t clear?”

  “Uh, yes. But won’t your colleagues mind? I mean given who I am and all.”

  “Not in the least. The name Neela Harper will absolutely be in the Terran Journal of Medicine. They don’t care who you are; they just want to get this information out as quickly as possible to help others who’ll start to encounter these cases if the war continues as I fear it may.”

  “My name is Neela Cord,” she said with some heat. “Of course it is, dear; have I ever called you otherwise?”

  “You just did.”

  “Sorry, se nior moment. The last time I saw you, you were Harper. Things have happened rather quickly.”

  “Yes, they have,” she admitted, calming down.

  “Look,” he continued. “You’re married to Justin Cord and have every right to call yourself what you will.”

  “The rest of the Confederation doesn’t really see it that way,” she reminded him gently.

  “Be that as it may, what you can contribute to human knowledge and the alleviation of human suffering is surely worth the sacrifice of your married name. You must realize how much good you can do. I’ll beg if I must, but I’d really look ridiculous on my knees. Still, if that is what it takes …” Dr. Gillette began to get to his knees in so ponderous a fashion that Neela couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Tell you what,” she said, giggling. “I promise you I’ll at least think about it if you just get up.”

  “What more could I ask?” he answered, rising to his feet, grinning from ear to ear.

  A week later the first of many narticles appeared on war time revival and integration techniques, by Neela Harper.

  There always seemed to be some crisis to deal with, some fire to put out or yet another delegation of politicians who needed mollycoddling. Through them all Justin had managed to keep one item on his private agenda. He’d put that issue on the back burner, recognizing its need to be suborned for the greater good of his running the fledgling government and orchestrating of the war. He finally called a meeting when he’d convinced himself that the timing was right and that the request he wanted to make was valid, given that its implementation would not unduly interfere with the running of his affairs. Invited to the meeting were Cyrus Anjou, Admiral Sinclair, Kirk Olmstead, and Mosh McKenzie. Justin was surprised to see Eleanor walk through the door. Though she hadn’t been invited and Justin wasn’t sure what she’d be able to bring to the table, he greeted her warmly, reasoning that what ever Mosh knew Eleanor knew as well.

  The group found themselves in one of Justin’s many “secure” offices. At Kirk’s prodding Justin had created a number of rooms for high-level briefings. The logic went that if you had six or seven randomly used rooms it would make it that much harder to tap into any one of them. It also fit Justin’s persona in that more than anything he hated being predictable. All of the secure rooms had the same features: solid as opposed to instantly nano-created fluid furniture, a large table, chairs, and a centrally linked holo-tank.

  When all were seated Justin filled the large central holo-tank with an image that all who’d spent time in the triangle office knew intimately. Floating serenely in front of the gathering was a large six-by-eight-foot gossamer amalgamation of brilliant colors showing a laughing, smiling couple in a rustic, snow-covered surrounding.

  “It’s time to get her back,” Justin said firmly.

  Admiral Sinclair’s and Cyrus’s expressions of support were immediate and assuring. Kirk’s, Justin could see, was more businesslike than personal, and Mosh’s and Eleanor’s’ expressions were downright grim.

  “Direct assault or sneak attack’s pretty much out of the question,” said Sinclair. “We have it on good report that she’s being guarded like the last ring of Saturn.”

  “Might I suggest we trade,” added Cyrus, pulling up a roster of names in place of the haunting image of the presidential couple. “We have a whole fleet of prisoners, including a Grand Admiral.” As he said this Admiral Tully’s image and bio popped up and out from the extensive list.

  “Not so grand,” Anjou added wryly, “but let’s hope grand enough. If not, maybe we can throw in some captains.” Eighteen more images popped up and around Tu
lly’s. They were ranked, Justin saw, by perceived value based on experience and accomplishments. All the lists were fairly sparse.

  “Admirals, captains, privates, cooks for Damsah’s sakes,” interjected Mosh, whose dour expression had remained unchanged. “He’ll kill her before he let’s her out of his grasp. Trust me on this, Justin. I don’t mean to put a damper on your plans, but this whole thing is folly.”

