Hellhole

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Ishop watched four men carrying his furniture and household goods into the new townhouse. All the lights were on inside and out. Laderna Nell waved to him from the second-level patio, before coming down to meet him on the lawn, carrying a file folder under one arm. All business, that one . . . at least when other people could see.

  She said with a conspiratorial smile, “Now you are closer to the importance and life you deserve, boss.”

  “Not close enough. We still have more work to do.”

  “One item at a time.”

  Laderna led him inside, and he noted immediately – with a great deal of relief – that it was immaculately clean. He suspected Laderna’s hand in that. Though not technically a “royal unit” with a large serving staff and other amenities, the townhouse was still quite elegant, and located in one of the best neighborhoods in Council City.

  “This place has an interesting history, in a district that used to be reserved for nobles,” she explained, revealing how much she had already researched the address just since that afternoon. “Edwond the First, the Warrior Diadem, held his war cabinet meetings here. The plaque by the door designates this as ‘Edwond House.’ How marvelous to think of him making huge military decisions here, away from the prying eyes of people he didn’t trust.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Ninety-one years,” Laderna said. “Time to make it a noble residence again.”

  “Soon enough,” he whispered, reminding himself as much as her. “We mustn’t get impatient.”

  As far as anyone knew, Laderna was merely his assistant; no one guessed the depth of their joint conspiracy, though some might whisper unkind rumors about their relationship. The nobles didn’t much care what the “little people” did anyway; they had always included Ishop among them, too, although the smart ones were wary of him. As for mousy Laderna Nell, she dressed plainly in public to avoid notice. Her dowdy clothing, slumped posture, workmanlike gait, quiet voice, her entire demeanor – it was all so wonderfully misleading. She might have been an actress, Ishop decided.

  Laderna clutched the folder tight against her side. “The Diadem sent her movers in without any warning. I had to retrieve this from your old apartment, where we hid it.”

  He had many secrets, but they were well hidden. He wasn’t worried about these lumbering men discovering the wrong details. “Everything is encoded. No one could interpret the document if it fell into the wrong hands.”

  “Of course, boss. I have everything on private lists, but from now on perhaps we should commit it to memory.” After glancing around to make sure none of the burly movers could see them, she gave Ishop a flirtatious smile. “I removed another name. Only six left now.”

  He grinned. He didn’t know what he could possibly do without her. “Which one?”

  “Lamentably, the ambitious chocolatier Randolph Suzuki had an unfortunate accident while working in his laboratory. The whole place blew up. Although he received the best medical attention, he is now, alas, a permanent vegetable.”

  “Confections can be so hazardous.” Suzuki was one of the most unlikely names in their confidential file, a shop owner who had no high-level contacts or secret political ambitions. Nevertheless, a Suzuki lord had been instrumental in causing the Osheer downfall, centuries ago. No exceptions.

  The Duchenet would be much more problematic.

  In the meantime, Ishop saw no way for anyone to connect the victims in the recent spate of deaths, especially this uninfluential man. Who would ever think to look in 700-year-old archives for the victims to be linked to the forgotten Osheer family? Suzuki himself was nearly forgotten.

  Only six names remained on the list, and the progress was delicious. He and Laderna had promised each other not to keep score, but of course they did. The two operated as partners with a common goal, and one day, when he became a noble under his rightful lineage, he would reward Laderna handsomely.

  “You do such excellent work.” Glancing sidelong at her in the shadows, Ishop didn’t think she looked so gangly anymore. She beamed from the compliment, and he noticed that she had begun to carry herself with more confidence. She dressed more fashionably, showed off her figure more, stood with better posture, and moved with more grace.

  “Those men certainly are slow,” he said, with a wink that she could still see in the low light. “I’d like to have some privacy.”

  “Oh, I already took care of that. There’s an extra guest bedroom in the back with a separate entrance. I had the movers set it up first.”

  “You think of everything,” he said.

