“We are dealing with General Adolphus, Eminence.” Percival tapped his fingers together. “What does Lord Riomini have to say about this?”
“We have too little information to make a full assessment. Meanwhile, Commodore, I called you back to duty because your son’s fleet represents a significant percentage of our military. Those hundred warships are more than a match for anything the Deezees could cobble together. So what has the General done to our task force? Where are they? I’m counting on you—fix this! Find me answers. Rescue the lost fleet if necessary and come up with an alternative way to capture General Adolphus, crush the rebellion. If anyone can do it, you can.” Anger made her voice rise.
Percival’s thoughts spun. Escobar had always been overconfident, not satisfied with a slow route to a successful career. He didn’t believe he had to earn it, and yet he resented any suggestion that his promotions were due to having a war hero for a father.
Nevertheless, Escobar was his only son, and Percival would have to save him from himself—and defeat General Tiber Adolphus in the process.
“You ordered me out of retirement for this, Eminence, but Lord Riomini commands the Army of the Constellation. He should be involved closely in any military planning. Perhaps he should lead this operation?”
“Don’t you worry about the Black Lord,” Michella said, trying to sound sweet, but there was a brittle snap to her voice. “He is currently engaged out in the Deep Zone. He’s not back yet from his mission to Theser.”
Percival raised his eyebrows. “Theser? What is he doing there?”
“That’s not your concern right now. I place my confidence in your abilities because I believe you’re the only one who can defeat that awful man. I should have put you in charge of the fleet in the first place. When everyone thought Sonjeera was lost in the last rebellion, you stopped Adolphus in his tracks—I only wish you’d blown him up in orbit during the attack. That would have solved a lot of problems.”
“He surrendered, Diadem. I was honor bound to take him alive and grant safe passage to his crew.”
“As you say,” she responded, not sounding the least bit convinced. “But we would have suffered far fewer headaches if you’d finished the job then and there.” She sighed. “But I bear the blame for giving Adolphus a second chance. By sending him to a hellish planet, I thought he would perish, but in the back of my mind I was allowing him to redeem himself. But neither of those things have happened, and he’s a threat once more.”
Percival maintained a neutral expression, though he could sense Adkins stiffen next to him. He knew full well that Diadem Michella had sabotaged vital shipments to General Adolphus in the colony’s early years. She had meant for the DZ colonists to fail, and many of them would have died if Percival hadn’t surreptitiously slipped in additional supplies. Adolphus did not suspect that his secret benefactor was also the man who had defeated him. Nor would he ever know.
Michella leaned forward with an earnest expression. “I implore you, Commodore—find a way to defeat General Adolphus one more time.”
Feeling the stiffness in his legs, he rose from his chair and gave a formal bow while Adkins snapped to attention beside him. “I need to look further into the matter and verify details, Eminence, but I may already have a plan.”
Adkins reacted with surprise. “You do, sir?”
The Diadem did not look at all startled. Obviously, she had expected no less from the old military strategist and commander. He looked at his good friend and smiled thinly. “I always have a plan.”
38
After Sergeants Zabriskie and Caron departed in the trailblazer, the initial rush of optimism faded aboard the stranded fleet. Over the next two weeks, their morale drained like a slow, deflating air leak.
Bolton huddled in his private cabin, using only one dim light to conserve energy. He wore extra layers of clothing, but could not shake the bone-chilling cold that permeated the Diadem’s Glory. The medical specialists and life-support technicians had run detailed calculations to determine the optimal temperature for the ships, a balance between conserving energy and lowered metabolism, but not so cold that the personnel burned excessive calories just to keep their bodies warm.
Hunger was a constant ache in Bolton’s stomach, as well as in his mind. Four weeks since they’d been stranded … and at least six more before the trailblazer could complete the new route to Hellhole. Then their ragged ships could finally plunge into enemy territory.
