Now, she hated every moment.
Today she was supposed to dedicate a new government building for the Bureau of Deep Zone Affairs, an enormous structure that had been under construction for years. Now, when she thought about the frontier worlds, Keana knew Cristoph was out there, stripped of everything.
Until she could find out what had happened to him, she had to keep up appearances on Sonjeera. Keana would not give the Diadem the opportunity or satisfaction of thwarting her again. She didn’t know why, other than spite, Michella would try to stop her from helping Louis’s son, but Keana had already made the fatal mistake of underestimating her mother’s wrath; it wouldn’t happen again.
For today’s ceremony, the Diadem insisted that Keana be primped and tended by a team of royal stylists. She endured hours of coiffing and the application of makeup, and after the stylists finally deemed her to be lovely and perfect, she slipped away to alter her appearance more to her liking. Keana didn’t like how the eye shadow clashed with her light skin tone and blue eyes. She sat at her dressing table, using her own makeup applicators, touching up the colors. Her hands moved with jerky, tense strokes.
Shy around her, Bolton entered the room, painfully attentive. He had become a true friend after the tragedy. If only the other nobles had understood that about them, if they had accepted how much she needed Louis . . .
More out of concern for her welfare than to maintain appearances, Bolton had moved into her royal apartment for the past week, although he slept in one of the guest bedrooms. (Her mother didn’t need to know that, however.) Knowing her pain, he stayed out of her way, but he was there for her when she needed him – a prince in every sense of the word.
Now she rose to her feet, wearing a long dress with classic materials in a pretentious style, made by one of the Diadem’s top designers. Bolton helped her by draping a red sash over one shoulder and across the front of her dress. His voice was soothing. “Under other circumstances we might have been a perfect couple, my dear, if so many people had not interfered in our lives.” He sighed. “They drive me mad with their demands.”
As he attached a clasp to hold the gaudy sash in place, she noted that his eyes were sad. On impulse, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then withdrew. Bolton blushed and smiled.
The Bureau of Deep Zone Affairs headquarters was large, even by the standards of Sonjeeran bureaucracy. The lavish structure contained departments and agencies for all the frontier worlds with local offices for each of the eleven territorial governors. On the roof, fifty-four globes affixed to a gigantic transparent disk spun like a carousel. As she and Bolton stepped out of the limousine in front of the grandstand, the whirling globes caught her eye. Cristoph was on one of those DZ planets, but she had no idea where . . .
A crowd had already formed in the plaza, and as Keana approached the reserved area in front of the grandstand, she noted three ornate chairs. She had expected one for herself and another for her husband; the third was presumably for some bureau official. To her surprise, however, Diadem Michella arrived with a flurry of ceremony and a fanfare of horn blasts. The old woman left her carriage, followed by the ubiquitous Ishop Heer. The crowd cheered her arrival.
Annoyed, Keana turned her back and walked up to take her place. As Bolton seated himself beside her, she muttered, “If my mother wanted to do the ribbon cutting herself, why did she insist that I come here?”
When the Diadem climbed the stairs to join them, Keana and Bolton rose, bowed, and the old woman took the remaining seat of honor. Ishop Heer stood behind Michella. Other nobles and Bureau officials settled into seats behind them on the grandstand. Keana didn’t acknowledge her mother.
Workmen brought a long red-and-gold ribbon around the front, along with an absurdly large, ceremonial pair of scissors, which they extended with great formality, but the Diadem directed the shears to her daughter. “Gentlemen, this is Princess Keana’s event. I am merely here to observe and grant my support.” Her intrusive arrival made the self-deprecating words laughable.
As Keana took the scissors, she noted that they were inscribed with the Bureau’s new multi-globe seal. The Diadem gave her sweetest smile. “I know you didn’t expect me this morning, my dear, but I’ve heard you’re not feeling well. I wanted to show my support.”
You could have shown support in so many more important ways. Keana barely kept the acid from her voice. “Your concern is noted, Mother.”