  57

  Even meticulous plans and precise monitoring could not allay the General’s anxiety. The long wait was always the hardest part.

  During the rebellion, Adolphus had known that morale faded in the extended travel times between systems from one military engagement to the next. Though his crew knew they would soon clash with Constellation loyalists, the interminable anticipation sapped their enthusiasm.

  He remembered with a wistful smile that the agonizing down-time between engagements was particularly hard on Franck Tello, his second in command. Poor Franck dealt with the stress by eating: He insisted that he needed to keep up his strength for the upcoming fight, as if he were some sort of barbarian out to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Franck ate so much, and so swiftly, that he invariably made himself sick and vomited his meal, which only made him more miserable. Ah, poor Franck . . .

  Now Adolphus had more waiting to do.

  Though this was no military engagement, the General had been planning the operation for years: staging, watching, adjusting every schedule with as much attention to detail as he had ever given to any battle plan. Because he knew how brutally the Diadem would crack down once she learned what he was doing, Adolphus could not dabble in half measures.

  Every stringline in his independent network had to be completed at the same time, creating a sudden and unexpected victory – a fait accompli. The new Hallholme hub and the terminus rings being delivered to the other fifty-three Deep Zone planets, near and far, must be connected simultaneously before the Diadem knew what was happening.

  Destination Day.

  For some time now he had been sending out refurbished, illicitly purchased trailblazer vessels filled with iperion from the secret mines on Candela. The massive deposit on her planet could have made Tanja Hu fabulously wealthy, but she had thrown her lot in with him. That decision would likely change the course of human history.

  In his overall plan, Adolphus choreographed the trailblazer ships’ movements in a grand dance, plotting out the lengthy travel times. The pilots flew away at normal FTL speeds, accepting the lonely long-term task, as well as the hazards of exposure to processed iperion, because they believed the General could pull off his plan. Some of the first pilots in the overall scheme had been flying for three years already to the most distant Deep Zone planets.

  He had to monitor everything carefully. Progress reports arrived each week – fast message drones sent back to the Hallholme hub along the quantum path they had reeled out behind them. The trailblazers gave precise position locations, distances traveled, expected planetfall dates. Adolphus monitored each of his pilots personally so he could advise them to speed up or slow down accordingly.

  Once the trailblazers dropped off the terminus rings at their destinations, the secret would be out in a matter of days – and all the surprised DZ planetary administrators would have to make a choice. In order to ensure the correct decision, Adolphus had sent out secret subversives to prepare those planets that seemed like tough nuts to crack. They were laying the groundwork for a swift and smooth transition, so that the whole enormous Deep Zone would stand unified against the expected retaliation from the Constellation. On some worlds, he would use military options to force compliance, if necessary . . .

  The dozen active co-conspirators were acquiring old or surplus space military ships under a variety of pretexts, refurbishing them at their planets so they could stan
d ready. On each stringline from Sonjeera, there were numerous vulnerable points to intercept a lumbering and overconfident Army of the Constellation should it come. He had even arranged for the defection of a few key linerunners from the old Constellation network.

  Inside his Elba residence, with the doors of his private study securely locked, Adolphus reviewed the latest message from Captain Ernst Packard, who had recently departed for the DZ planet Ridgetop. The General had known Packard well, a cultured, even effete man who thrived on the finer things in life, priding himself on his clothes, appearance, taste in music, and pretentions in gourmet dining. Adolphus had been surprised when Packard moved to Hallholme, since this did not appear to be a world suited to his tastes; he was even more surprised when Packard volunteered to become one of the long-range trailblazer pilots. Neither the lonely journey, nor the cargo of hazardous iperion, seemed the sort of thing he would choose.

  But Packard was persistent, and Adolphus trusted him. Four months ago, the man had flown away in a trailblazer loaded with supplies, his music library, a wealth of entertainment files, and aspirations to “get some thinking done.”

