by Dani Kollin
Fortunately, the Alliance had learned of Tully’s plans through surreptitious means. It seemed the admiral was planning nothing short of the conquest of Jupiter itself. It hadn’t been a bad plan, all things being equal. The UHF would wait for the Alliance to commit to some sector of the belt’s front and then skip over it rather than go straight through. The tactic was novel in that it bypassed the deadly ambushes that would have awaited them in the belt itself, but it was also pointless—why go around something you’re going to have to conquer anyway? But that hadn’t been the point. Tully wanted a grand victory, and seizing Jupiter was just such a victory. He could always go back later and take the pesky rocks one at a time. The big problem, however, was that by jumping over the belt without first securing all the rocks below and between, Tully would have a dangerously exposed position as well as a much-lengthened supply and retreat line if something was to go wrong. It was, thought J.D., the type of bold move the UHF should have done earlier in the war but had been afraid to. As it turned out, she’d justified their fears.
J.D. knew she’d need to draw Tully out, but in doing so she’d have to take a gamble. She’d have to send at least one hundred ships—masked to appear at least double that number—far enough away that they’d effectively be useless in the ensuing battle. She chose to have them shoot the core in a feint to make it look like they were going to attack either Luna or Earth. By losing the use of those hundred ships J.D. would have to rely on skill over numbers to secure a victory. Tully had bought the ruse and immediately left for Jupiter with a large contingent of the UHF fleet.
He’d read the comm traffic and indeed it seemed like he’d caught the Alliance by surprise. Shadow fleets of four to five ships scrambled, and Jupiter appeared to be in a panic as even more ships fled from one moon and settlement to another. J.D. had even let Tully destroy two half-finished warships from the Jovian Shipyards to make him believe he’d finally caught the Alliance unawares. J.D. wished she could’ve seen his face as he circled Jupiter and was not met by a helpless Jovian capital preparing for surrender but the Alliance fleet that had circled around from the opposite direction. The ensuing battle had been as nasty as any fought in the war so far.
J.D. still remembered every detail. The UHF had fought well, as well as her own spacers, in fact. If they’d been better led, they may have even achieved a draw, which given their location in the heart of the Alliance would have been a disaster. But Tully had wanted J.D. too badly and, in an effort to get to her, put his ship out of line, forcing his tightly packed formation to follow suit. It would be the last command he’d ever give. J.D. saw the chink in his armor and gave the order. She rammed his flagship, putting hers out of commission, and so disrupted the UHF fleet that they never recovered. Jupiter’s gravity well offered no rapid escapes. With the flagship out, the battle turned into a slugging match. When it was over the bulk of the UHF fleet had been destroyed. Sadly, the enemy had fought so well that much of J.D.’s fleet had been too badly damaged to launch an immediate assault on Mars, which had been her ultimate plan. Still, so great was the loss in men and ships to the UHF that she’d believed it should have been enough to sue for peace. And if not for Samuel U. Trang it just might have been.
Trang had found her decoy raiding party and had not been fooled for a second as to its true size. So he set his own trap. Twenty merchant ships filled with enough uranium to keep the Alliance in the war for another dozen years. Guarded by a mere thirty warships, the merchant ships were too tempting a prize for Commodore Cordova to ignore. He should have known better, but he’d fallen under that most dangerous of spells: underestimating the enemy. Cordova fought hard and the warships protecting the merchant ships eventually succumbed to his relentless onslaught. They fled, leaving Cordova to proudly corral his prize—that is, until all twenty of the uranium ships blew up, taking twelve of Cordova’s ships with them. The explosion also managed to incapacitate dozens more. It was then that Trang’s most loyal and able officer, Captain Abhay Gupta, and forty UHF warships appeared from the other side of Mercury. They’d hidden their presence by using the sun’s interference and a new communications protocol that mimicked solar static. By the time Cordova’s replacement had been able to organize his remaining ships the battle was begun. Captain Lu should have ordered an immediate retreat, taken his losses, and run but felt the tide turning in his favor. Had he bothered to ask himself why someone who’d planned a battle so well would attack with so few ships perhaps he too would have lived. Lu hadn’t been aware of Trang’s twenty-five warships until they’d cut off his retreat.