As the ceremony began, the Diadem attempted to engage her in light conversation as if nothing had strained their relationship, but Keana was not interested in cordiality. She responded as little as she could.
Pretending not to notice her daughter’s sour mood, the Diadem motioned to Ishop, who leaned forward to listen over the crowd noises. Keana heard everything her mother said. “Ishop, recent reports from Hallholme trouble me. Sounds like yet another religious cult has taken root there, possibly dangerous, and it’s spreading rapidly. I haven’t seen any evidence of violence, but one never knows. Every cult is dangerous in its own way.”
“Yes, Eminence. I have a complete list of cults that have gone to planet Hallholme, and I’ve studied the reports of this one. The converts claim to have access to alien memories. That buffoon Luke Pritikin didn’t notice anything.”
“He’s not much of a spy,” Michella agreed. “None of them are. I need better intelligence on that planet.”
“There have also been reports of miraculous healings, Eminence.”
“Miraculous healings? It never ceases to amaze me the silly things people will believe. Maybe we should send all of the Constellation’s infirm and terminally ill to planet Hallholme, give them to General Adolphus so they’ll no longer be a drain on our own treasury!” She chuckled.
Ishop remained serious. “That seems to be what’s happening, Eminence. The outbound passenger pods are full of the sick, and so far none of them have come back to the Crown Jewels.”
“Good riddance to them, then. Why do so many weak-minded fools flock to such nonsense? What is missing in their lives that they would surrender everything to what is obviously a scam?”
Keana thought she understood, but she made no comment.
Michella pouted, still troubled. “But why would the General allow such a thing . . . unless it was his idea. Ishop, go find out what’s happening there, make sure he isn’t up to something. I suspect Adolphus is behind this.”
“To Hallholme again, Eminence?” Ishop looked uncomfortable, wiped his hands on his clean trousers. He reacted with distaste to the very mention of the frontier planet.
“I believe that’s where you’ll find him, Ishop.” Her voice carried a sharp edge. “Maybe the General’s gotten religious all of a sudden. Wouldn’t that be ironic?” The Diadem gave a dismissive gesture, pretending not to care. “Just do the job right, Ishop. And relieve Pritikin of his duties. He’s useless.”
As the bureau chief concluded his dull presentation, thanking the Diadem for her support, music began down at crowd level. When the time came, Keana extended the ridiculous scissors and delivered a stock speech, trying not to make it sound too lackluster. Then she cut the ribbon, inaugurating the new Bureau of Deep Zone Affairs and waved numbly to the crowd as they cheered.
The people of Sonjeera were so easily fooled by appearances.
62
The Slickwater Springs camp grew as more visitors arrived, and the increasing numbers of shadow-Xayans remained there after their conversion. Sophie was forced to bring in other people to take on responsibilities. At her son’s insistence, she had given Antonia Anqui a small cabin of her own, and Sophie was pleased to see how well Devon and the girl worked together managing the influx of visitors.
Sophie found his devotion to Antonia charming. The young woman turned out to be more than just a sweet, wilting flower, as had been Sophie’s first impression when she’d seen the girl in Helltown. Indeed, Antonia had a hard wariness about her, scars from past pain . . . but that edge softened visibly around her son.
In fact, Antonia reminded Sophie of herself when she had brought Devon here to make a new life.
As she watched the new converts with all of their excitement and passion, Sophie could see that their sense of wonder was genuine, but she was not tempted to immerse herself. Watching the visitors day after day, she kept her opinions private. She ran the camp, provided access to the slickwater pools, and didn’t try to talk anyone out of immersing themselves – which would breach the agreement the General had made with the Xayans.
For a while, she worried that Devon might be susceptible to Fernando-Zairic’s fervor, but fortunately, the young man was so smitten with Antonia that he wasn’t likely to sacrifice his chances with her.
Nevertheless, there were risks. The process didn’t always work. For unknown reasons, three eager volunteers were so severely shocked by slickwater immersion that they never awakened from their comas. They were taken to the Helltown medical center, where their condition remained unchanged.
