In a calm voice, showing his charts and numbers, Bolton made it clear that the odds of success were infinitesimal. He insisted that they wait for Zabriskie and Caron to return. Rationally, it was their best chance.
But the crew hated their inaction.
The Redcom issued orders for the other hauler pilots to stand down and join the rest of the crew. Only Suri Dar had not answered.
“We’ll find out what’s happened to her, sir,” said the first ranger. They sealed their suits and entered the airlock.
Stringline hauler pilots were, by their very nature, loners, even misfits. After Suri Dar isolated herself, a rumor started among the skeleton crew that she was hoarding an undocumented supply of food that should be shared with the conscious crew members. Even Escobar began to wonder if that might be true, although if the pilot had a large personal stockpile, it would amount to only a few mouthfuls when distributed across the twenty-five hundred crew members who were still awake.
The growing despair throughout the stranded fleet made each day like a barefoot walk across razor blades. Constant fights broke out; crewmen killed each other or committed suicide. The crewmembers remaining at their stations were so thin and jittery that they looked like real skeletons.
The food supplies were reaching critically low levels. Bolton could not sleep, and while he was awake, he could think of little other than the sharp teeth of hunger chewing in his stomach. More than 80 percent of the remaining crew was now sedated, surviving on minimal life support, kept at the lowest possible metabolic rate. Part of him envied those who were comatose, seemingly peaceful yet completely helpless. He didn’t know which was worse.
Through it all they kept waiting for word from the trailblazer ship—waiting, waiting, and watching the calendar.
In order to give them hope, Bolton had calculated the absolute best-case scenario. Once the trailblazer arrived at Hallholme and dropped the terminus ring, the pilots could rush back here at stringline speeds in only a day. That meant two more weeks at an absolute minimum before the fleet could expect any sign. But even that estimated time, Bolton knew, was extremely optimistic.
Sheer boredom enhanced their fears. An effort to discover the fate of pilot Suri Dar would normally have been watched with great interest by the remaining crew, but Bolton had advised keeping it secret. The rangers weren’t likely to discover good news, anyway. Lately he and Escobar had been forced to keep a lot of bad information secret.
Because the giant hauler was just a framework to carry twenty Constellation warships suspended from docking clamps, there was no easy access to the pilot’s blister from the ships. Outside, the two spacesuited rangers worked their way along the flagship’s hull, climbing to the docking clamp and traversing a structural girder. “We’ll reach the pilot’s blister in ten minutes, sir,” the first ranger transmitted across the scrambled codecall.
The warships hung silent around the Diadem’s Glory, many of them shut down and dark; even the inhabited vessels showed only minimal illumination. The air was stale. The ships were cold. The bridge of the flagship was a quiet and somber place.
“We’ve reached the hatch to the pilot’s blister,” said the second ranger. “Still no response to our signals.”
“Use the tool kit to force your way in,” Escobar said. “We need to know about her, one way or the other.” He lowered his voice to Bolton. “I can’t take the risk that she might power up the controls and take us on a joyride.” The comment hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
“We’re inside the first airlock door, sir,” came the codecall.
“Can you see anything through the viewport?” Escobar asked.
“Just the interior of the cabin, and it seems empty.”
“All right, access the pilot’s blister. Have your weapons ready, in case she’s violent.”
Because the stringline hauler was a military vessel, the rangers had the proper override codes. They made their way through the second airlock door and into Suri Dar’s small but comfortable quarters.
“Nobody’s in the cockpit, sir. Moving toward her private cabin now. The door is sealed, both the electronic and some kind of manual lock.”
“Force your way in if necessary.”
Bolton stood nervously, waiting for the report. “Why would a stringline hauler captain need to lock her quarters? She’s always alone up there. Why do they even make a lock?”
“Some pilots are paranoid,” Escobar said.
“We’re getting through,” said the second ranger. “Door’s open. What a stench!” He uttered a string of curses.
Bolton knew the answer even before the rangers reported.
“Captain Dar is dead, sir. She took her own life, at least a few days ago.”
“I expected that,” Escobar said quietly to Bolton, then transmitted to the rangers, “See if there are any nutrient supplies we can confiscate.”
“Nothing left, sir. Just wrappers and empty containers. Medical packages scattered around, too—I think she took an overdose.”
Bolton looked at the haunted expression on the Redcom’s face, saw his jaw muscles ripple as he ground his teeth together. Escobar ordered the rangers to return to the Diadem’s Glory. Bolton felt as if he had just suffered another blow to the gut.
“Review the records of our conscious crewmembers, Major,” Escobar said. “Find someone we can train as a substitute stringline pilot.”
58
Ishop and Laderna maintained their close surveillance on Burum Elakis. The man was a clever operative and gave very few indications of his plans, but he was no match for Ishop Heer.
As he stepped out of a lap pool at the exclusive private gymnasium building, he saw Laderna coming toward him with her usual brisk, businesslike step. Ishop preferred to swim at midmorning, when few others were around. He hated the smell of perspiration and the thought of other users on the equipment, so he sterilized each item before using it and checked the disinfectant levels of the pool water prior to stepping in. Michella had recently encouraged him to improve his physical condition. The old Diadem insisted that all her closest aides be as fit as she was, and Ishop couldn’t disagree; he would be a noble soon, and he had expectations to meet.
