Even in these times of uncertainty, Walfor could see the potential of so many new trade agreements. First, he needed to find out why Frankov had not attended the emergency meeting. If something was wrong, General Adolphus needed to know about it.
Tanja gave him a quick kiss before she departed on the shuttle down to Candela, but she was gone in the passenger pod before he could make sure it hadn’t been an accident. Keats raised his eyebrows and had an amused expression; Walfor felt his face flush. He hurried his copilot aboard the waiting framework hauler from Buktu, which carried a dozen full-size ships due to receive stardrives.
The cockpit sat atop the framework, a Spartan chamber with only enough room for two people, and a small sleeping area in a private cabin. Keats took the first sleep shift, claiming indigestion from something he had eaten during his brief stop on Candela, although Walfor knew the man occasionally suffered from space sickness. As soon as their ship headed away from the new Candela hub, he let the copilot crawl into the small bunk.
Walfor did not mind traveling alone. Years ago, when the pioneer ships first arrived on Buktu, he had been only a third-level deputy. The expedition’s leader, Captain Vondas, was in despair when he saw the miserable, cold planetoid, which was not at all like the initial probe had predicted. Later, once the Diadem’s stringline reconnected Buktu to the Crown Jewels, Vondas had turned over command and fled back to Sonjeera on the first transport.
Ian Walfor had dived into the Buktu problem, though, deciding to make sweet juice from the sour fruit he found there. Although the cold planetoid wasn’t the most scenic spot in the Deep Zone, he recognized rich opportunities there. While the colonists might not be able to go for strolls in forests or meadows, they did have everything they needed. Since the Buktu colonists had intended to be self-sufficient all along, they’d brought plenty of supplies, efficient hydroponics systems, greenhouse domes, and a great deal more.
Although the slow, long-range pioneer ships were designed to be discarded once they reached their destination, Walfor knew there was nothing wrong with them mechanically. They could be refurbished, refueled, and dispatched again. His first expedition was to send a scout off to Candela, a two-month journey with the slow engines. Negotiating an agreement with the ambitious new administrator, Tanja Hu, the scout had purchased abandoned colony ships that were hanging empty in Candela’s orbit for decades, and then flew the vessels back to Buktu, where they were refitted and added to Walfor’s long-range fleet.
Soon he had ventured farther, making deals with other DZ administrators; he even used the official Constellation stringline through Sonjeera to work his backroom deals. As salvage operators, his people continued to gather disused ships, repair and refuel them, and put them back into service—all in secret from the Constellation.
Years later, when the Diadem discontinued the unprofitable stringline from Sonjeera to Buktu, none of his people complained. They didn’t feel abandoned; they felt left pleasantly alone, which was, after all, what they’d wanted in the first place.…
Now, as the hauler reached the small temporary terminus ring high above Theser, a timer sounded in the cockpit. Awakened by the sound, Keats emerged from his cabin, rubbing his eyes. “Are we there?” His long, braided hair was unkempt from a restless sleep.
Walfor decelerated, coming in on the night side of Theser. “No response from the terminus ring. Seems to be a stringline problem.”
Keats yawned. “Sometimes Administrator Frankov gets lazy.”
Tapping additional controls, Walfor activated his broadband detectors to receive transmissions from the planet. Now that they had dropped off the stringline and assumed normal speed, he expected to be flooded with the chatter of a bustling world. “Anybody home? This is Ian Walfor, coming via Candela. I have the ships you commissioned. And we need stardive engines. Hello?”
“I don’t hear anything,” Keats said. “Something must be wrong with our receivers.”
“Not detecting any ships at their other terminus either,” Walfor said, scanning ahead. The second terminus orbited close to the planet, anchoring the iperion line that extended back to Hellhole.
Walfor couldn’t believe what he was seeing on the screens. “No signal ahead at all. There’s diffuse iperion in orbit—wait, the Hellhole terminus ring is offline! Well, that explains why Administrator Frankov didn’t attend the meeting.”
As the ship coasted in toward Theser, Keats was the first to say, “It’s not offline—it’s destroyed. The stringline has been cut.” He looked ill, and it had nothing to do with his reaction to food or space travel.
Despite their repeated transmissions, Theser maintained disconcerting radio silence. Through the night sky they flew over the largest crater city of Eron, but it was now an entirely dark city. “No lights, no transmissions,” Keats said. “I don’t like this at all.”
Walfor received no response to his numerous codecalls. “We’ve got to go down there.”
Leaving the hauler’s cockpit, they made their way to a small personal shuttle locked in a docking clamp. The craft dropped toward the surface without any guidance from the Theser transport authority.
They flew low over the crater city before dawn, illuminating the surface with powerful beams of light—but they saw no standing structures, only the charred remains of what had once been a vibrant city. No sign of life, just slag piles of wreckage.
Halfway up the terraced wall of the crater, where the laboratories of the eccentric spacedrive engineers had once stood next to the government administrative center, Walfor spotted a pennant fluttering in the night breeze. A prominent marker that was meant to be found.
A black Riomini flag.