When she demanded explanations from Fernando-Zairic, he was as dismayed as she was. “It is not intentional. I am sorry I can do nothing to bring those people back. But life – especially here on this planet – is fraught with uncertainty, danger, and tragedy. Recall that we have also saved a significant number of human lives.”
“I don’t think of human beings as numbers on a ledger sheet.” Nevertheless, Sophie knew he was right. Many of the sick and infirm volunteers would have died from their ailments, but the Xayan symbiosis had restored them to health.
In addition to the ailing, dying, downtrodden, or hopeless, many wonder-struck people arrived, in search of something that was missing in their lives. They hoped the slickwater would give it to them.
Every three days, Vincent Jenet signed out the camp’s Trakmaster and scouted the area around Slickwater Springs in ever-widening circles, working on his original survey. Alone in the control cab, he rolled the armored vehicle out of the valley, up and over the line of low hills where the General’s guards had shot the native herd beast. On his numerous scouting trips, however, he had not seen another one of the elk-like creatures.
Now, off in the distance, he saw a thin cyclone stirring up dust and sucking it into the sky as it danced drunkenly across a bleak and sterile landscape. The whirlwind dissipated as he watched.
Vincent missed the days of traveling with Fernando. Though he was generally a quiet person and a loner, he had liked the other man’s easy company, a non-judgmental friendship. He was not prone to taking risks, and Fernando was reckless by comparison, but during their time together his friend had pushed him out of his comfort zone, making Vincent strive harder instead of just letting events push him around. Now their paths had greatly diverged.
Still, Vincent wanted to complete the job he and Fernando had started when they set out to map this grid square. They had rushed back to Michella Town after the slickwater discovery, and Vincent hated to leave a task unfinished.
The Trakmaster topped a low rise, and he looked down upon a burst of lush color – a shallow bowl filled with writhing scarlet vegetation of a shade so intense it hurt the eyes. He had never seen such verdant foliage in the wilderness on Hellhole.
Fascinated, he drove to the edge of the alien weed forest. The strange vegetation rose and drooped in long fleshy stalks, wagging like tongues in the air. Nothing like this had ever been documented, as far as Vincent knew, and he made careful notations and took images. The foliage was beautiful, majestic, and very eerie. He didn’t want to get too close.
Knowing it was his duty as an explorer to inspect his discovery firsthand, Vincent donned a long-sleeved shirt, hat, breathing mask, gloves. No telling what sort of pollens or fumes that weed might give off.
He opened the cab’s hatch and emerged into air filled with a moist rustling sound as the red fronds rippled and stirred. The plants rose taller than his head, fronds unfurling. He realized that the crackling, creaking sound was from the rapid growth of the alien plants. Large bulbous buds turned their tips to the sky and spread open to release bushels of feathery spores that flapped away like insects. The flying pollen seized up and died within seconds, dropping onto unclaimed patches of ground.
General Adolphus could dispatch a team of xenobotanists to take samples. Although not edible, native plants could provide building materials, polymers, industrial chemicals, even pharmaceuticals. Considering their furious growth rate, these plants could truly be a boon.
Gingerly, he touched one of the fronds with a gloved hand. He jerked back when the plant recoiled. By now he had learned not to underestimate anything that Hellhole might throw at him. Such explosive, intimidating growth was . . . disturbing. He decided to head back to Slickwater Springs and let Sophie Vence know about this strange forest. Maybe Fernando-Zairic could draw from his alien memories and explain it to him . . .
From inside the Trakmaster’s cab, a weathersat alarm chimed, and Vincent climbed inside to see the urgent meteorological alert. A large static storm was sweeping toward him.
Grinding the gears on the Trakmaster as he raced overland, Vincent watched the growler roll in, his pulse pounding. He monitored the storm’s progress on his way back to Slickwater Springs and was astonished when the weather system altered its course unexpectedly.
