Waiting for the arrival of the prisoner, he and Sophie Vence met in his Elba offices, completely in control; Sophie stood in support beside his desk, exuding righteous anger. She had always blamed the Diadem for the Deep Zone’s misery. She reached over to place a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’ve waited a long time for this day, Tiber.”
He considered. “I waited for Destination Day, when our stringline network was complete and we could declare independence. And I’ve waited for the day when the Constellation decides to coexist with the Deep Zone. But waiting to gloat over her? No. I will treat the Diadem as a rival leader should, not as a barbarian.”
Ian Walfor and Tanja Hu arrived with the Diadem and her aide as prisoners, both of them with wrists and ankles bound with symbolic chains. They were accompanied by a blonde woman he did not at first recognize, then he placed Enva Tazaar. Not long ago, the former ruler of Orsini had reached out to him, proposing a secret alliance against the Diadem. She had been stripped of her rank and possessions, and had disappeared. Now that was a surprise.
But his attention was riveted on Michella Duchenet.
Seeing the old woman before him, broken and helpless, made Adolphus recall when he had staggered forward across the floor of the Council Hall, a prisoner after his first failed rebellion. The seats had all been filled with nobles, many of whom hated him. He had been sure he would be sentenced to death, but had hoped to negotiate clemency for his followers.
He’d gotten neither. Instead of execution, the Diadem had sent him to a hellish planet and exiled his followers as well. Now the tables were turned. He met her gaze calmly, not provoking, but supremely confident. She had to see that she had no power here, no leverage.
Adolphus rose from behind his desk, and the old woman lifted her chin. Defiance flashed in her eyes. “What will you do now, General? Drag me through the streets? Make a show of denigrating me before you kill me?”
He was surprised and let disappointment creep into his voice. “If you imagine I would do such a thing, Michella Duchenet, then you know very little about me. You must know that I am a man who respects authority and honor.” He glanced at Tanja. “The shackles are not necessary. Please remove her restraints.”
Though the others seemed wary about this, Tanja released the manacles. Diadem Michella lifted her age-spotted arms, rubbed her wrists. She offered no thanks for the courtesy.
“What about me?” Ishop Heer lifted his manacled hands. “Unshackle me, too, as a show of good faith?”
Adolphus sat back down behind his desk. “I think not—I know you well enough, Mr. Heer.” He didn’t trust Michella Duchenet, but he did not fear her. Her lackey, however, was an entirely different sort of enemy, a loose cannon, someone utterly dishonorable who would come up from behind and slip a knife in a back. “This is between me and the Diadem.”
He turned to the old woman again. “Some realities, first. We’ve worked hard for our freedom and independence in the Deep Zone, and I have no desire to continue this conflict. We’re caring for thousands of Constellation prisoners that we’d just as soon send home in exchange for the Buktu civilians you still hold. We captured most of your Constellation fleet and chased Commodore Hallholme back to Sonjeera with his tail between his legs. And now he has seized one of my DZ planets, so I’ll have to defeat him again—and I will, with or without you as hostage.”
His voice grew harder, louder, as anger built within him. “I intend to use you as a bargaining chip if I can. You will not be harmed, nor will you be allowed to create unrest. My first order of business is to deal with Commodore Hallholme and his fleet at Tehila. After I’ve made certain that he poses no threat, we can negotiate terms for your release.” He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps in exchange for Constellation recognition of Deep Zone independence, and all of our prisoners freed.”
“That will never happen,” Michella said. “If you send me back right away, I may allow some of your followers to live.”
Adolphus remained calm. “Please, no ridiculous posturing. It’s not worth my time. The war is over, and the Deep Zone is free. Now that I have you as hostage, the rest is all details.”
Adolphus summoned his personal security guards to take Diadem Michella and Ishop Heer to secure chambers here at Elba, where they would be kept under constant guard for the time being. After the prisoners were gone, he let Tanja Hu and Ian Walfor go to tend to their ship, but he asked Enva Tazaar to stay. “You’ve made a surprise appearance in the Deep Zone.”