Of the one hundred warships that J.D. sent, only seven managed to return. She’d lost Cordova, Lee, and Lu, all of whom died with their ships. The only solace she took was that she’d never have to worry about telling them apart again. It was a defeat on par with the loss of Eros, in some ways even worse, as it came at just the right time to mitigate the UHF defeat at Jupiter. That hadn’t been the biggest disaster for the Alliance, though. Trang was finally promoted to Grand Admiral and put in charge of all UHF forces. Even his most ardent foes could do nothing to deny the “hero of Mercury” and the “savior of the core” supreme command after that. Not that Hektor would have listened to them. J.D. had hoped Trang would try to do something flashy, like launch a premature attack on Altamont or even try a foray out of Mars. At least if he did that she could encircle him while his forces were still recovering from the Jupiter fiasco. But Trang hadn’t done anything rash at all. And with his fleet so diminished it would have meant he’d need to rob Peter to pay Paul, or draw ships and experienced personnel from the 180, which he wasn’t about to do.
What Trang had done instead was send Gupta, newly re-promoted to admiral, back to Mars to outfit and train the new ships already replacing the losses at Jupiter, gambling that J.D. would not be in a position to attack anytime soon. Then Trang went back to the unglamorous, grinding, and thankless job of cutting the 180 in half. J.D. knew it was the correct course of action because it was exactly what she would’ve done in his place. Why give up the fruits of a two-year campaign and certain, if expensive, victory for the risks of battle on the other side of the belt?
So J.D. spent the months following the Jupiter victory getting her fleet ready for operations and was given, along with a brand-new ship, a brand-new shuttle she currently found herself being transported in. The shuttle had been made to her specifications, and even though she’d ordered nothing special beyond that which would’ve enhanced per for mance, the techs at Gedretar had purposely disobeyed. Her shuttle had a simulated polished wood interior with bathing facilities, sleeping accommodations, and an entertainment system worthy of GCI’s last real Chairman.
J.D. smiled as she remembered the man. She’d been floored when Justin had finally revealed the truth. However, when she looked back on her years as head of Legal for the system’s largest corporation it explained a lot with regard to The Chairman’s often unusual behavior. So while the old man may not have truly liked her shuttle, the man she knew would have at least pretended he did.
Much as she hated to admit it, the damned techs had really screwed her but good, because the rest of the shuttle was exactly what she needed. It was fast, well armored, and capable of being a communications hub all on its own. If she demanded a new one it probably wouldn’t be as good, and if she had this one altered it would take away from the time she never seemed to have enough of. So the great J. D. Black found herself outmaneuvered by a group of surly dockworkers and had to retreat with only the threat of having it gutted the next chance she got. The bastards were even grinning as she boarded their hedonist contraption.
Unconsciously she ran her fingers over the scarred half of her face and considered what to do about Trang. For all the joy the Alliance had about her victory at Jupiter, its only long-term effect was to bring her most dangerous adversary into command. She knew she’d have to face him in combat sooner or later, and for the first time the iron certainty of victory she’d always had was
nowhere to be found. It wasn’t fear; win or lose, she knew she’d do her best, but still, she’d always known victory was certain. However, with Trang all she got was a blank. She couldn’t get a feeling for him that she could with all her other opponents. More frightful, she knew he wouldn’t listen when she whispered her famous mantras across the space that separated their ships. The others always seemed to.
J.D. put those worries aside and checked her appearance. Her dark blue uniform was too stiff and too laden with all manner of medallion. Her hair was drawn back and pulled into a tight bun, revealing even more of the now famously deformed face. She had a duty to perform and, like all her duties, she would perform it well.
J.D. exited her shuttle into a vast and gleaming bay that was silent except for the sound of her footsteps clanking down the small metallic gangplank.