  Adolphus played the newest message packet, but when he saw the image of Ernst Packard, he immediately sensed that something was wrong. Because of the deleterious effects of long-term iperion exposure, the trailblazers had thick bulkheads and extensive shielding between cargo holds and living quarters. Given the long journeys, each pilot was required to wear protective gear, but Packard always dressed up to record his messages. He took off his protective suit, put on his best jacket and tie, slicked his hair back, and made himself presentable for the camera.

  Now, the man was drawn and grayish, obviously ill.

  “It is my occasion once more to give you an update, General. Did I mention that I’ve decided to write a book? By now it’s expanded to at least two volumes. Having little to say is no limiting factor when one has so much excess time on one’s hands! Though the remaining months stretch out before me, my time does appear to be nearly finished. However, I can last long enough to accomplish my task – you can count on me, sir. The people at Ridgetop will receive me with great cheers . . . or perhaps a funeral. It’s all a matter of timing.

  “You see, more and more often I’ve neglected to wear my protective gear. The suit is so uncomfortable, and it’s a shame to be uncomfortable when time is short. According to my old doctors on Ogg, before I came to Hellhole, exposure to iperion actually has a potential positive effect on my medical condition.” Packard paused, frowned, then scratched his chin. “Did I mention my condition? It’s been so long, and I’ve had so many imaginary conversations, I can’t remember what’s real and what isn’t. But it is terminal, so I had nothing to lose.

  “For the first couple of months, this voyage worked wonders for me. The iperion made me feel healthy again, although I couldn’t take much advantage of my new joie de vivre, being cooped up alone on a ship. Now, however, I’ve reached the point of diminishing returns, and the adverse effects of the iperion outweigh the benefits of the treatment.”

  Packard smiled with good cheer. “Don’t worry, though, General. Everything aboard is automated. This ship will reach its destination and establish a terminus at Ridgetop, whether or not I live to see it.”

  Packard seemed distracted for a moment, then continued. “I could start wearing the protective suit again, but what’s the use? The damage is done, and I have no regrets. I hope you don’t think me vain, General, but someday – if everything works out all right – I’d be honored if you’d consider naming this route the Ernst Packard Memorial Stringline.” He chuckled at his own hubris. “Hmm, that sounded much less egotistical when I imagined it.” He folded his hands before him and leaned closer to the imager. “Fear not, General. I’m proud of what I’ve done. This is Ernst Packard, your obedient servant, signing off.”

  Stunned, Adolphus stared at the blank screen, feeling the full weight of his heavy heart. Any difficult enterprise had its share of casualties and sacrifices. He thought of all the names on death certificates he’d signed. Then there was Franck Tello, lost in that final engagement against Commodore Percival Hallholme and the Constellation forces over Sonjeera. Franck had followed orders to the end, never doubting his General. And in those last seconds before his ship was engulfed in flames, knowing that he and his crew were doomed, Franck had saluted – a last salute . . .

  Forcing himself to concentrate on his duty and on his responsibilities, Adolphus called up the stringline map and marked Packard’s position en route to Ridgetop. He had faith that the ship would arrive as scheduled. He could count on Packard for that.

  Someday, history would determine whether the sacrifices had been justified.

  58

  Though the new camp erected around the three slickwater pools appeared rugged (“rustic” was a better word, Sophie decided), the settlement would serve its purpose. The temporary buildings would offer little protection from a severe growler or volcanic eruption, but the valley was sheltered and the slickwater pools looked pristine.

  If Slickwater Springs thrived, she could see about building sturdy permanent structures: a lodge house, a restaurant, sleeping quarters, isolated cabins. She told herself, only half in jest, that this could become Hellhole’s first spa and resort.

  Over the past week, forty people had come to see the pools – all just out of curiosity, so far.

  Sophie Vence had always thought big. Arriving in the early days of Helltown, she had invested her money and sweat in two greenhouse domes. When those proved productive, she expanded the operation and took over the management of a warehousing company that had failed to meet the colony’s needs. From there, the growth of her operations accelerated.

