Hellhole Awakening

by Brian Herbert

  “The Diadem would never allow harm to come to her official representative.”

  Undine swung her bare feet onto the floor and splashed through the brown water to the toilet. She pulled up her dress and sat down, as if to insult her captors. While sitting on the toilet, she yanked leeches from her legs and tossed them at Tanja, but the slippery black things bounced off the mesh and plopped back into the standing water.

  When she flushed the toilet, it gurgled and back-flowed onto the floor, then made bubbling noises. She looked up at Tanja with a dark smile, resisting the dehumanizing conditions. “Let me know if you need to use my bathroom, Administrator.” Back at her bunk, Undine wiped her feet on a towel and sat with her back against the wall, propping her feet on top of the stained blanket.

  The prisoner’s flippant resistance made Tanja’s anger flare. Being back at the Puhau site, where Uncle Quinn lay buried under the muck, had reopened the wounds and grief. “Do you understand what was here at one time? Good people worked frantically around the clock to meet the Diadem’s tribute demands—and the hillsides came roaring down. All because of the Constellation’s greed.”

  Undine was not impressed. “Easy to blame the Crown Jewels for your poor safety procedures and incompetence. When the Constellation fleet comes to crush Candela, you’ll be held responsible.” She sat straight, summoned her pride. “I am the territorial governor, loyal to the Constellation. I demand the rights of a diplomat under law.”

  “You were the governor. Now you’re food for leeches,” Tanja said, and a black sludge of anger rose up in her, making her want to strangle the woman, just to erase the smug expression from her face. “We’ve kept you alive. That’s as far as diplomatic courtesy goes.”

  Meanwhile, Jacque stared wide-eyed, intent on the conversation.

  Bebe added in a more formal tone, as if to counter the reckless edge in Tanja’s voice, “The Deep Zone no longer has any diplomatic ties or agreements with the Constellation, Governor. Eventually, we may work out terms for your return to Sonjeera, but I wouldn’t count on that any time soon.”

  “Make yourself comfortable here,” Tanja said. “And think about all the corpses buried in the mud beneath you.” She drew a deep breath and hardened her voice further. “A Constellation spy, however, is another matter. We caught a man trying to take images of classified operations. Fortunately, we apprehended him before he could slip any of his information back to Sonjeera.”

  Undine’s sarcasm vanished. “What happened to him?”

  Tanja smiled and looked at Bebe’s adopted son as she spoke. “This is war. His actions could have caused the deaths of millions of people, maybe even the collapse of our Deep Zone alliance. We sent him up to the stringline terminus in orbit, as he wanted … then we ejected him from the airlock.” She shrugged. “I hope his frozen body doesn’t become a navigational hazard. Or maybe he burned up in the atmosphere like a meteor.”

  Governor Undine said, “You’re all barbarians.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Tanja turned to leave. “It means you’ve been paying attention.”

  36

  As Lord Riomini’s strike force approached Theser, he put on a gold lapel pin with the shield insignia of the Riomini family. Ready to command the retaliation, he recalled his glory days during the first rebellion, how he had assembled the Army of the Constellation against General Adolphus. Those had been heady times! Since then, the Diadem’s fleet had become bloated and without purpose, but he was beginning to feel the old energy again.

  Even in those days, Riomini had never personally drawn blood, never killed anyone in close combat. From his desk, he had ordered bloody attacks, executions, and assassinations, but that had been like a business operation. As he stood there in his formal black uniform, he had watched his enemies die before him, seen their eyes go blank. He was familiar with death, but he liked to keep himself at a comfortable distance.

  Now Riomini was leading the largest mission he had ever attempted personally: twenty-three advanced warships loaded aboard two large haulers heading out to the Deep Zone. General Adolphus had cut his own stringline, denying Redcom Hallholme’s fleet a way home, but Hellhole was by no means safe. Nor were the other rebel frontier worlds; the Black Lord would prove that at Theser.