  Justin listened intently, trying to work through Mosh’s opinion. It wasn’t one, he knew, to be taken lightly. Mosh had risen to the highest echelons of GCI, having almost become Chairman himself, and more than anyone else in the room had an intimate knowledge of how that type of system operated.

  “All due respect, Mosh,” said Justin, “I don’t believe Hektor would harm Neela given her value as a hostage. At his heart Hektor is still a businessman.”

  Mosh was about to speak, but Eleanor put her hand on his arm and gave him a knowing look. He nodded and beckoned for her to continue. “Justin,” she went on, “pardon me for saying this, but you’re wrong about Hektor. This isn’t a business decision. This is personal. He knows you too well and, because he does, knows you have nothing of value to offer.”

  “Which,” continued Mosh, “makes Neela useless as a hostage.”

  “We’ve got over fifty thousand soldiers, Mosh,” intoned the admiral. “Some of them have to be worth something.”

  “They are, Joshua,” said Mosh, “just not enough … or at least not enough for Neela.”

  Justin was starting to get frustrated. He’d expected a simple and quick resolution, whether military, monetary, or a little bit of both. He hadn’t expected such stiff re sis tance from two of the people he trusted most.

  “She’s my wife, people, and beloved by this Alliance. How can you say that makes her useless?”

  “Justin,” answered Eleanor calmly, “a hostage has value in proportion to what holding that hostage can bring. Hektor does not want credits or soldiers, both of which he has in abundance. There’s only one thing he considers valuable.” She blanked out the holo-tank, then got up, went to the door, and opened it.

  “Sergeant,” she said, calling out to an unseen soldier posted outside the room, “would you please come in here for a moment?”

  A young man came into the room looking rather confused.

  “Eleanor, please,” said Justin, “is this really necessary?”

  “Yes, dear. Please bear with me.”

  The man was just under six feet, with blue eyes and short-cropped blond hair. He had a wide torso, thick, powerful arms, and was stocky in a way typical of most Belters. Justin quickly called up the young man’s stats on his DijAssist. He saw that the sergeant had been newly assigned, having served during the Battle of the Cerian Rocks with such distinction that he’d been promoted to sergeant and assigned to the Cliff House.

  “Eric, right?” asked Justin.

  “Mr. President!” said the sergeant, snapping to immediate attention. “Sergeant Eric M. Holke of the Eighty-second Cerean Volunteers, temporarily assigned to the presidential guard, sir!” The formality let Justin know that the sergeant’s unit must have been led by a mercenary, company–trained officer. Not all Alliance soldiers knew or cared about proper forms of address. His youthful earnestness forced a small smile from Justin’s lips.

  “Thank you for what you’ve done for the Alliance, Sergeant. Without your bravery and willingness to risk your life we wouldn’t be celebrating a victory right now and would have no hope of victory in the future.”

  “Thank you, sir!” answered the sergeant.

  Justin then looked over to Eleanor, indicating that the floor was hers.

  “Tell me, Eric,” she asked, “are you married?”

  The sergeant’s face broke into a risible yet endearing grin in the genuine emotion it showed beneath the gruff exterior of a combat veteran. “Yes, ma’am, matter of fact I am.”

  Eleanor returned his smile. “Just recently, too, I gather.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” answered the sergeant. “A little over six months ago. Had to practically beg her to marry me. Her first marriage didn’t go too well, if you know what I mean.”

  Eleanor nodded sympathetically.

  “Luckily, her pebble-head ex is not even on Ceres. Little settlement about two days’ boost from here. Let’s just say,” he continued, replacing his “in love” face with that of the cold, rigid combat veteran, “he doesn’t come around Ceres much anymore.”

  Admiral Sinclair gave the young man a look of respect.

  “Did your wife approve of you volunteering?” asked Eleanor.

  “Pooky … uh … the missus,” Sergeant Holke responded sheepishly, “and I had to talk about it before she saw it was the right thing to do.”

  Eleanor looked at the sergeant suspiciously. “So you’re saying you did it without telling her, aren’t you?”

  “Well, it was … um … am I in trouble here, ma’am?”

  Justin interrupted. “Sergeant, best to say nothing. Eleanor is far more likely to side with your wife.”

