Hellhole Awakening

by Brian Herbert

Michella laughed. “You have certainly proved yourself in recent days, Ishop. And over the years you’ve been indispensable, more valuable than any ten nobles. No one deserves my generosity more than you do!”

  “I am glad to know I have your complete support, if ever I need to ask.”

  74

  After more than two interminable months of deprivation, the last step of the fleet’s journey would take only a day. Ironically, after so much waiting, Escobar knew his troops weren’t ready, but he didn’t dare wait any longer. Strike fast, strike hard!

  It was a balancing act to get the four remaining stringline haulers in place as thousands of groggy crewmembers returned to consciousness. Though the revived soldiers were weak to the point of starvation, gaunt and jittery, the supply of stimulants kept them functioning, as did their own adrenaline. They were heading for planet Hallholme at last!

  What had once been a well-organized military operation, however, devolved into confusion and disbelief as word spread about what had occurred while they slept in blissful unconsciousness—the suicides, the brawls and killings, the disappearance of one full stringline hauler containing twenty battleships. Escobar managed to keep secret the source of the remaining rations—for the time being.

  Another 157 crewmembers died of medical complications while being revived from their comas. Though distraught by the deaths, Dr. Hambliss was not surprised. “This was an experimental procedure in the first place, Redcom. We didn’t have the proper monitoring equipment or nutrients, or the beds to keep so many in induced comas. The Sandusky stasis drug was never meant to be used for such a prolonged time. That many casualties out of almost ten thousand sedated people is an acceptable loss by any measure.”

  “We already have a long list of casualties, Doctor,” Escobar said. “So long as we still have enough fighters and firepower to defeat General Adolphus.”

  Invigorating military music played over the intercom to keep the fighters inspired and moving for just one more day. They were like scarecrows returning to their posts; many were ill, nauseated and dizzy. Nevertheless, the Redcom did his best to whip them into shape. Escobar would have preferred to spend days drilling everyone and going over a concise battle plan, but there wasn’t enough time. They would face the enemy soon, and he needed to focus them on their imminent goal.

  Many fighter pilots had perished in the random cutbacks, and he had fewer to join the attack than he would have liked. With the twenty warships lost on the vanished stringline hauler, four more ships that were still loaded with frozen bodies, and six that had been damaged in mutinous uprisings, he was left with seventy capable warships. Despite the diminished force, Escobar hoped that his arrival would be such a shock to the rebels that he would overwhelm them and cause the General to surrender.

  Seven hours after the return of Sergeants Zabriskie and Caron, the stringline haulers lined up on the new iperion path and launched for planet Hallholme. Escobar counted on making the rest of the preparations during the last day of flight. It was all the time they had.

  Medical teams, assisted by growing ranks of revived volunteers, continued to awaken the sedated soldiers. As the four haulers hurtled down the stringline toward the target, Escobar walked the corridors of the Diadem’s Glory. Bolton gave him quiet reports of conversations overheard. “The crew is only beginning to grasp the magnitude of what’s gone wrong on this mission. They’re growing angry, sir, and they blame it on you.”

  “I knew they’d blame it on me, Major. As you told me before, a commander’s decisions aren’t always easy, but if we can achieve this victory, I’ll keep the rest of them alive. We’ll feast on the General’s stockpiles, and all will be forgiven.”

  “A true commander doesn’t need to ask forgiveness from his men,” Bolton said, “if the decisions he makes are warranted.”

  Escobar was annoyed. “Thank you for dispensing your command wisdom, Major Crais.”

  “It’s not mine, Redcom. It’s a direct quote from your father.”

  Gail Carrington returned to the bridge, looking wan and weak but with a fire in her eyes. She paused to give Escobar an accusatory glare, then nodded to him and to Bolton. “Although I expressed my doubts, Commodore Hallholme, it appears that your harsh plan did work. I accept the necessity of what you did, but the victory is not won yet.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Carrington. Include that in your report to Lord Riomini when we come home victorious.” Despite his professed confidence, Escobar remained concerned. Each time he glanced at Lieutenant Cristaine’s empty station, he was reminded of all they had lost.

  His task force was not exactly the well-oiled machine it had been when it departed from Sonjeera. Power reserves were low, and they had barely enough energy to activate their primary weapons—not the impressive punitive force that Diadem Michella had wanted to throw against General Adolphus—and they were arriving two months later than expected … but they should have the element of surprise on their side—even more so than before.

  Escobar ground his teeth together. If they were victorious, the Diadem and the Black Lord would be satisfied enough.

  He delivered an impromptu speech over the fleet-wide channel, telling his crew he knew they were upset over the horrific losses they had endured, but General Adolphus was the real enemy, not their commanding officer—not him. Adolphus had cut the stringline and stranded them all; Adolphus had caused their misery.

  He knew he was pushing the troops hard, and realized they were weak, reeling and disoriented from the aftereffects of long sedation, and the shock of the deaths. Some struggled to find their focus, but most were good enough soldiers that they fell back into their routine.