  As planned, the military haulers arrived at the stringline terminus over Theser and disengaged from the iperion path. All his warships dropped from their docking clamps and fell into attack formation, just like the many drills they had practiced.

  Riomini addressed his captains over the codecall system. “Strike fast, strike hard!” It had become a favorite saying of his, an effective war slogan, and he had ordered his propaganda wing to disseminate it throughout the Constellation.

  In this punitive onslaught, the fighters knew there would be no prisoners taken, no negotiations, no surrender—only shock and terror, no time or opportunity to flee. Theser was already a dead world, although the population did not yet realize it.

  “As you command, my Lord,” said his operations officer beside him on the command bridge. Lucinda Ekova had too many moles and red splotches on her skin to be attractive, and her body was solid rather than shapely, but she had an excellent mind that was capable of rapid assessment. Riomini trusted her military judgment.

  Other officers stood at their consoles, monitoring the warships as they descended like valkyries toward the heavily cratered surface. He heard the steady buzz of low, competent conversation, saw the interplay of multicolored diagnostics, smelled the excitement in the air.

  “First off, dispatch four ships to capture the stringline terminus to the DZ network,” he said. “I want it intact so we can move on to planet Hallholme.”

  Once he dealt with Theser, his soldiers would be even more enthusiastic, having tasted blood. He would send a report back to Sonjeera—as Redcom Hallholme should have done—and then he would take his assault fleet on the General’s own stringline.

  First things first, though. Followed by the other warcraft, the flagship dipped and accelerated down toward the crater city of Eron. No need to hide, no requirement to give a warning. There were no rules. Riomini planned to bring the images back to the Crown Jewels for wide play across the newsnets, and everyone would see his prowess, patriotism, and worthiness to be the next Diadem. The blood and bones of the Theser rebels would buy him the Star Throne.

  Eron came into view, distorted by the thermal bow shock of heated air from their descent. The attack force arrived so unexpectedly that Administrator Frankov could not even contact her defenses. As the city dwellings, administration buildings, and industrial facilities came into range, Riomini ordered his warships to dispatch incendiary bombs that would turn the densely populated crater bowl into a furnace.

  Lord Riomini broadcast, more for the historical record than for any effect it might have on the doomed people below, “In the Diadem’s name, we are here to secure Theser for the Constellation and punish those who have committed treason against the lawful government.”

  The first wave of incendiaries ripped through the city like an incandescent flood. The open codecall speakers filled with shouts, screams, and pleading from below, but no word from Administrator Frankov. He had pinpointed her governmental center from archival images, and had issued strict instructions that her offices be left intact until the end. He wanted Frankov to witness the destruction of everything around her.

  Before he could bask in success, however, an urgent message interrupted him. “My Lord, we surrounded the illegal stringline terminus ring, but … sorry, sir. There was some sort of self-destruct mechanism. Station personnel there blew it up before we could take control.”

  His throat went dry. “We need that terminus to get on the DZ stringline!”

  “They sacrificed themselves, sir. The explosion took out all personnel aboard, four of their own ships, and … and two of ours.”

  Riomini’s pulse pounded in his ears. Quick access to Hellhole was gone, not to mention two of his warships
. So much for a perfect, clean operation. “Submit yourself for a reprimand at the end of this operation, Captain.” He drew two deep breaths, then focused his attention on the flames below. Releasing his anger, he said, “Commence second bombing run.”

  As the explosions continued, the comm-officer said, “My Lord, Administrator Frankov is on the codecall. She begs to speak with you.”

  “Let her watch the flames a little longer. I want her to hear more screams.”

  To the people on the ground, the incendiaries pouring down on the city must have looked like Armageddon. Several ships tried to lift off from the crater floor, but the Constellation forces shot them down before they could gain altitude. So many bombs rained down into the crater that nothing could survive down there.

  And nothing did.

