The Unincorporated Woman (The Unincorporated Man) - Hardcover

1 Days of Ash
 

One of the most difficult things I’ve had to explain to the generations that came after us is the Days of Ash—unquestionably the worst moments of the war. Not in terms of death and suffering. No, those opportunistic twins were birthed in due time, and sadly what the human race would come to inflict on itself can still, to this day, scarcely be believed or forgiven. But as horrible as the war itself was, despite all the slaughter and misery that came after, those first few weeks were easily the most difficult. For during the Days of Ash, there dawned on the Outer Alliance a terrifying realization: With a raging storm moving swiftly over the horizon, our ship was rudderless.
Michael Veritas
The War, Volume IV: The Bloody Climax
University of Ceres Press

Days of Ash: Day Four
Fleet Admiral J. D. Black, commander of the Outer Alliance Navy, unofficial leader of the Astral Awakening and hated adversary of the United Human Federation, barged into Justin Cord’s office, gave a perfunctory salute and let loose with a hail of pent-up fury.
“You son of a bitch.” She seethed, lips curled back into a half-scarred face feared equally by enemy and ally alike. “It isn’t enough I’ve had to lead your damned excuse for a navy to more victories than anyone had a right to expect?” J.D. held up her hand, not bothering to wait for an answer. “Or,” she added as short, measured bursts of air escaped through her flared nostrils, “that I took a fleet of mine haulers and pleasure yachts and turned it into a feared and effective military force? Defeated enemies who outnumber us in every single battle not once but time and time again?” J.D. shook her head in disgust at the lack of response. The tempest she felt burning within leapt from her dark, penetrating eyes as if daggers flung from an assassin. “Do you have any idea,” she hissed, “how volatile the religious situation has become? How easy it would be for me to let them all slip right back into their violent and monolithic past?” She paused, waiting, but again there was nothing. “I haven’t let that happen, Justin ... I won’t let that happen. But is that good enough for you, Mr. One Free Man? Obviously not—otherwise you wouldn’t have done this. Why,” she pleaded, “did you even have to? Don’t you see, Justin? I was never meant to be here. I’m just a corporate lawyer, for God’s sake. This supposed gift I have ... leading spacers into battle. Dumb luck ... dumb...” The words languished in her mouth like the last few drops of a stream succumbing to a winter’s frost. “But, guess what?” she rejoined. “Lightning doesn’t strike twice. I’ve found the thing I’m good at,” she scoffed, “but does that even matter to you? Did it ever matter to you?” She let out a deep breath, shook her head wearily, then let it drop between her shoulders. “They need me to lead them, Justin. They need me to lead them all. What am I supposed to do now?” she pleaded, slumping backwards into the closest available seat. A moment later, J.D. lifted her head and with eyes as deep and vacant as space, stared across at the untouched desk and empty chair of the assassinated President, waiting for an answer she knew would never come.
Seventy-two hours earlier
Admiral Black’s command shuttle approached the landing bay of the AWS Dolphin. Omad’s ship, noted J.D. as she stared out a port window, had been none the worse for its wear. Recently restocked at Altamont and updated at the Gedretar Shipyards in Ceres, the Dolphin was thankfully spaceworthy. It will need to be, she thought, returning to her work. The admiral’s normally taciturn qualities had become positively glacial. She’d recently been caught off guard, and it was eating her alive. Worse, her stupidity might very well have cost everyone the war. The lines in her maimed brow, normally pronounced in a sort of twisted arc when roused, seemed frozen in place, as if sculpted by some macabre surgical procedure.
The Belt had been cracked, and Christina—her darling, tenacious Christina—was trapped at Altamont. The enemy’s siege would succeed and the critical fortress would fall, in weeks at the earliest, a month at the latest. The Alliance had lost more than thirty ships and hundreds of thousands of miners. One more month, thought J.D., teeth clenched, hand slowly working its way over the now familiar distorted grooves and ridges of her pockmarked face. One more month. That’s all I needed. In another month, they would have had the Via, a high-acceleration spaceway, to Altamont. Then she could have crushed Trang or, at the very least, broken through the siege long enough for all to evacuate. But Trang had either gotten lucky or outsmarted her. She’d wished it were the former but in her gut she suspected the latter, which galled her even more. And now they were really in it.