As belts tightened and the soldiers shivered and complained, crewmembers balked at Bolton’s draconian requirements, particularly the nobles who had bought their commissions and were administratively excused from rigorous basic training and planetary survival exercises. Bolton caused an uproar when he suggested—and Escobar agreed—that the leaders symbolically take even smaller portions than the soldiers under their command. The nobles still assumed that, because of their family connections, they could have their feasts, wines, and desserts, that they were somehow exempt from the austerity measures.
Some had been caught trying to steal food or hoard supplies; to his credit, Escobar doled out punishments for the infractions, regardless of the family names of the guilty parties. Bolton was no survivalist cut out for hard times and long periods of deprivation, but he did understand realities, especially when he compiled the charts himself.
Despite the increasing complaints, no one could refute his numbers or offer a better plan. He had run the calculations based on irrefutable assumptions. Most external systems had been shut down, leaving the five stringline haulers quiet and cold. The Redcom continued to hope for a miraculous alternative inspired by hunger, fear, and uncertainty … but so far no suggestion had been worth pursuing. The scout ships continued to search for the old iperion path, but with the fleet now clustered around the new terminus ring, they were limited in how far they could range. So far, nothing.
Throughout the fleet, engineering squads modified and expanded recycling units, closing loops and improving efficiency so that 95 percent of energy, water, and oxygen went back into the system. Bolton was able to add a little more time to their numbers, but not enough that anyone rejoiced.
He was confident they weren’t going to suffocate or die of thirst. Under extreme circumstances, engineers could chemically extract water and oxygen from the standard fuel tanks, since the ships weren’t flying anywhere. He also calculated that the fleet’s power cells would last longer than their food supplies. But food … tomorrow would mark the third week of reduced rations.
Two more attempted mutinies had been quelled aboard smaller ships. The crews were hungry all the time, and uncertainty sharpened their tempers.
Bolton knew the situation was about to become much worse. By his calculations, he had no choice but to press hard for a second, even more difficult phase.
* * *
Though the trailblazer had been gone for only two weeks, the desperate crew kept watch every day, hoping for rescue. Some even secretly hoped that General Adolphus would find them—better to be well-fed prisoners than to die out here.
When one crewman tried to send out a broad-spectrum distress signal from the Diadem’s Glory, Gail Carrington raced to the comm-station in a blur of motion. The young man squawked in indignant surprise as she grabbed the top of his head and jerked his chin up. From somewhere she produced a small dagger that Bolton had never seen before, and she neatly slit the man’s throat.
Escobar leaped out of his command chair in protest. The rest of the bridge crew cried out in disbelief. Carrington shoved the dead man off the duty chair and onto the deck. “Your orders are perfectly clear,” she said to all of them. “Anyone who attempts to contact our enemy is our enemy. I will send a self-destruct signal through this fleet before I let General Adolphus get his hands on these battleships!”
She looked at the Redcom as if daring him to challenge her. Finally, Escobar nodded. “Yes, we should reiterate the orders by courier from ship to ship.” Pale and sickened, he looked at th
e dead crewman lying in a pool of blood on the deck. The young man still wore a startled expression. “I believe you’ve made your point, Ms. Carrington.”
* * *
For energy efficiency, the crews aboard the smaller frigates came aboard the larger battleships and shut down the other vessels. Consolidating the personnel wasted less power and life support, although the crowded conditions raised further concerns about unrest.
When Bolton brought his latest set of numbers to the Redcom, he knew that his conclusions were irrefutable, direct extrapolations from the data, checked and rechecked. “Unless we take even more extraordinary measures, we’ll all be dead at least a week before the trailblazer can possibly return.”
Escobar’s face sagged as he wondered what was next. Carrington stood there, ubiquitous and judgmental. “It’s obvious,” she said. “We must eliminate extraneous personnel so that our food and life support lasts long enough for a core group who can complete the mission.”
“Like you eliminated my comm officer?” Escobar grumbled.