She looked hopeful. “I suffered unexpected setbacks, but I am on your side, General. I already suggested an alliance with you, one that would have brought down Michella Duchenet.”
“I remember it well,” Adolphus said. “Unfortunately, the timing was not right, and now the situation has changed drastically.”
Enva said, “Change is inevitable. We can either implement the change, or be overwhelmed by it. With my family connections, I would still be a powerful ally, General.”
He could see she was ambitious, but he wasn’t convinced. “My understanding is that you have no power whatsoever.”
She shrugged. “Circumstances change. The old noble alliances can be resurrected and new ones formed.” She smiled, but with only a hint of humor. “My original offer still stands. If we topple the Diadem, you could give me leadership of the Crown Jewels while you administer all the frontier worlds. As allies, we would bring this mess to an end.”
“True leadership positions are not given. They are earned.”
Enva looked at the General with barely concealed astonishment, turned toward the door. “I orchestrated the capture of Diadem Michella. I warned you of Commodore Hallholme’s surprise attack, and arranged for the sabotage of the stringline hub to delay his launch. Before that, I endured exile, waiting and hiding and planning just to build something for myself out in the Deep Zone. I delivered your worst enemy to you at the most crucial time. You now have the Constellation over a barrel.” She glanced at Sophie, then at the General. “How can you suggest I haven’t earned anything?”
“You have earned my respect and my gratitude,” Adolphus said. “But the Crown Jewels are not mine to give.”
She paused, reassessed. “I have to start somewhere. I’m here and ready to reestablish myself as a leader. Give me a planet to administer. I’ll even run Tehila, if you manage to take it back from Commodore Hallholme.”
“Still thinking big?” Sophie said with a wry smile. “I hate to admit it but we could use another strong leader in the DZ. I believe Hossetea is in need of new and loyal leadership.”
The General realized she was right. After researching Enva Tazaar when she had first proposed the pact with him, he knew she was both formidable and capable. She was hard, sometimes even ruthless, but her record had been impressive enough. He did owe her some kind of reward, so he would give her a chance to prove her worth.
“The planet Theser is a better option,” he said. “Devastated after Lord Riomini’s attack, but habitable. Empty and unclaimed. Many Candela refugees are still displaced, not just the ones trapped on Tehila. They’ll be willing to work, anxious to establish a new home rather than crowding an already-strained DZ world. It will be a hard place to reestablish a colony—but not much different from when the Diadem sent me here to Hellhole. After you prove yourself there, then perhaps we can talk. If you think you’re up to the task.”
Enva narrowed her eyes. “I remember what you said back at the end of the first rebellion: Better to rule on Hellhole than to serve on Sonjeera. It’s better than being a civil servant. A step in the right direction. I’ll take it.”
Adolphus leaned forward, folded his hands together on his desktop. “We can send the tools, prefab structures, and supplies they’ll need. Many of the remaining Candela refugees will jump at the chance for a fresh start. You’ll have Theser to administer as an interim governor. Demonstrate your abilities, and in a year or so, we’ll leave it up to the people there to pick their own leader. What happens next depends on
whether you’ve impressed them or not.”
Enva Tazaar began to consider the possibilities. “I will impress them, General.”
36
It was the third day since the four Constellation officers had escaped from the camp. Bolton continued driving the camouflaged and damaged Trakmaster over rough, rocky ground; his stomach was in knots—he had no sense of where they were, or where they were going, because the onboard nav-system could not recognize the surrounding terrain. Escobar insisted on heading “forward” without having a solid idea of what that was.
In the early morning, Bolton drove through an arroyo, heading for yet another line of hills in the distance. From the high point, they hoped to receive a nav-signal or at least find some distinctive landmark to get their bearings. They had to reorient themselves, so they could head toward Michella Town … and escape.
“For all we know, we’re heading in the completely wrong direction,” Escobar said with a groan. “We don’t dare let searchers find us.”
“That might not be a bad thing, at this point,” said Yimidi. Bolton had heard him sleeping fitfully, coughing himself awake and then trying to go back to sleep. The junior officer sounded exhausted, and his throat was raw.
