“Well, I could provide what you need, Mr Carey, but you have to understand how Hellhole works. No one can survive here on his own. Each person has a role. Everybody contributes. We’re a tight-knit community.”
The man shook his head, maintaining a determined expression. “The Children of Amadin came to escape the confinement of a secular society. We do not wish to be part of your community. We will honor Amadin in our own way.”
“And that’s your right – after one year. This should have been explained to you when you signed aboard. All arrivals to the planet Hallholme” – Sophie forced herself to use the planet’s formal name – “are asked to put in a year of community service, to support the colony. That year benefits all of us, including new settlers. After you put in your time, we grant you a piece of land and the resources you need to establish yourselves. Think of it as a safety net: we help you settle in, get on your feet, and take care of you until you’re ready to take care of yourselves.”
Carey’s voice became hard, suspicious of the offer. “We can take care of ourselves right now.”
Sophie had seen stubborn people before. Newcomers took amenities for granted, not understanding how much Tiber Adolphus had done for this place. When he and his men had been dumped here, Hellhole was a blank slate, raw and entirely untamed. Through his management skills, the General got water pumping, shelters built, power running, fast-growing crops planted. Against all odds, he turned Hellhole into a livable, and in some ways pleasant, place.
She drew a deep breath and tried one more time. “All of the colonists for the past decade have put in a hell of a lot of backbreaking work, just so there could be a town and a spaceport and supplies here. We made it happen. All we ask is that newcomers do a bit of work to make this planet better for the colonists who come after.”
“Colonists who came before us and those who come after us are not our concern,” the religious leader said. “We came here for freedom, not to be chained to a new overlord. We will pay whatever price you ask for our equipment, then we will fend for ourselves. We’ll thank you not to bother us.”
Most such groups who refused to become part of the community came crawling back to the General’s safety net within weeks. They simply didn’t know how difficult this planet could be. Adolphus could have cracked down and imposed a year of servitude, but he refused to be a dictator (regardless of how the Constellation portrayed him). In the majority of instances, the recalcitrant groups decided that independence wasn’t such a good idea after all, at least not until they had gotten on their feet.
Knowing that further argument was useless – and that someone else would sell these people the equipment if she didn’t – Sophie offered him three refurbished, high-capacity overland Trakmasters and a minimal setup to give his isolated camp at least some chance of survival. The blue-garbed followers went away to pick up all the items she had designated.
Sophie called after them, “Good luck!”
Lujah Carey refused to accept even that with good grace. “We are blessed by the grace of Amadin. We don’t require luck.”
“We all need luck here.” She had seen this too often. People didn’t realize what they were getting into. Whether or not Carey and his followers wanted it, Sophie would send someone – probably Devon – out to check on them in a few weeks.
6
Though Fernando Neron didn’t seem concerned about being lost in Michella Town, Vincent worried. A flurry of activity swirled around them: large family groups headed off to supply stations; loaders and flatbeds arrived at shielded warehouses where swarms of people unloaded supplies and stacked them inside; traders and shippers met their intermediaries; shops opened to display new wares; guests found temporary lodgings.
No one gave the two men a second glance.
Vincent followed him past buildings that seemed aerodynamic to provide a smooth wind profile. Towering greenhouse domes protected large-scale crops, while little waist-high domes served as flower gardens outside private dwellings – a way of defying the bleakness of Hellhole, he supposed.
They walked along a wide main street where the buildings took on a more carnival-like character, a succession of wildly different styles, some painted garish colors, others with statues or symbols sprouting from their sandy yards. The first building appeared the most welcoming, with block letters engraved in the wall, “Come join us in the truth.” The second building seemed more adamant, “We have the truth,” and the third said, as if it were some kind of debate conducted via proclamation, “Don’t be fooled by deceivers.”
Many of the churches looked like fortresses with barred windows and security fences. Hellhole seemed to be an irresistible gravitational force attracting many such fringe groups who found no place in the civilized, controlled Constellation. The media often mocked the string of ridiculous cults that came to this planet.
Fernando found it fascinating. “Look at that, Vincent – maybe we should go inside and talk to them.” The next building was guarded by a two-meter-tall sculpture of a lemur. Another one had a stern-looking turtle monument out front, which seemed more threatening than welcoming. “Aren’t you curious to see what all this means?”
“I’d rather take care of more important business first. Where are we going to stay, how will we get jobs?” He hurried Fernando down the street, past the main cluster of churches, toward large warehouses and busy shops.
When it became clear they weren’t just going to bump into someone who would tell them how to find lodgings or work, Vincent said, “Maybe we need to go back. We shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave the spaceport. The colony office would have been the right place to start.” That was obviously the safest alternative.
Fernando made a raspberry sound. “This is our big chance, and I don’t want to go backwards. We’ll figure it out together, make our own way.” He picked up the pace to emphasize his point.
Vincent remained concerned, despite his friend’s optimism. “Michella Town doesn’t look like the kind of place where somebody holds your hand.”