  Now, hovering around the camp, Fernando-Zairic spoke to the new arrivals, filling their heads with remembered wonders of Xayan civilization. The visitors asked questions, which he eagerly answered, but sometimes he was at a loss for words. “We just don’t have a mutual background of experiences for me to describe it adequately. For instance, in my head I can hear Xayan music, but I can’t recreate it for you – at least not yet. Ah, if only more of you would join me.”

  Listening to his imaginative stories, Sophie experienced a spark of amazement that had long been gone from her life. She knew many others were tempted. Though the physical appearance of the aliens brought shudders to most people, Zairic’s promises of utopia caught their attention. Anyone who volunteered to accept the slickwater memory-transference would receive all the exotic experiences of a strange life, a vicarious existence much more marvelous than their own . . . not to mention the potential powers of telemancy, which interested Adolphus most of all.

  Though many down-and-out Hellhole colonists found the offer appealing, no one wanted to be first.

  Sophie’s crews had set up stable boardwalks around the ponds’ edges. With real wood scarce on Hellhole, the boards were a synthetic composite derived from native plant life and silica. She had also installed a ramp for those who wished to immerse themselves, but so far there hadn’t been any takers.

  The General wanted regular updates, but as yet she had nothing to tell him. Though she shared his concerns, they both realized the potential boon the reawakened Xayans could be.

  She had thought Vincent Jenet would be one of the first volunteers, but he remained reluctant to immerse himself. He was worried about the risks, no matter how much his friend tried to convince him. “I saw how difficult it was for you, Fernando – you almost died. I was certain you were dead. How do you know the experience won’t be worse for others?”

  The other man’s smile conveyed complete confidence. “The slick-water is now more capable of attuning to human biochemistry and cerebral morphology. Much was learned from the initial encounter with me. The next converts will have a less difficult time, I promise.”

  To prove his assertion, Fernando went to the edge of the boardwalk, turned to face the crowd, and allowed himself to fall backward into the slickwat
er pool, fully clothed. He made no splash; the mercurial liquid folded itself around him like comforting hands, and he sank under.

  Vincent was anxious for his friend, but he stopped himself short of jumping in after him. Presently, Fernando emerged grinning. The slick-water dripped off his hair and face, and the pool itself buoyed him up. He laughed at the expression on Vincent’s face. “I told you, it’s all right now! Come on in.” He stroked in the pool, closed his eyes, and spoke in a distant, alien-tinged voice. “I have told all of my waiting people the good news. They know they have a chance to live again, that we have succeeded in our desperate gamble to save our great race.” He let out a contented sigh. “Who will be first among you? There must be someone?”

  The curiosity seekers watched, hesitant, skeptical, nervous. After several more days, Sophie began to wonder if anyone would take the plunge . . .

  At long last, one old veteran of the General’s rebellion hobbled forward. Former Lieutenant Peter Herald had been injured in an explosion in the battle over Sonjeera, his lungs scarred from breathing caustic vapors; he had been exiled to Hallholme like many of Adolphus’s other supporters. Eking out a life there, he had worked first in the mines, then in the agricultural fields. The buildup of pulmonary scar tissue made it more and more difficult for him to breathe, especially in the dust-laden air of Hellhole, and his health deteriorated.

  Loyal to his soldiers, the General insisted that Herald – like all exiled veterans – must be taken care of. However, the fact that he was dependent on the charity of others, no longer the man he pictured himself to be, weighed on Herald. He had been one of the first to arrive at the slickwater pools, staring at the oily swirling surface as if hypnotized. The former lieutenant’s face was full of longing to experience things that his body was no longer capable of.

  After days of discussion and hesitation, he stepped to the edge of the boardwalk. “All right, dammit. Somebody has to be brave.” He coughed repeatedly, and his shoulders shuddered. “If this works, I hope more of you will join me. I’ve got nothing to lose.”