  The fires melted or vaporized everything in their path, swept across the ground in a manifestation of the anger Diadem Michella felt toward the Deep Zone rebels. No discussion, no pity, no remorse—just the eradication of everything on Theser. The smaller settlements around the cratered planet didn’t matter; he would advance on them in due time, at his leisure. Theser would be no more than an afterthought in the universe.…

  After a ten-hour blitzkrieg, at the dawn of a new day, the Constellation fleet landed in smoldering Eron, and Lord Riomini disembarked. The air smelled of burned buildings, roasted scrubtrees, and charred bodies, the detritus of life and industry that no longer existed.

  His own shuttle set down halfway up the rim of the crater, where the bombardment had left a section of buildings untouched: Sia Frankov’s admin center and the laboratories of the spacedrive engineers.

  “It’s time to call upon the planetary administrator,” Riomini said. “I wonder what she’ll have to say for herself.”

  “Does it matter, sir?” Lucinda Ekova asked.

  “Not in the least.”

  He accompanied Ekova and a force of his guards up the blackened slope to where a group of shocked and wailing people stood outside the remaining buildings. He recognized the thin, red-haired Sia Frankov from her dossier photos, as well as a group of the tall, inbred spacedrive engineers.

  He did not see Territorial Governor Undine; if the political prisoner hadn’t been held in one of the surviving buildings, then Undine was already a martyr, an example of the barbarity of the Deezee rebels. The Black Lord didn’t really care.

  Frankov looked so broken and devastated she could barely summon outrage. “I presume you are here to take my engineers prisoner, Lord Riomini? You didn’t need to destroy everything to get to them. We … we would have surrendered them to you.”

  He chuckled. “But surrenders are so heartrending. I have no interest whatsoever in your engineers. We have plenty of our own, and we can always train more if we need them.”

  One of the engineers took a step forward, his face contorted in rage. Riomini gave a quick hand gesture, and his accompanying bodyguards shot all the scientists in a barrage of weapons fire, splattering blood on Frankov.

  To her credit, the administrator did not cringe, though she could not conceal her trembling. “So it’s me you’re after? That’s a great deal of trouble for one prisoner.” Frankov swallowed hard.

  “Oh, I have no intention of taking you prisoner. I just wanted to save you for last.” He was delighted to see her eyes widen in surprise before Ekova fired two quick and precise shots—one in each eye.

  Surrounded by bodies, Riomini raised his arms. “On to Sonjeera! We return victorious!” It was an incomplete victory, but he would put a spin on it to minimize the loss of the other stringline terminus.

  37

  While riding aboard the passenger pod from Qiorfu, Commodore Percival Hallholme had polished his shoes and fiddled with the colorful ornaments of his numerous medals. During the six-hour journey, he had played card games with Adkins, and both men avoided the issue at hand.

  Finally, after their third round (Adkins lost all three), his old friend threw down the polished playing cards. “So what do you think the Diadem really wants, sir? Why has she summoned us to Sonjeera, and why wouldn’t they give us a full briefing en route?”

  Percival did not let himself grow perturbed. “We’ll find out soon, Duff.”

  After delivering their orders to the Commodore, Colonel Ricketts and Lora Heston chose to sit in separate compartments of the passenger pod, isolating themselves from the two men. Adkins considered it an affront. “Not a very warm welcome. Why are they avoiding us?”

  Percival understood, though. “They don’t want to have to deal with questions that they’re not allowed to answer.”

  “It doesn’t mean they have to be rude,” Adkins said. “They could have joined us for a game or two. We’d have more fun with four players.”

  Percival picked up the cards and dealt another hand. “We know why we were summoned to Sonjeera—the Diadem wants my help against General Adolphus.”

  Adkins wasn’t convinced. “She already sent a whole fleet to take care of the matter. Isn’t a hundred ships enough?”

  Percival looked at the cards in his hand. “We both know that General Adolphus poses more of a challenge than others expect. Escobar may be in over his head.”

  Adkins glowered. “So she wants us to clean up her mess.”

  “The Diadem wants us to follow her instructions, Duff. And since she reactivated our commissions, that is exactly what we’re going to do.”