Fernando gave a sniff and strutted along. “We don’t want anybody to hold our hands. We came here to be independent and self-sufficient.” He shaded his eyes and looked at the structures up and down the streets. “But it would be helpful if someone could just . . . point us in the right direction.”
Until now, neither man had felt a need to hurry, but Vincent realized that the colony settlement was rapidly turning into a ghost town as people scurried inside and closed doors and shutters. “Where’s everybody going? I don’t like the looks of this.”
As the crowds dwindled, he spotted the young woman from the passenger pod. Antonia Anqui appeared forlorn and shell-shocked, as if the reality of her situation had just sunk in. She met Vincent’s gaze, then pretended to be studying one of the nondescript thick-walled buildings. But the door was closed, and metal shutters sealed the windows.
Fernando waved to her. “Hi there! Looks like we’re all in the same boat.”
Antonia’s brows drew together. “I think we’ve fallen through the cracks.”
“At least nobody’s bothering us or telling us what to do.” Fernando lifted his chin. “Stick with Vincent and me, and we’ll get through this.”
Vincent frowned. “Not that we know what to do. The Constellation didn’t prepare us for this.”
Fernando made a raspberry sound again. “Oh, they stopped giving a damn about us as soon as they put us on the stringline ship. Sink or swim. Survival of the fittest. Fine with me – we can take care of ourselves.”
Antonia gave a silent nod of agreement. Despite his friend’s good cheer, Vincent suspected Fernando was hiding something from his past, and maybe Antonia was, too. Most people who came to Hellhole probably had dark marks on their records; he certainly did.
While they were discussing options, Michella Town became oddly still. Restaurants and drinking establishments, which had been wide open only minutes before, now closed their doors, drew down their awnin
gs, and closed their shutters as tightly as blast shields. A few stragglers moved about with seeming urgency, rushing inside.
“Must be afternoon siesta.” Fernando let out a nervous laugh. “Seems like they’d lose a lot of business.”
Antonia looked around. “Or maybe they know something we don’t.”
Fernando sighed. “As soon as those shops open up again, I’m going to look for a survival guide. Do either of you have any credits I could use? I, uh, still need to open an account at one of the local financial institutions.”
Before Vincent could answer, a low, warbling sound echoed through the town, a mournful siren that built in volume. “What is that?”
Antonia’s dark eyes grew round. “Something bad.”
“I don’t like this.” Vincent looked up and down the deserted streets, watched a last few people duck inside buildings and seal the doors. Several of the lower structures began to hum and actually folded themselves closer to the ground to reduce their wind profile.
The siren’s tempo increased, generating a sense of real alarm. Vincent shouted, “Spread out, start pounding on doors. Somebody’s got to let us in!” He ran to the nearest shuttered shop. He hammered on a door as thick as a spaceship hatch, but nobody answered. He moved to a locked-down dwelling and tried again with the same result.
Within seconds the wind picked up, blowing dust and pebbles along the street. The air’s alkaline scent grew noticeably more sour. The sky overhead turned a sickly yellow-green, as if it had suddenly spoiled. A thin arc of silver lightning shot horizontally across the clouds, completing a circuit; moments later, it was followed by a rumbling growl that was uglier and more ominous than any thunder Vincent had ever experienced on Orsini.
The warning siren continued for another minute, then fell silent – which seemed even more ominous. “Looks like everybody with any common sense is off the streets by now,” Antonia said.
“I hope it’s just some kind of drill,” Vincent said, but the knot in his stomach told him otherwise.
“If it’s important, they should post signs.” Fernando held out his arms with a childlike wonder, staring down at them. “Hey look – ever see anything like this? Every single hair is standing on end.”
Vincent realized that his skin had a tingling, fizzing sensation, as if millions of microscopic insects were crawling over it. Antonia’s long dark hair began waving and writhing, like a corona around her head.
A second burst of horizontal lightning crossed the clouds, and the deep thunder became a roar. The wind funneled between the buildings with an angry, grinding sound. The moist-metal odor of ozone permeated the air. Thin white bolts sizzled from rooftop to rooftop like a spiderweb of electricity, as if Michella Town had become a giant generator.
“We need to get into a shelter now!” Vincent yelled. “The static buildup will be deadly.”
Antonia shouted at the silent buildings around them. “Anyone there? Hello!”
At the far end of the street, a hatch door opened on one of the large warehouses. A woman and a gangly young man looked at them with expressions of horror. “Why the hell are you still on the streets? Come on!”
Without hesitation, the three ran towards their rescuers. Ever-increasing bolts of static discharged across the buildings, and the roar overhead sounded like a hungry prehistoric beast. With each breath, Vincent felt as if he had inhaled enough ambient electricity to burn out his lungs.
The young man in the hatchway grabbed Antonia’s arm and pulled her inside. Vincent and Fernando practically fell over each other as they dove for cover.
“Are you all crazy? No one stays outside during a growler!” the woman shouted. “Didn’t you hear the alarm?”
“Sure, we heard the alarm, but nobody told us what it meant.” Fernando seemed amused by the whole adventure. “What’s a growler?”