“The General has been looking for an excuse to get rid of us,” Escobar said. “If we’re recaptured, he’ll order our execution because we tried to escape.”
Bolton tried to sound determined and encouraging. “We have to survive on our own and get off this planet. It’s our duty to get back to the Constellation, somehow.”
In the rear compartment, Seyn Vingh sat as far from Yimidi as possible. “I hope we don’t all catch whatever the hell you’ve got. Some kind of plague … how do we know it’s not contagious?”
“You want to just abandon me so you can go on?” Yimidi asked.
Bolton raised his voice just enough to let them hear the unexpected steel there. “That is not what we do.” If the disease had been contagious, with the confined vehicle and the recirculated air, all four of them would have been exposed by now. “He needs medical attention.”
“Be my guest, Major Crais—find us the nearest hospital facility,” Escobar said in a sharp tone.
“I don’t think it’s contagious,” Yimidi said, rasping. “One of those algae things tried to get in my mouth. I’m still tasting it, smelling it. What if it left spores or something inside me? I could be … infested.” He coughed, doubled over, and hacked in a much more violent spasm, as if his rib cage would crack open and his lungs spill out.
Bolton found a level clearing and pulled the Trakmaster over, grinding the treads to a halt. “We need to help him,” he said, without knowing how. They had already given Yimidi antibiotics and antivirals from the med-kit, as well as using emergency disinfectants tailored to indigenous Hellhole hazards, but there was no assurance that any such treatment would have an effect.
Vingh reached into the back cargo compartment and brought out the med-kit again. “We can give him a tranquilizer to calm him.”
Yimidi let out a ripping howl, and with a horrific coughing scream he ejected an acid yellow projectile that struck the inner windshield next to Bolton’s head. The sputum writhed, wriggling away—the same ambulatory algae that had pursued them through the canyon, but denser now; it glowed with an angry phosphorescence.
Yimidi kept screaming as he coughed again and regurgitated more algae. Some of it landed on Vingh’s clothing; in a panic, Vingh punched the controls and opened one of the Trakmaster’s hatches and dove outside. Escobar sat in horror, paralyzed, while Bolton tried to help the writhing Yimidi, holding him down.
Outside, Vingh was shouting curses and tearing off his smeared clothing before the algae could eat it away and come in contact with his skin.
Yimidi kept ejecting the live vomit, and Escobar pulled Bolton away. “Don’t let any of it get on you, Major!”
In the rear passenger area, the pulsing algae began crawling from the puddles, and more spilled down Yimidi’s face, eating away at the skin. The man’s face was purple-red, his eyes bulging, as he continued to tear himself apart with coughing spasms.
Escobar jumped out of the Trakmaster’s cab and dashed toward Vingh, who used a boot to smash as much of the algae as he could.
The Redcom yelled, “Major, we have to get the rest of our food supplies, water containers, med-kit, survival packs, and weapons out—anything we might need.” He turned and locked gazes with Bolton. “We’re abandoning the vehicle here, but we have to salvage what we can!”
Bolton didn’t want to leave Yimidi, but the man was already as good as dead, even though he still convulsed. He hoped Vingh had not been harmed. He evacuated the main cab with a last glance behind him to see the regurgitated, intensely glowing algae spreading across all surfaces. After gestating inside of its human host, the slime was replicating with amazing speed, engulfing Yimidi’s body, digesting him.
With no way to help his comrade, Bolton hurried around to the rear of the Trakmaster to assist Escobar and a staggering, shaken Vingh in salvaging the last items from the storage compartment, including a spare jumpsuit, which he tossed to Vingh.
He stared at the infested vehicle. “How far can we go on foot?”
Facing ahead, Escobar pointed toward the hills. “We should be able to make it that far by nightfall.” He took a small projectile gun from the emergency pack, the only weapon in the vehicle, and tucked it into his waistband.
In shock, without speaking of their doomed companion, they loaded everything they could carry in a duffel and two emergency packs they had rescued. Escobar led the way, setting off down the arroyo.