Laderna grinned at him as he took a towel from the middle of the stack to be sure no one else had touched it. “I have confirmation, boss. Elakis has assembled and planted the bomb to assassinate the Diadem. We have to act right away to save her.”
Such news was sufficient to cheer him, but he didn’t feel any rush. “The Diadem did call an emergency Council session this afternoon. I suppose receiving a severed head is an emergency, although I daresay Governor Undine would have preferred preemptive action instead. Did Elakis plant the bomb in the Council Hall? Now that I am a noble myself, I feel an obligation to save them all.”
“It’s more targeted than that. He planted the bomb in the Diadem’s autocarriage—more people will see the explosion out in the crowded streets, though it’ll play hell with traffic in Heart Square.”
“I’d better not ride with her, then,” Ishop said with a wicked smile as he went to get dressed.
Laderna beamed with pride. “I have the names of the coconspirators in the palace, a gardener and a driver in the motor pool, all of them clandestine supporters of General Adolphus.”
“Excellent work, as usual,” he said. “Now I should shower, get dressed, and go rescue the Diadem.”
She touched his arm, made him pause. “Or…” Laderna let the word hang for a moment. “We could remove the Duchenet name from our list, finish the job that we started.”
It would bring perfect closure, he realized, but he shook his head. “The Diadem can still help us. She’s too valuable an ally. But maybe later…”
While Laderna waited outside, Ishop dressed hurriedly in an informal suit and rubbed ointment onto his bald scalp. Not fine clothing, but under the circumstances, it would have to do. Time to be a hero.
At the palace he used his exclusive access co
des to let himself into the gardens, where Michella was taking a brisk walk; Ishop knew she would be rehearsing her speech to the Council. She wore a dark exercise suit with the oval, star-studded Duchenet crest on the shoulder. Seeing him, she did not slow, and he had to jog to keep up with her. “Care to join me?”
“I already did my exercise today, Eminence.” He smiled, relishing the surprise. “I thought you’d like to know—I discovered an assassination plot, and I suggest we take a different vehicle to the emergency Council session this afternoon.”
That was enough to make her pause in her exercise. He provided details about the bomb plot and the network of Adolphus sympathizers he had uncovered.
She paled. “And why didn’t my own security team find out about this?”
“Because I’m better at it than they are.”
Michella sniffed, still trying to recover from the shocking news. “I’ll call out my full guard staff, make widespread arrests—”
“Or, Eminence, we could wait and choreograph a more dramatic event. Let the assassination plot play out. Place a bureaucrat or two in your autocarriage, while you take a different route yourself. Make it look like a minor change in your plans … a case of indigestion perhaps? A serving of pâté that was off? You’ll miraculously survive the attempt on your life, but the bomb would still go off.”
“And what would be the point of that? I’d lose a couple of good government workers—”
“I didn’t say to choose good bureaucrats, Eminence. You have plenty of extraneous ones. If you foil the plot ahead of time, the people will forget about it in a day. However, if there is a deadly explosion, public outrage will flare against the General. We can already blame the rebels for Undine’s severed head, but this is much closer to home.”
The old woman nodded slowly. “You are my most insightful adviser, dear Ishop. Very well, I will send my regular carriage ahead, and travel in a different vehicle.” Her gaze hardened. “And you will accompany me in the second carriage. Just to make certain you have no plans of your own.”
I always have other plans, he thought, but he was genuinely surprised by her comment. “I have never failed you, Eminence. Of all the people in the Constellation, who has served you better?”
Her expression softened. “Very few, Ishop. Very few.” She ran her gaze up and down his street clothes. “My butlers will find you a more elegant outfit. I want you to sit beside me in my private box.”
Ishop could not hide his broad grin. Exactly where I belong.
* * *
An hour before the scheduled Council meeting, the Diadem’s ornate autocarriage rolled along the normal route, pulled by six older horps from her stables. All for show.
Believing they were being honored with a special medal for exceptional botanical service, the Diadem’s two court florists rode inside, behind darkened compartment windows. Ishop wondered what the florists must be thinking as they watched pedestrians cheering their carriage as it rolled past.
As for himself, he was pleased to ride with Diadem Michella in a less ornate carriage that took a roundabout route to the rear entrance of the Council Hall.
They arrived without fanfare, which seemed to disappoint Michella, but she understood the priorities. As she and Ishop emerged from the carriage and a security detail whisked them inside, he heard the explosion a block away—a blast so powerful that he felt it under his feet. A column of smoke rose over the building tops, and the distant crowd noise took on a fearful tenor.
He met Michella’s gaze, saw a flash of anger in her eyes, along with deep gratitude toward him. Now she would trust him even more. He couldn’t wait to present the papers to reclaim his noble title. Maybe she would give him an important cabinet appointment.
“You saved my life, Ishop,” she said, staring at the smudge of smoke. “You have proof that Adolphus loyalists did this?”
“How much evidence do you need, Eminence?”