Behind them, whip-lightning skittered along the street, etching black lines of melted dust. The bolts strafed and danced along the side of the warehouse building. Just in time, the woman sealed the hatch shut with a spray of sparks.
Vincent panted hard, and Antonia ran her hands through her wild hair. Grinning with relief, Fernando bowed like a gentleman. “Thank you very much, ma’am. Fernando Neron, at your service. These are my friends, Vincent Jenet and Antonia Anqui.”
“I’m Sophie Vence, this is my son Devon – and you three are fools. Why were you just gawking out there like tourists? The weathersats announced this as one of the most powerful static storms on record.”
“Good to know it isn’t just an average one,” Fernando quipped. “I’d hate to put up with that every day while we’re here.”
Sophie looked upset. “You’re obviously newbies. Didn’t they go over basic survival skills during your orientation briefing?”
Vincent lowered his eyes. “Sorry, ma’am, but we didn’t get any orientation briefing. Once we got off the passenger pod, we’ve been left to fend for ourselves.”
Sophie pressed a hand against her forehead. “Unbelievable! The General’s going to hear about this. We don’t have time to go rescuing people who have no common sense.”
“We had a brochure,” Fernando said helpfully, “but it mainly focused on the opportunities we would find here.”
Sophie made a disgusted noise. “Typical Constellation crap. Don’t believe a word of it.”
Devon offered them water, first to Antonia. “Are you all right?”
The young woman drew away from his unwanted attention. “I’ll be fine.” Her words sounded sharper than she must have intended, and Devon looked crestfallen.
Sophie put her hands on her hips. “Well, you’re safe enough in here. This building acts as a Faraday cage.” Outside, the static storm continued its furious noises. “Make yourselves comfortable. It’ll be a few hours before this rolls over. Do you have someplace to go after that?”
Fernando gave her a warm and enthusiastic smile. “We’re open to suggestions.”
7
As the car carrying General Adolphus and his unwelcome guest arrived at the headquarters estate, the static storm broke in full fury. Even with the available models and satellite predictions, Adolphus had underestimated the speed and direction of the weather. The brown, crackling mass rolled in behind them like a plague cloud spangled with lightning.
Peering through the windows of the groundcar while the driver, Lt Spencer, raced for shelter, the Diadem’s watchdog studied the storm. He was perspiring heavily; beads of sweat glistened like undiscovered gems on his wax-smooth scalp, but he didn’t seem panicky, just unsettled that the events were out of his control.
Good, Adolphus thought . . .
Back at the landing field, he had easily identified the Diadem’s spy. They all had a certain air about them, a self-important demeanor that kept others at a distance. The large-framed man was younger than his position of importance implied, and despite his physical size, he looked slick, with hyper-alert, pale green eyes; he was solid, not fat, and entirely bald. He wore an airmask over his mouth and nose, though such measures had never been proven necessary on Hellhole; he pulled thin filmgloves onto his hands. At first glance, Adolphus thought the man was a hypochondriac, paranoid about contamination . . . but then he changed his assessment. This man had an edge, a power in his confidence; he was not paranoid, but careful.
Wearing a full uniform and all his rebellion medals, the General had surprised the spy, smiling with brittle geniality as he introduced himself. Flustered to be spotted so quickly, the watchdog imperiously presented his credentials and put away a meticulous list he had been keeping. “I am Ishop Heer, representative of Diadem Michella Duchenet. Who informed you of this visit? How long have you known I was coming?”
Having met Heer’s type before, the General deftly evaded the question. “I have told the Diadem time and again that surprise inspections are unnecessary, since I have nothing to hide. I respect and abide by the terms of my exile. I follow every letter of my promises, because I am an honorable man.
Diadem Michella knows that very well by now.”
“The Diadem cannot afford to make assumptions when it comes to the peace and security of the Constellation.” Ishop sniffed behind his breathing mask, scrutinizing the military outfit. He tucked his list in his pocket. “None of those medals are for service to the Constellation. Odd that you’d wear a defunct uniform. To serve as a reminder that your rebellion failed, Administrator?”
Adolphus refused to be taunted. “I still have a great deal of admiration for this uniform. My intent is to be formal and respectful, as the Diadem requires of me . . . but not necessarily considerate.”
During the drive from the spaceport, Ishop Heer stared at the buildings and made silent notes about Michella Town as they passed through on the way to the outskirts and the General’s main house. He seemed to be drinking in details, filing them away, comparing them to expectations. The man launched his first volley. “After the stringline hauler docked, I spotted a suspicious amount of orbital activity, Administrator. None of the previous inspectors made note of your advanced surface-to-orbit capability.”
Adolphus cloaked his annoyance. Because the previous inspectors were all fools who could either be fooled or bribed outright. “Territorial Governor Goler always accepted my explanations without question.” Goler, whose jurisdiction covered eleven Deep Zone planets ranging from Ridgetop to Hallholme, actually chose to live out in the DZ rather than back on Sonjeera; the man made dutiful trips to Hallholme, Candela, and the other nine planets he administered . . . but he wasn’t the most observant person.
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