Still, all the recent losses could at least be framed within the context of military snafus. Even Christina, whom she’d loved as a friend and military wunderkind, held more value to her as a defensive tactician than as a close confidante. J.D. could force herself to be objective about any and all of it ... all of them. That objectivity was what made her so good at what she did. She moved on. Found weaknesses where none were thought to exist. Exploited opportunities at every instance. Cold was good. Dead was good. And she’d almost stayed in that invulnerable space between the two but for the one person who’d somehow managed to find and then crawl into the small hole she’d inadvertently left uncovered. Fawa Sulnat Hamdi may have been the birthmother of the Astral Awakening but to J.D. the woman was also the only mother she’d ever really known. And the fact that she was gone now—murdered—was killing her. Because Fawa’s only “daughter,” the supposed greatest admiral in human history, had failed to see it coming.
Her first impulse had been to hunt down and destroy every UHF squadron in the region. It might not have been the most rational thing to do, but it sure would have felt good. Plus it could have been done with impunity, as Trang was still in the midst of his murderous rampage on the far side of the Belt, some 933 million kilometers away.
But then the other shoe dropped: Justin Cord, leader of the free worlds and hope to untold billions still languishing under the yoke of the incorporated movement, had been assassinated near the moon of Nerid. His body had been eviscerated by ravenous nanite attackers and left as a pile of dust orbiting that now ignominious rock. Both the timing and nature of the attacks carried with them the imprimatur of Hektor Sambianco. No doubts about that. The UHF’s President had once again shown why those foolish enough to underestimate him paid a high price indeed.
J.D. shortly came to realize one other salient fact: Hektor had murdered the old Chairman. Until now she’d always discounted the rumors, preferring to believe the old man died at the hands of an action wing terrorist or quite possibly the result of Justin Cord’s machinations. She’d never completely bought into Justin’s too-good-to-be-true persona. Who the hell is that good, anyways? She rubbed the folds of her forehead as an involuntarily twitch moved her upper lip. He was.
Janet Delgado Black would have her revenge, but not just yet. She’d be patient, lick her wounds. And because she knew that the Alliance would not be broken, that they’d fight even if all they had left were the rocks grasped in the palms of their bloodied hands, she’d have time. She swore then and there that whatever it took, she’d hunt down those who’d destroyed her life. They’d pay for their unholy act of terror, and she’d bear witness.
Her shuttle swept into the bay, was grabbed by the Dolphin’s override system, and soon came to a slow, measured stop on the landing pad. J.D. didn’t bother getting up from the desk she’d spent the last few hours brooding behind. Captain Marilynn Nitelowsen would do the formal greetings if there were any to be done. J.D. had grown impatient with formality, as much as it seemed to soothe the fighting class. She heard Marilynn walk down the gangway toward the hatch. The familiar hiss of air transference was immediately trumped by the garrulous sound of a man barking orders. A few seconds later, Marilynn entered the stateroom and gave her boss a knowing grin. A second after that, Admiral Omad Hassan strode in without bothering to salute.
“What in the name of Damsah is going on, Janet?” he barked.
“The fleet,” she replied, placing both hands atop the knee of her crossed legs, “has been ordered back to Ceres.” She indicated to Marilynn that she and Omad be left alone. The captain made a quick exit, closing the hatch behind her.
Omad’s eyes could not hide the panoply of emotions he was feeling. “But we have to make the bastards pay!” he blurted. “Alhambra cannot go unavenged!”
“And it will, friend,” she said, motioning him to take a seat. “Just not now.”
The admiral refused the gesture, preferring to work himself up into a state.
“We can’t,” cut in J.D. “because we’re needed at Ceres.”
A tense silence filled the air.
“However,” she reassured, “we are going to make some of those bastards pay.”
Omad grunted his reluctant acceptance and deigned to sit down, eyebrow raised in anticipation.
“You’re to take fifteen of our fastest ships,” she ordered, “and hunt down whatever&...