“Admiral on board!” shouted the officer in charge of the shuttle bay. J.D. then made a beeline for that officer, who immediately saluted. She returned his with one of her own. The fleet that had started out eschewing fancy uniforms, pomp, and protocol at first had become accepting of it and as the war continued had finally become enamored of it. J.D. realized the fleet needed the structure and symbolism that the panoply brought. It increased the sense of family and group cohesion that she knew was just as important to winning battles as ships and guns.
She walked over to Lieutenant Nitelowsen, who saluted and had the salute returned. “Lieutenant,” asked J.D. loud enough for all in the bay to hear, “is the ship ready?”
The question was of course rhetorical. J.D. knew as much about every aspect of the vessel as she could without actually having been on board. She’d been so crunched for time since her return from Jupiter that she hadn’t been able to do more than acknowledge the ship’s arrival three days prior. At which point she’d sent her trusted aide to make sure there were no obvious problems. The last thing she needed was a repeat of the Pickax affair. Warped Prize had come to mind.
“Admiral,” answered Lieutenant Nitelowsen, “the ship is ready for action. I have inspected every section and tested all systems personally. She’ll do the job, ma’am.”
J.D. then turned toward the assembled crew. “In the name of our commander in chief, in the name of the Congress and the people of the Outer Alliance, I, Janet Delgado Black, admiral in good standing of the armed forces of the Outer Alliance, declare this ship operational. I confirm on her the name War Prize II and accept her and her crew as the flagship for the entire fleet. May Allah bless this ship and all who serve on her.”
The entire shuttle bay erupted in cheers as caps, gloves, and various other objects were thrown high into the air and people turned toward one another either hugging or shaking each other’s hands (as all good citizens of the Alliance did, in emulation of their President). J.D. let it continue on for a good few minutes. No one actually approached her, but they all noticed her famous half smile, made more so by its rare appearance. The truth was, J.D. needed these moments even more than her spacers did. It was as water in a desert for a soul scorched by the heat of constant battle. But when her face resumed its normal mask of unattainable beauty and scar-strengthened iron will, Lieutenant Nitelowsen called the assembly to an attention that was instantly given.
J.D. once again looked around at the jubilant ranks. “Remember this moment,” she said. “Tell it to your unborn children and grandchildren, who, thanks to the foresight and wisdom of our President, shall be born to a freedom that is their birthright. A birthright long forsaken by humanity … but no more. Now we must go about our duties. Those of you who can will be given leave to go to Ceres for the memorial ser vice of Captain James Seacrest. It will take place in the grand concourse under the Cliff House.” J.D. paused and then addressed the bay sergeant. “You may dismiss the crew, Sergeant.”
The sergeant nodded, saluted, and dispensed his duties with a voice scalding enough to melt steel.
Justin was watching the holographic feed from the Alliance Free Press. Normally he wouldn’t have bothered. He had better things to do when life foisted little luxuries like downtime on him, but this was something he actually wanted to see. It was a special one-hour report by Michael Veritas on Janet Delgado Black. What made it fascinating was how Michael had had it crafted: lots of holos with zero Janet dialogue. It was only about halfway through that Justin realized what Michael was actually doing. The special was not about the admiral. It was about how the Alliance felt about the admiral.
By the time he was done watching, Justin wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or scared out of his wits. Janet was … venerated was the only word that seemed to apply. All classes, all parties, all ages, everyone had a love for Janet Delgado Black. Even the families of the permanently deceased were incapable of blaming her for the battles that had caused the losses they were now suffering. The Alliance needed her, but Justin realized it was not just to win battles. They needed Janet to be Fleet Admiral J. D. Black, the blessed one, the unimpeachable and holy guardian of all things good. They needed her to be an icon. They could no more find fault with J.D. than they could with a beloved relative or their newfound devotion to faith. Indeed, for many the line between Janet and the Almighty was becoming blurred, if not in their minds, far more dangerously, in their hearts.