Bolton recoiled. “I have a different idea.” He had not expected Riomini’s watchdog to be so blunt, but he was glad she’d blurted out her outrageous suggestion; by comparison, his idea would sound far less extreme. “We need to sedate a large portion of our crew. Keep them tranquilized for extended periods of time with very low metabolic requirements. That will reduce our overall food, air, and water consumption, which will allow us to stretch our nutritional supplies.”
“But we have thousands of crewmen,” Escobar said. “Fifteen thousand. How could we possibly keep that many in comas for the next six weeks?”
“Remember, the Diadem wanted us to bring back a large number of prisoners. I loaded aboard stockpiles of the Sandusky stasis drug, and because this is a military operation, we have extensive sickbay facilities with other means of long-term sedation. We should take volunteers first, ask who’s willing to sleep through the worst times ahead. If that doesn’t generate enough names, then impose a lottery.” Bolton stared at both of them and wondered if he looked as haggard as they did. Probably. “Understand, we’ve got to cut down on our consumption—dramatically.” He extended his electronic pad, but neither Carrington nor Escobar needed to verify the numbers.
“We should make the choices,” Carrington said. “How many would volunteer for forced sedation? Not enough, I’d say.”
“Let’s give them the option first,” Escobar said. “We already know what it’s like to feel constant hunger, know the tension. It’s going to get worse. Some might find it preferable to sleep through it until we’re all saved.”
Or dead, Bolton thought.
Escobar continued, “If we try to sedate thousands by force, you can bet the crew will turn on us.”
Though skeptical, Carrington said, “All right, Redcom. We’ll try it your way first, and institute other means if necessary. The more people we tranquilize, the fewer who will be conscious to fight us when we have to impose more.”
Bolton knew they might have to place all but a skeleton crew into induced comas—provided they had enough of the Sandusky stasis drug and the people to administer it, and cooperative crewmembers willing to be forced into sleep. Even at that, they would eventually run out of food, air, and water.…
After Escobar distributed a message requesting volunteers, they were disappointed by the first few hours of uneasy silence. “They’re still grappling with the magnitude of our crisis,” Bolton said.
Then one squadron of fighter pilots unanimously volunteered, deciding to stick together. “We won’t be needed until we arrive at planet Hallholme,” said their flight commander. “We could all use a good rest before we face the General. Wake us up when it’s time to fight.” The flight commander put an optimistic face on his decision. The eighteen squadron members stood together, and Escobar thanked them.
In the flagship’s sick bay, doctors administered the stasis drug, which dropped the squadron members into peaceful, dreamless comas. From ship after ship, more volunteers came forward, more than five hundred the first day.
“Not nearly enough,” Carrington said. “Not by an order of magnitude.”
Jackson Firth and his three diplomatic comrades joined the command crew in their meeting. Firth seemed pleased that the Red Commodore was taking decisive action. “Perhaps that first squadron was onto something,” Firth said. “If we tranquilize all our fighter pilots who won’t be needed until we reach the planet, that would be a substantial number of personnel—and they do eat a lot of food.”
“The reason we have so many fighter pilots, Mr. Firth, is because this was meant to be an overwhelming military assault,” Escobar pointed out. “You are right, though—we don’t need them until we arrive and begin the operation.” A cruel smile crept over his face. “And you raise another significant point, sir. Your team will not be needed until after we defeat General Adolphus. The diplomats are clearly nonessential personnel at present, so I am pleased to accept you and your staff as additional volunteers.”
Firth and his four team members reacted with indignation. “We were assigned by the Diadem herself. We are not expendable!”
“I didn’t say you are expendable,” Escobar corrected. “But we don’t need your services at present. Your consumption of vital food and life support is indefensible. Therefore I happily accept your offer.”
As Firth searched for words, opening and closing his mouth, Gail Carrington said, “It’s a worthy gesture.”