Security troops and rescue personnel rushed toward the site of the explosion. Alarms whooped through the streets, and emergency responders hurried the other Council members to safety, but Ishop knew there was no longer any immediate threat.
Michella’s cheeks were flushed with anger. “I want the conspirator arrested immediately. My interrogators will wring every detail from him!”
Ishop could not allow that to happen. “If I may, Eminence? Your personal security staff already proved their incompetence. Let me do this myself, and I’ll find out everything.”
Michella dug in her heels. “But I must make an immediate response or else I look weak. That bomb could have killed me, and that insane woman on Candela beheaded one of my territorial governors! We won’t just sit back and fume!”
“I thought Commodore Hallholme was already on his way?”
“Yes, but that could take weeks before we announce anything publicly—I need to do something now.”
Ishop shrugged. “It’s all simple enough, Eminence. To retaliate for the murder of Governor Undine, have Lord Riomini attack Candela, just as he did against Theser. How much more provocation do you need? In fact, send him to several DZ worlds—I’m sure he’d like that.”
The old woman frowned. “But Adolphus threatened to blow all the stringlines if we move against the Deep Zone. Originally, I thought he was bluffing, but…”
“If we don’t announce which planets Lord Riomini will attack, how would he know we’re coming? He couldn’t possibly send a message to all fifty-four worlds before our fleet launches.”
Michella cleared her nostrils. “At least that’s something. I’ll have Selik move right away. If this is a war, we may as well intensify it.”
Ishop’s excitement built as more ideas came to mind. “But if you want to do something more immediate, Eminence, may I remind you that you do have Governor Goler in custody right here on Sonjeera.” He smiled.
“Yes … we do, at that.”
59
Hellhole was living up to its name.
Each day, seismic upheavals struggled to release internal pressure within the planet, like restless memories from the ancient asteroid impact. Out at the shadow-Xayan colony where Devon and Antonia continued to conduct telemancy sessions, the severe quakes triggered alien memories from Jhera and Birzh—images of the last days of their doomed world as the gigantic asteroid had hurtled toward them on a collision course.
As the ground jolted and spasmed in the worst tremors they had experienced, Devon and Antonia clutched each other near the free-form alien structures, which swayed but did not shatter. The nearby red-weed forest writhed and thrashed, reflecting the planetary unrest.
Joining their minds together, they attempted to use telemancy to quell the increasing tremors, to force down the upheaval. Devon and Antonia called on the nearby converts to add their mental strength as well.
When the quake finally ended, Devon looked at her and smiled. He spoke in his own voice, “I promised I’d keep you safe.”
With a flash of her old personality, Antonia said, “Such a gallant hero.”
Their fellow converts drifted out of their structures, unsettled. They inspected for damage, then used their united telemancy to shore up the distorted walls. But the ground beneath them still thrummed like a struck bell, restless.
Encix glided among the shadow-Xayans, studying their reactions and their mental strength. By now, an Original alien was a common sight to all the converts. After quelling the slickwater flood at the Ankor spaceport, and now riding out such a large quake, Encix seemed very disturbed. She turned her large dark eyes to Devon and Antonia, then around at the settlement. Her voice vibrated through the facial membrane. “That small fix does nothing to repair the wound in Xaya. Beneath us, and in the air and water, the planet’s pain grows greater … and the pressure mounts. We need to stabilize it. Xaya is awakening, but painfully. It is restless.”
From the seismic reports his mother had shown him, Devon knew that the increasing pressure was centered on the huge bull’s-eye impact crate
r from the original asteroid strike. Though he had studied tectonic geology in his earlier years, he didn’t understand the reason for the upheavals; inside him, Birzh sensed and communicated a different concept, envisioning a swelling energy within the heart of the planet.
Birzh said aloud to Encix, “There is great danger. We must mitigate this before it grows irreparable.”
Jhera’s presence had risen to the surface in Antonia’s mind as well. “We have the telemancy to do it. We are strong enough, Encix—you can feel it. We will gather the shadow-Xayans, thousands of us, and use our mental powers to release the world’s pressure. We can heal the wound before it breaks open.”
Devon felt determination and excitement. “If we go to the impact crater, we can concentrate our powers, reach down through the crust to save the planet before the eruptions grow too great.”
“Such a large number of telemancers working in concert is dangerous,” Encix said. “It would be like a shout of telemancy.”
“It is far more dangerous to do nothing,” Antonia-Jhera said. “Centuries ago, we could not save our world from the asteroid strike, but with the vigor we draw from our human companions, we are closer to ala’ru now than we were then. We can prevent this disaster, Encix. And you will be the catalyst to draw us all together.”
Devon was completely convinced they would be successful. With volunteers continuing to immerse themselves in the slickwater pools, more and more Xayans were being awakened. And with constant testing and practice, the numerous converts had increased their combined abilities.
Yes, they definitely had a chance.
60
Diadem Michella could have invited dozens of advisers and military experts to her strategic planning session, but she already knew what she wanted to do. She needed only the Black Lord, who would see the larger picture and the immediate need to move forward. And Ishop Heer, for his special advice.
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