They trudged for an hour, weighed down by dark thoughts. Bolton remembered how they had all nearly starved aboard the stranded stringline ships out in deep space, another bad decision Redcom Hallholme had made. But he didn’t accuse Escobar now.
Hot and sweating, Vingh leaned against a rock, shaking. “Can we have a water break, sir?”
Escobar nodded. “A small drink—until we find more.”
Vingh opened one of their containers and took an eager sip. Then he grimaced and recoiled in horror. “The water tastes like that algae!”
Escobar took the canteen, peered in through the opening, then scowled. “It’s contaminated.” He tilted the container, and water trickled out, accompanied by hair-thin strands of the slick algae that swelled as soon as they reached the open air. He cast the container aside in nervous concern. “We don’t dare drink it.”
Vingh spat violently. “I only had a little.” His eyes were open wide in panic. “Do you think I’ll be all right?”
“I’m sure you will,” Bolton said, but he didn’t feel that way at all. With a knotted stomach, he unshouldered his pack, pulled out the food packets. They were still sealed, but when he cracked one open, he saw that the slimy residue of algae had penetrated the rations as well. “Everything is tainted. We don’t dare eat any of it.”
“We’ll starve!” Escobar cried. “We need supplies or we won’t survive out here.”
“The alternative is to die like Yimidi did,” Bolton said. He had a dismal and foreboding feeling, but didn’t let himself show it. They had to maintain their hope, keep pushing on. Resigned, the three escapees dumped all the food and water packs they had salvaged from the Trakmaster, then set off with alarmingly lightened loads.
When they reached the end of the arroyo, they climbed onto a section of scrubby land that stood between them and the hills. Using a pocket high-power scope, Escobar scanned the terrain. “I think there’s a stream running between those hills.” He pointed, but Bolton didn’t see anything. “We’ll go that way.”
“Glad you’re still navigating for us, sir,” Vingh said, in a bitter, fatigued voice. “I’m sure that will save us. You’ve done such a great job so far.”
“No more of that!” Bolton snapped. Escobar, to his credit, seemed more focused on keeping their little group alive than on personalities or moods.
Vingh didn�
�t look well. Abruptly, he coughed and doubled over, then hacked in increasingly violent spasms, as Yimidi had done. His eyes widened with horrified realization.
Helpless, Bolton and Escobar could only watch as the insidious creatures took over Vingh’s body as they’d done with Yimidi, but much more swiftly. Like a man on fire, Vingh scrambled away, screaming and regurgitating the contents of his stomach. He fell, with wriggling algae covering his face, digesting his skin so rapidly that his cheekbones showed through.
Looking dizzy and sickened, the Redcom shocked Bolton by pulling the small projectile pistol and shooting the man in the head. Vingh’s screams stopped abruptly, and then Escobar bent over and vomited. Bolton hoped his sickness was not due to algae contamination. “It’s all we could do for him,” Escobar sobbed.
Bolton swallowed hard, looked at the motionless body and the writhing algae. “You put him out of his misery, sir. We both knew what was going to happen to him.”
Escobar stared for a long bleak moment, then turned and trudged away, moving on. Bolton hurried after him.
The sun beat down as they crossed a wasteland dotted with dry succulents that eventually gave way to hardy yellow grasses. Escobar looked through the pocket scope again, but he spoke without enthusiasm, as if he’d resigned himself to the same horrific fate as their two fallen comrades. “Yes, I’m sure I see water next to that hillside, a stream.”
Bolton could not forget the awful screams and retching of Yimidi and Vingh as the algae tore them apart, and he knew that any local water might also be contaminated. But with nothing to drink, he and Escobar would perish soon enough, too. They plodded on.
Bolton felt an emptiness inside him. He had come to Hellhole to rescue Keana, but had failed miserably. Another poorly thought-out plan … When he’d seen her again at the surrender ceremony, and later in the POW camp, he had understood that she was completely changed, sharing herself with an alien personality.
Now he and Escobar would likely die out here, with no one knowing what had happened to them.
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