Seeing that they would force him whether or not he agreed, the diplomat tapped his pudgy fingers on the tabletop. “Very well. Dozing off for a few weeks does seem like a convenient alternative. You are confident the trailblazer ship will make it in time?”
“I have complete faith in my pilots,” said Escobar.
Carrington seemed bright and cheerful for a change. “Mr. Firth, let me escort you and your team to the medical center. I’ll make sure you are comfortable and are granted the best available beds.”
“Thank you, Ms. Carrington, thank you,” said Firth. He looked quite ill at ease. “Do you think we could have one more meal before we’re sedated? To give us energy during the long sleep?”
“You won’t need it,” Carrington said. “Trust me.”
* * *
The following day, Bolton reported with a sigh, “We still need more. Our next step will be to specify nonessential personnel, then impose a lottery system. Within the next two days, we’ve got to have five thousand troops no longer consuming food and air.” He looked at them all. “The sooner we take care of this, the more food and energy reserves we’ll have for when it matters most. In fact, I wish we had done this a week ago.”
“We still have to survive for a minimum of five more weeks,” Escobar said.
“Six weeks is more realistic.” Bolton looked down at his data, but he could not deny his own assessments. “We need to drop down to a twenty percent crew complement, if any of us is going to survive.…”
Later, by the time Carrington called the Redcom and the Major into the flagship’s sick bay, it was too late for them to do anything. The men hurried into the medical facility, and Bolton immediately saw that the life-support monitors were flatlined, the alarms silenced. The entire diplomatic team was dead.
Dr. Hambliss, the chief medical officer on the flagship, stared at Carrington in disgust and horror, but she seemed unaffected, even proud. She crossed her arms over her chest. “They’re out of our way now, Redcom. The longer we wait to make harsh decisions like this, the more people will have to pay the price. They were an unnecessary drain on our resources.” She held an emptied syringe in her hand.
“I saw her kill them,” said Hambliss, “in cold blood, while they were sleeping and helpless.”
Escobar’s eyes blazed. “You injected them with poison?”
“Not necessary,” Carrington said. “Just an air bubble in each of their carotid arteries. But don’t worry about them. They were a useless waste of resources. I’ve heard
you complain about them numerous times.”
Bolton found it difficult to breathe. He knew that Lord Riomini despised Jackson Firth because the diplomat had inflicted political damage on him by throwing his support toward Enva Tazaar. He wondered if the Black Lord had instructed Carrington to look for an opportunity to eliminate Firth. He said in a low, husky voice, “When word of this gets out, we’ll have riots across the ships.”
“That’s why it won’t get out,” she said. “Place the bodies in cold storage. No one will ever know—unless and until we get through this.”
Dr. Hambliss straightened his shoulders. “I refuse. I will not condone murder.”
“You will keep silent about this.” Carrington’s voice was like a bladed weapon. “The deed is done. When I boarded these ships back on Sonjeera, I was under Lord Riomini’s orders to do anything necessary to make the mission a success.” She swept her gaze across Escobar and Bolton, then the doctor, as if daring them to make further objections.
Bolton swallowed hard. “I … I will adjust my numbers accordingly. May I suggest that we quietly dispose of the bodies out in space before anyone knows?”
Ever hard and practical, Carrington pressed her lips into a colorless line. “Best if we don’t do that. Times may get hard enough that we’ll need the extra protein.”
39
General Adolphus couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so unsettled. He was a master of juggling the pieces of a large plan, coordinating and choreographing the efforts of his countless loyal followers. Managing more than fifty links of his new DZ network, ensuring that all the trailblazers arrived at virtually the same time, across vast swaths of space, was a mind-boggling challenge, and he had done it.
With the information provided by his loyalist spy, he knew exactly the strength and timing of the Constellation fleet sent against him, and the Urvanciks had verified that they were off the stringline and trapped in empty space. As planned. Stranded in the middle of nowhere with dwindling supplies and no iperion path to follow, they had no place to go.
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