46
Rigorous conservation measures and drastic rationing had made a significant impact on the crew of the stranded Constellation fleet. A month had passed since the trailblazer had departed. At least four more weeks to go.
Scout ships continued to comb space from the huddled stringline haulers, tightening their search patterns for any indication of the lost iperion path. Escobar Hallholme was desperate, convinced the fleet had wandered far afield of where the severed stringline must be. Though their hopes had dwindled, finding that connection seemed like their only hope unless Sergeants Zabriskie and Caron were successful. If a scout ship somehow, miraculously, blundered onto the iperion trail, they would all be saved far sooner than the trailblazer could ever reach Hellhole.
Instead, the search blundered into something else. One scout raced back to the stringline haulers, sending a tight, secure codecall signal. “Redcom! We’ve opened fire!”
Escobar snapped to attention on the bridge. “Comm, respond. Who opened fire? Are you under attack?”
After the communications officer established the link, the female scout pilot said in a breathless voice, “It was one of the General’s ships, sir. A spy vessel searching space—possibly looking for us! They pinged my ship and recognized that we were part of the Constellation fleet. I responded with a fusillade, Redcom.” She looked haggard, but grinning on the screen. “Blew them out of space, hopefully before they could expose our location to the enemy!”
Escobar rose to his feet, feeling relief at first and then deep disappointment. Reprimanding the pilot would do no good now. So, Adolphus was indeed searching for them. Carrington had been correct that they could not allow this giant military force to fall into the hands of the enemy … but that might have saved his crew from long, cold starvation. They could have been rescued by the General’s scout, but that chance was gone now.
“No need to return to the flagship,” Escobar responded. “Stay out there and continue the search.”
* * *
More than 70 percent of the crew, over ten thousand soldiers, had been placed in induced comas and connected to the barest minimum of life support. Seven of the one hundred warships were little more than tightly packed coffin units, their ambient temperatures reduced to deep cold where the sedated volunteers (some willing, some not) wer
e stacked like cordwood.
But it wasn’t enough.
“We have four more weeks, at least, before the trailblazer ship can reach its destination.” Bolton kept his voice low in Escobar’s office adjacent to the flagship’s bridge. “Given the number of crew still awake and burning calories, we have maybe half that time. We need to speed up the sedation process.”
Escobar looked haunted. “Once we reach planet Hallholme, we can take over all of the General’s supplies. In the meantime, hunger will give the soldiers an edge to fight harder.”
“They won’t be in any fighting condition, Redcom. I’m talking about survival. You can already see the effect—not just the hunger, but the constant tension.” The majority of crew walking the decks had a jittery, skeletal look, with sunken cheeks and shadowed eyes—and there had been more than sixty deaths from fights, starvation, and other causes. “We need even more of them unconscious, though we have very little of the Sandusky stasis drug left.”
Escobar knew that Gail Carrington had been more aggressive, pushing people to take the sedation option, but her demands had only intensified the brewing unrest, angering the crew and making them even more intransigent. Perhaps if she provided a good example …
Considering this, Escobar led Bolton out of his ready room. “Come with me.”
The flagship’s bridge looked empty, with only essential crew at their stations. Lieutenant Cristaine, his first officer, had volunteered for sedation near the beginning of the crisis, in the third group. She’d done her duty with bravery, and now she slept peacefully. Escobar looked around, then spoke in a hoarse voice. “Have a dozen of my personal security troops meet me on deck five, midship. Afterward, I’m calling all watch commanders for a private discussion. Triple guards on the armories—this next step isn’t going to be easy.”
Escobar and Bolton took a lift down to deck five, where they joined the guards. The Red Commodore said, “We’ll need to put down another two thousand crewmembers over the next few days. Isn’t that about right, Major?”
“Yes,” Bolton said. “But why the guards?”
Escobar drew a deep breath. “Because Gail Carrington will be the first of our new volunteers, and I don’t think she’s going to like it.”
* * *
Escobar had made his choice, and though it gave him a sick dread and resignation, he did not doubt it was the right decision. A command decision. Gail Carrington had put forth the argument herself, though he doubted she would abide by the logic now that it was applied to her.
Even as conditions got grimmer, he couldn’t get over his revulsion at how she had so casually slit the throat of the flagship’s comm-officer, simply because he had attempted to send a distress signal … or at what she had done to Jackson Firth and his diplomatic team, killing them because they were “an unnecessary drain on our resources.” Her dark violence had spilled over, and now the paranoid scout pilot had destroyed one of General Adolphus’s searchers, who could well have saved them all.
Though Escobar had not particularly liked the stuffy diplomats, they did have a defined role that he could understand. If everyone’s worth were judged by their usefulness to the fleet, most of the extraneous noble officers would never make the cut. They consumed the fleet’s food and life-support resources, yet did not improve the odds of victory. They were deadwood, and the mission would be better off if they were dead.
Carrington, though, had no defined role at all. She had disapproved of Escobar’s actions ever since the fleet’s attack plan had gone off the rails. She had criticized him silently as well as vocally. And he still didn’t know why she was here, except as some sort of internal spy. Because she came under the aegis of her master Lord Riomini, Escobar had no choice but to accept her aboard the fleet.