What made this realization so ironic was that Justin fully understood it in relation to Janet but was incapable of realizing that he’d achieved a similar, if slightly different, aura himself. He realized that it was dangerous for a person to have such mythical status if the Alliance was to remain a civilization devoted to liberty. But the quandary was simple. He needed the Fleet Admiral to be mythic in order to win the war. But if she was still mythic after the war—assuming they won—it would be very difficult to demystify her. He filed this under “Problems to Deal with Later” but made a mental note to keep that one near the top of that long list.
He was about to cancel the program and get back to his tasks when a small advertisement caught his eye.
“That sonova …,” he growled, shaking his head. “sebastian, find Admiral Hassan and get his ass up here now!”
“Right away, Justin.”
A few minutes later Omad was in the presidential office. “Didja see the ad?” he said, barging through the door, proud as a peacock.
“Happy lifeday?” asked Justin, exasperated.
“Yeah,” laughed Omad. “How great is that?”
“Omad, do I need to remind you that I don’t actually have a lifeday?”
“Well, no … but—”
“And I certainly don’t appreciate your giving me one and then inviting the entire damned system to celebrate it!”
“Oh, don’t be that way,” admonished Omad. “Just ’cause you don’t know when yours is doesn’t mean it don’t exist.”
Lifedays, knew Justin, had replaced birthdays. And while he was familiar with the custom, he’d purposely chosen not to partake—that is, up until his friend had decided to foist one upon him. It was one of the societal shifts that had made Justin feel in his gut that he was in but not necessarily of his new world. Medical science had advanced to the point where it was possible to have a surrogate system provide the embryo with all the medical care it needed, with a far greater degree of safety for the growing life. Unlike a woman carrying a child to term, a surrogate womb could monitor every stage of the child’s development and alert medical staff should in utero care be needed. Justin thought the idea cold and heartless, but when he’d visited a maternity ward—the name now divorced from its roots—he saw a machine that was far less mechanical and a lot more biological. The growing child could, through the biochamber, hear and feel a recorded heartbeat, listen to its parents’ voices (prerecorded or present), and experience the sounds of predetermined music, sports, and even literature.
Knowing how the system worked, Justin was amazed that one out of three women still chose to have “natural” childbirth at all, especially given the fact that almost all of humanity’s physiologically or ps
ychologically handicapped—DeGens—came from the natural method. In the Alliance the numbers were necessarily different. There simply wasn’t the luxury or time to carry a child, and so only one in ten gave birth the old-fashioned way. Still, it was seen more as a mark of stamina or ideology than anything worthy of celebration. This new world chose to rejoice when the baby came home from the maternity ward, as opposed to the moment it emerged from the bio-machine covered in a gooey placental mass. Everyone knew the day their child was conceived, even natural birth mothers. So conception, or lifeday as it was commonly referred to, had come to replace the day of physical emergence or “birthday” as a celebration of an individual’s entrance into life.
Justin had fervently hoped that Neela would fall into the “ideological” category and choose to carry rather than go “biomech.” Call him old-fashioned, he’d said at the time, but there was simply no sight more beautiful to behold than a mother with child … especially if with his. However, he quickly saw by the look of utter determination on his wife’s face that it was not an argument he was going to win. Their child, she’d said, would have a lifeday, and Justin could go on celebrating his anachronistic birthday if he so desired. The truth was that, even had he wanted to, there was no practical way for Justin to find his actual day of conception. So it was with much annoyance that he learned that his lifeday was going to be celebrated on the seventh of the next month, a mere two weeks away. Further, that the source of this long-sought-after information was none other than the great war hero, trusted subordinate of J. D. Black, and the man universally acknowledged as his best friend.
“So how’d you figure it out? Did I leave trace DNA somewhere that you somehow managed to suborn, test, and verify?”
“Nah,” answered Omad, pawing and staring intently at a small bust of Abraham Lincoln he’d removed from a shelf, “just made it up.”