Vincent was perhaps an hour ahead of it now. He would have to help the settlement prepare. At Slickwater Springs, Sophie Vence had her own monitoring stations, and she knew how capricious Hellhole’s weather could be, so Vincent wasn’t surprised when he rolled back into camp to find a lockdown already under way. Sophie, Devon, and Antonia herded all the visitors out of their tents and cabins into underground storm shelters. The population of Slickwater Springs had grown dramatically since the small bunkers were dug, and the protective vaults were going to be crowded. People would have to stand shoulder-to-shoulder and hope the onslaught didn’t last long.
When she saw the Trakmaster drive up, Sophie looked relieved, waving both hands. “Vincent, open the hatch! It’s the best protection we can give right now. You can fit twenty-five people in there!”
The vehicle was designed to hold eight, perhaps twelve. “Twenty-five?”
“They’d rather be crowded than corpses. Go, everybody – move!”
Vincent opened the side doors. “There’s plenty of room,” he lied. “Come on – inside!” People ran toward him carrying bundles of whatever valuables they had brought to Hellhole, but he shook his head. “Leave it – there’s no room for your possessions, only people!”
A red-faced man blinked at him, not comprehending. “But it’s all I have left. I can’t—”
Other people streamed around him, dropping their own bundles on the ground and trying to secure a place in the sheltered vehicle. They pushed the red-faced man into the cargo area.
The sky had turned spoiled-green and bruised like a miasma spreading over the line of hills that enclosed the slickwater valley. Angry flashes of lightning whipped across the hilltops. Vincent saw Fernando and nearly forty shadow-Xayans sitting at the far end of the northernmost pool, where they had made their camp. The converts hadn’t made any move to evacuate, entirely unconcerned.
Vincent’s heart lurched. He couldn’t let Fernando and all these people simply ignore the threat. He ran toward them, shouting into the rising wind. “You can’t stay here! Get to shelter!” The crackling sound grew louder in the air. Even if he got Fernando to move all of his followers, there might not be room for them in the storm shelters or the Trakmaster.
Fernando just gazed up at him with a bright smile. “Look at this, Vincent! We can finally show you some of the things I’ve been describing.”
The shadow-Xayans sat on the ground, each one holding a handful of sand. Displaying their telepathic abilities, they manipulated the dust and powder to create tiny exotic sculptures – intricate models of ancient Xayan cities.
At any other time, Vincent would have found it beautiful, but now he was frantic. As Fernando extended his cupped hands, Vincent swatted away th
e delicately balanced sand. “Fernando, listen to me! It’s a static storm – you know what that is! There’s no shelter out here. Tell your people to follow me. There’s not much time.” He added a pleading tone to his voice to cover the exasperation. “You can show me everything about the Xayan cities later. You can make all the sculptures you want. Just do this for me now, please!”
Fernando’s face had the smooth mannequin appearance of Zairic. With his eerie eyes, he regarded the oncoming growler as if he had not noticed it before. “I understand your fear, but a storm is nothing to worry about. There are dozens of us now, and many are telemancers.”
Sophie was yelling for him, “Vincent, you can’t save people who don’t want to be saved. Get to shelter yourself!”
But there was something in Fernando’s confidence that tempted Vincent to place his own safety there, though it made no logical sense. “Wait just a minute!”
Fernando-Zairic stood up, and the shadow-Xayans followed suit, opening their fingers to let the sand fall back to the ground. They stood side by side, turned their faces toward the oncoming storm, and closed their eyes. Vincent sensed an altogether different crackle in the air – benevolent and protective.
Sophie called several more times as the storm grew louder. Static lightning crackled all around the slickwater pools now. She made a disgusted and sad sound. “I can only leave it unlocked for a few more minutes.” She ducked down into the storm shelter and pulled the door closed over her head. The Trakmaster, crammed full of frantic people, sealed shut as they gave up on him.
Fernando’s demeanor was utterly convincing. In unison, the shadow-Xayans smiled, let out a sigh . . . and the growler passed overhead.
In the small valley, the storm lifted as if it had struck a glass dome, and slid higher into the air. Static lightning spread out in a diffuse pattern, no longer touching the ground. Vincent peered upwards in awe, seeing the underbelly of the growler as the churning brown clouds rumbled above them.
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