  Eleanor nodded in agreement. “Thank you for your time, Sergeant,” she said, showing him to the door, “and please, give my regards to your wife.”

  “Mine as well,” seconded Justin.

  The sergeant saluted and exited the room. The phrase “Pooky is not going to believe this” could be heard by the cabinet as the soldier walked the short distance from the door to his post at the end of the hall.

  Justin ordered the door resealed. “Eleanor,” he said as soon as the room indicated that they were once again in secure mode, “mind telling us what that was all about?”

  Eleanor sighed. “Justin, would you sacrifice the life of Sergeant Holke to save Neela?”

  “Eleanor, please …”

  “Well?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m almost willing to bet,” she continued, “that you’ll now do your best to make sure that Sergeant Holke returns home to his ‘Pooky.’”

  Justin remained silent. It was exactly what he’d been thinking. “Thought so,” Eleanor said with not the slightest hint of reproof. “Let me take it a step further. Would you ever knowingly give any information that would cause injury or death to any citizen of the Alliance… or even the core for the matter… barring Hektor of course?”

  Justin allowed himself a small laugh but knew exactly where Eleanor was heading. He was starting to feel a pit well up in his stomach.

  “Could you do any of the things I’ve just described?” she continued. “Even for Neela’s life?”

  Justin shook his head gravely.

  “You can’t even offer yourself, dear. The Alliance needs you too much. If even a part of the human race is going to escape from the corporate core’s servitude we need you. You don’t have the luxury of sacrifice. Hektor knows this. And it’s why he’ll be determined to make use of Neela in other ways.”

  The room remained uncomfortably silent. All that could be heard was the quiet buzz of the holo-tank. Eleanor’s logic was irrefutable and no one present was prepared to challenge it. Justin stewed in the totality of her trap. He was angry with Eleanor but angrier with himself for not seeing it himself before he’d bothered to gather his cabinet together. His love for Neela had been all-encompassing, which was why, even after he’d left her on Mars, he’d refused to let go. And which was why he’d called the meeting. But just as he’d been forced to abandon his one true love on the Red Planet he was now being told he’d have to abandon her again. And it was killing him.

  “Fine,” he said stiffly. “Admiral, you said an assault was out of the question. But,” he said, looking over to Kirk, “can we at least explore the possibility of an extraction?”

  Kirk nodded. “Of course.”

  Justin looked over to Eleanor. “Just an exploration, Eleanor.”

  Eleanor’s expression remained impassive. “That sounds fine, Justin.”

  “Good, it’s settled, then,” Justin said, getting up. The
rest of the cabinet rose in unison.

  “Thank you all for coming and for your invaluable insights. I realize I’m asking for the impossible, but we seem to have achieved that and more on numerous occasions.”

  As the group departed, Eleanor pulled Justin aside.

  “Justin, can I have five minutes … in private, please.”

  Justin gave her a quizzical look. “Of course, Eleanor.”

  When the last of the cabinet members had left, Eleanor sat back down, took Justin’s hands in hers, and looked him directly in the eyes.

  “Justin, she’s gone.”

  Justin immediately pulled his hands away. “I refuse to believe that, Eleanor.” She saw the look on his face. “Oh, they won’t take her out to a wall and shoot her. Nor will they lose her suspension unit in deep space as I understand they once threatened to do. But she is gone.”

  “As long as she’s alive, Eleanor, there’s hope. I’m sure Kirk will come up with something.”

  Eleanor nodded her head. “I’m sure he will too, Justin. But he’ll … correction: you’ll be sending out a suicide mission to capture someone who no longer exists. You must understand, Justin, that the Neela who went to Mars died there.”

  “You don’t know that for sure. No one does.”

  “You’re right, not yet. But in all likelihood she’ll have been psyche-audited.”

  “Again, you don’t know that for sure and if they did, it won’t matter. Our doctors are every bit as good as theirs. Whatever they did to her, if they did something to her, we’ll figure out a way to undo it.”

  “No,” Eleanor said as her eyes began to well up. “No, we won’t.”

  Justin had had enough. He stood up and slammed his fist on the table. “Why are you doing this to me, Eleanor? Why?”