The Unincorporated Woman by Dani Kollin, Eytan Kollin

tube took her to downtown Burroughs in a little under ten minutes. The provincial city of over twenty million had grown into a major transportation hub that, as capital of the United Human Federation, had become responsible for the lives of nearly thirty-six billion. After President Sambianco had insisted on moving the capital from Earth to Mars, its rapid growth had been assured. In the brief span of five years, it had managed to get itself ordained as the most prefabricated city in human history. Even the Presidential complex was made of interchangeable hard foam that would normally have been used as offices for a temporary construction project.
    But what should have been a prescription for a dull cityscape turned out to be anything but. The city’s new immigrants, used to a certain level of culture and visual stimuli, had refused to take the drab material on its merits alone. So by virtue of a popular technique called flo-motion color injection, plus the addition of minor architectural trimmings, they’d managed to breathe visual life and energy into a material meant to be devoid of any. As such, Burroughs from above looked like a massive hodgepodge of seemingly independent, in-motion, colorful, and oddly geodesic structures. The intrinsic exuberance of the buildings was simpatico with the street musicians, food vendors, and souks selling everything from captured Alliance uniforms to exotic fruit kebabs. As in any great city, the sidewalks and fly zones were filled with a mad rush of people going to and fro, dressed in all manner of fashion from street chic to corporate cool.
    The other loved the palpable energy of the place, especially the dwellers themselves, who had about them the quiet confidence of diplomats buoyed by the rightness of their mission. The other knew that Lisa loved it here too, but not for reasons that the other did. Lisa, like those busily passing by, actually believed in the UHF and what it stood for, while the other could not understand how they could all be so easily fooled. But that no longer mattered. She took a tube transport to Old Town, the artistic center of Burroughs and the only part of the city not prefabricated. It was off to the west, closer to the sea, and made up of two- and three-story buildings constructed by the original settlers. The other walked down a few alleys until she arrived at the place she was looking for: the John Carter Chess Club—a quaint establishment decorated like a Victorian gentlemen’s smoke room but themed out to the famous Edgar Rice Burroughs character. Besides the decorative brass and leather trimmings, there were also mementos under glass, artwork on the wall, literature lining the shelves, and of course, a life-sized statue of the hero himself.
    The club had made a name for itself even before the UHF’s arrival transformed the once sleepy city. The atmosphere was relaxed, and its clientele were mainly of the upper class and, barring that, the filthy rich. The war alone had introduced a whole new category of scoundrel, the likes of which had not been seen in hundreds of years. The scoundrels were tolerated not only for their money but also because they performed a vital function—the movement of goods, people, and ordnance. The club, though, was private, and membership was by invitation only. There was still a large area open to the public, and this was where the other ’s journey momentarily came to a halt. She took in the room. It was a warm and inviting space at the center of which was a large hearth piled high with burning logs. A few well-placed sofas and an ample number of brass-dimpled overstuffed leather chairs surrounded the fireplace. The din of visiting tourists ogling the life-sized sculpture of John Carter could be heard mixed in with the sporadic crackling of a falling log.
    As Dr. Gillette was playing chess in one of the reserved areas of the club, the other had to wait patiently while being announced. A human messenger was sent—a