  * * *

  With Duff Adkins marching crisply at his side, the Commodore returned to the Diadem’s palace. Both of them wore their old uniforms, which Percival much preferred to the new designs. They strode past the chamber guards and functionaries, chins held high, gazes forward, as if this were a training drill; Percival had taken enough painkillers to mask the ache of his limp. He had never expected, nor wanted, to come back here.

  The floor was so polished that the reflected lights from above shone like pools of sunshine. His military boots sounded like gunshots in a precise rhythm that was echoed by his adjutant’s steps as they walked in tandem. Moments later, the sergeant at arms saluted and regarded the old military hero with a measure of awe.

  Percival presented himself. “Commodore Hallholme reporting to the Diadem, as ordered.”

  “This way, sir.”

  Diadem Michella Duchenet appeared flustered as she sat at her immense desk, her gray hair arranged in a bun, her face powdered, her expression haggard. She had been engaged in a private meeting with her shadowy assistant Ishop Heer, whom Percival had seen in the background of many formal images, as if he didn’t like to be caught by the news media. She glanced up, saw the Commodore, and a smile split her face, like a small seismic event.

  “Ishop, leave us. I have business with Commodore Hallholme.”

  The furtive assistant gathered papers, appearing to keep every piece in order; Percival thought the man had predatory eyes. “If you allow me to stay, Eminence, I could provide suggestions.”

  “I said no, Ishop. Leave us alone.” Looking annoyed, the man scurried away.

  “Eminence, this is my adjutant, Duff Adkins,” Percival said. “I value his advice. If you intend to give me new orders, I ask that he be allowed to stay.”

  The Diadem’s voice was honey-sweet. “Of course, Commodore. I rely on your judgment—and I need it now more than ever. The Constellation is in crisis, as you undoubtedly know, but the general public does not understand the magnitude of treachery General Adolphus inflicted on us.”

  Percival stood at attention with Adkins at his side, equally formal. The Diadem waved her spidery ringed hand. “Please sit, sit, both of you! This isn’t an army review.” Adkins pulled out a chair for the Commodore and took a seat himself. Both looked intently at Michella.

  Percival spoke up. “Eminence, your representatives provided no explanations. Is there news of my son Escobar? By now he should have had sufficient time to subdue the rebellion.”

  “According to the plan, he should have. Unfortunately, his fleet has gone missi
ng. Five fully loaded stringline haulers, one hundred battleships, and your son—they’ve all vanished without a trace.”

  Percival tried to cover his alarm. Missing? “Do you think the General captured them?”

  “We don’t know yet, but the stringline to planet Hallholme was severed, which prevents us from obtaining more information. Initially we thought—we hoped, perhaps—that a substation had blown by accident. But on further investigation, we feel that it was intentional. Our scouts have located anchor buoys in place on our side of the blown substation that keep the stringline from wandering. We know it wasn’t anything the line builders originally installed, so that madman Adolphus had to do it.”

  “We’re not dealing with a madman, Eminence,” Percival said carefully. “He’s operating under a well-thought-out plan.”

  She grimaced. “Our scout drones have found no trace of our fleet along the entire segment of the path, and they’re still looking in space around the blown substation, and beyond. The five military haulers have been cut off somehow. I pray that they were able to continue to planet Hallholme and complete their mission. Regardless, your son has not managed to send word back.”

  Concerned, Percival looked at Adkins, then ran his thumb along his chin, pondering. “As a defensive measure, it would have made more sense for Adolphus to cut the stringline before the fleet moved, which would have forced Escobar to return to Sonjeera. But if our fleet had already passed before the substation blew, then the General would have ensured his own defeat by trapping them on his side of the stringline. It would have been like locking a vicious attack dog in the room with him.” He raised his eyebrows in a sudden thought. “Unless he cut the stringline in two places and trapped them out there.”

  The Diadem paled. “That would have required extremely careful timing. And very thorough information of our plans.”