Now, however, each person aboard the stranded ships mattered. A human being could live as long as a week without food, but every member of the crew had been on reduced rations for the past month. They had no reserves. They couldn’t last on any less.
Yes, Gail Carrington would have to do her part.
Like Escobar, Bolton Crais was uneasy about what they had to do to her now, so they brought along twelve armed guards and Dr. Hambliss, who had been so appalled by Carrington’s murderous actions in the sick bay. He clutched a sedation syringe with a full dose of the Sandusky stasis drug, and was ready to use it.
Carrington answered the signal at her quarters. She looked annoyed by the disturbance, and her expression did not soften when she saw Escobar and Bolton at the door. When she noted the security guards in the corridor, she coiled herself like a spring-loaded weapon. “What is this?”
“Further extreme actions have become necessary,” Escobar said. “Thank you for volunteering to join the sedated and set an example for the remaining members of our crew.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I refuse. I’m an official representative of Lord Riomini. You have no authority over me.”
“On the contrary, as Red Commodore I have authority over every person in the fleet, and I have given the order for you to be sedated. Doctor?”
Hambliss uncapped the syringe.
“I refuse,” she said again. Her eyes were on fire. She looked dangerous.
Escobar gestured to the guards. “Please assist Ms. Carrington in the completion of her duty.”
Two of the burly guards entered Carrington’s quarters, and her movement was so swift that Escobar saw little more than a blur. With hooked fingers, a vicious blow, twist, and yank, she tore out the first man’s larynx, then jerked him the rest of the way inside the cabin while she grabbed for the second one. A pile-driver blow in the center of his forehead, between the eyes, crushed the top of his nose. Blood spurted out his nostrils. As he lifted his hands to defend himself, she grabbed his hair, yanked his head down, and brought her knee up into his chin with a loud snap of his neck.
Escobar knew that Carrington had been one of Riomini’s most deadly bodyguards, and even though she had retired because she felt her reflexes had slowed, she remained superior to these armed troops.
Before Escobar could order the other men forward, they charged through the doorway. Carrington fell into a defensive stance and used the bottleneck of the cabin’s entrance to her advantage. She crushed a man’s kneecap with a stiff kick, then sent him sprawling into two other guards who lunged for her. While the guards shouted as they pressed forward, Carrington remained eerily silent. Like a small army using the advantage of a narrow pass, she kept fighting, never surrendering, as if sure that Escobar intended to murder her outright. Now perhaps that was exactly what he would have to do.
She killed two and crippled three more before the guards pushed their way into her quarters by sheer force of numbers. Finally, they succeeded in slamming her down on the deck and holding her there. Dr. Hambliss rushed forward and, not bothering with any finesse, jammed the needle into her neck.
The sedative took hold within seconds, but Carrington continued to struggle, her energy dwindling until she finally collapsed, unconscious. Taking no chances, Escobar said, “Strap her down and bind her wrists. I don’t trust her to stay sedated as long as she should. Doctor, watch her closely.”
Bolton suggested, “We should put her aboard one of the storage ships where she can’t cause any more trouble.”
“She’s already caused too much trouble.” Escobar was sickened to see the four dead men sprawled on the deck, as well as the injured. She had tossed his best soldiers about like clumsy puppets. “I loathe her, but if I had a thousand fighters like her, General Adolphus would have no chance.”
“We might not live long enough to face the General,” Bolton said. As the dead and injured were carried away, he looked pale.
* * *
Fighting off his anger, Escobar inspected Carrington’s quarters, which she had previously kept locked. She would never have allowed him to study her records, her private communications, but now he took advantage of the vulnerability. He needed to find out what her mission was.
Over the course of their voyage, and the weeks stranded here without the stringline, she had documented and distorted every one of Escobar’s missteps, his bad decisions, his failures to act, all without suggesting how she might have solved the various problems.
Escobar felt a chill when he discovered Carrington’s original orders—a private letter from Lord Riomini himself.
Escobar’s wife, Elaine, was Riomini’s grandniece, and through her family connections his military career had been enhanced. To a great extent, the Black Lord had been his benefactor, and Escobar was pleased to accept command of the fleet sent against the rebel General. He had considered it his due, a celebration of their powerful families, the Riominis and the legendary Hallholmes.
But now he learned that Gail Carrington had been sent to watch over him and ensure that this all-important mission succeeded. Her orders were ominously explicit: If Escobar was about to fail, she was to kill him so that his incompetence could cause no further damage. As an aside, Riomini promised that he would take care of Elaine and her three sons, and that he would do his best to portray Escobar as a war hero, to save face.
As Escobar read the secret orders alone in Carrington’s quarters, wide-eyed and sickened, Bolton Crais came up so quietly that he jumped. The logistics officer looked over his shoulder at the document. “Is it what you expected, sir?”
Escobar swallowed hard. “Yes, Major, I’m afraid it is.”
“What should we do with her?”
“I’d like to process her into food to sustain the troops,” Escobar replied, intending it as a joke, but the words were flat and awkward. “I don’t know, Major. At least she’s out of our way for now.”
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