  They had been drilled and trained before leaving the Crown Jewels, and they understood the simple and swift initial plan to overwhelm the enemy, striking fast and striking hard. They had never dreamed they might lose; failure was not part of any plan.

  Escobar had painted himself into a corner and he had only one chance to redeem himself, but he feared this crew was not ready. “It feels like a disaster waiting to happen,” he whispered to himself.

  Carrington overheard him and responded in a brittle voice, reminding him of his place. “I disagree, Redcom. It feels like a victory waiting to happen.”

  A signal came from the stringline hauler’s replacement pilot. “Approaching the Hallholme system, sir. Arrival at the terminus ring is imminent.” Her voice carried an undertone of disbelief.

  Escobar sat in the command chair, drew a deep breath, and prepared himself. “It’s about damned time.”

  He ordered everyone to battle stations, and the surviving pilots rushed to their fighter craft, ready to engage the rebel forces. The four stringline haulers decelerated and appeared, one after another, at the discreet terminus ring that Zabriskie and Caron had deposited at the edge of the Hallholme system. As soon as the haulers were in position, Escobar ordered all warships to disengage from their docking clamps and prepare to move forward in a full aerial assault. He would leave the hauler frameworks at the terminus ring.

  “It won’t be long before the General’s sensors spot our four haulers,” he said. “We have to be on the move before he can take action.”

  A shudder ran through the Diadem’s Glory as the docking clamp released them from its months-long grasp. The flagship’s in-system engines guided it forward to join the other ships. They would swoop down upon planet Hallholme and open fire, disrupt whatever defenses the rebels had in place, and secure a swift victory. He had to overwhelm General Adolphus before the man could see just how weak the Constellation fleet truly was.

  The familiar, rousing theme played. If everything went right, the Redcom was creating a stirring tale to tell his sons—if he survived long enough to return home and see them again.

  Leaving the new terminus ring behind, the Constellation task force began its final approach toward the hellish world. Seventy warships flew in, an impressive force, but the formation was too loose for Escobar’s liking; the crews l
acked discipline. He had hoped for precision, a model operation, but it was all he could do to get the attack ships to engage the same target. It would have to do.

  He broadcast a final rallying cry across the secure fleet codecall channel. “Our first priority is to disarm the General and destroy his defenses. After that, we send immediate recovery teams down to the colony cities to secure their food stockpiles. We’ll take what they have and make ourselves whole again. I promise you, we’ll have all we can eat tonight!”

  He heard a ragged cheer from his bridge crew, and it was echoed throughout the fleet. It pleased him how readily they believed his promise. It meant they still had faith in him. According to Constellation propaganda, Hellhole was a squalid and miserable place where the people could barely survive, but now, somehow, the warship crews imagined a wealth of supplies, stockpiles of food.

  Long-range scanners displayed detailed images of the planet; everyone gazing at their screens felt sickening dismay at the same time. To their astonishment, they saw dozens of rebel warships circling the planet, along with smaller weapons platforms. The reconditioned battle vessels looked formidable, along with FTL attack ships that bristled with weapons, all positioned to defend their DZ stringline hub. A much larger force than Escobar—or anyone in the Constellation fleet—had expected to see.

  “Not so defenseless as we’ve been led to believe!” Escobar growled.

  Bolton said, “The General has had two extra months to prepare.”

  Gail Carrington added, “We still outnumber them. We are not going to turn back now.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.” Escobar opened the command codecall line. “Forward! Engage the enemy before they even know we’re coming.”

  Discipline in the Constellation fleet was lax and morale at rock bottom; the formations were ragged, the ships wove about like drunken birds. He could see by the clean lines and tightly regimented formations, however, that the rebel defenses were much better drilled, much more alert.

  “Maintain course. We can outgun them.”

  He watched as the General’s ships lit up and began to move, turning their glowing weapons ports toward the oncoming fleet.

  “They’ve spotted us,” reported his female tactical officer. At first, Escobar thought her voice sounded just like Lieutenant Cristaine’s … but it was someone new.

  “Open codecall to the public channel, but without visuals. I don’t want the enemy to see how we look, or he’ll realize that we are in a desperate situation.”

  After verifying that the system was voice-only, he spoke directly into the voice pickup. “This is Red Commodore Escobar Hallholme, representing the Constellation. I hereby seize this planet in the name of the Diadem and demand your unconditional surrender. Turn over the criminal Tiber Adolphus for proper punishment—or you will be destroyed.”

  75

  The alarms in Elba rang in the middle of the night, a private emergency signal from the Jacob patrolling the skies over Hellhole. Adolphus was immediately awake, as if gunfire had echoed overhead. He knew this was no minor call, no false alarm. Sophie groaned as she roused herself and hurried to dress.

  Craig Jordan, who operated the flagship while in orbit, shouted over the direct codecall link, “General, a large force just appeared in our system!”

  “A large force?” Adolphus said. “How many ships?”

  “More than fifty, sir. ETA, less than an hour.”

  Adolphus shook his head. “How could they appear in the system? Are you monitoring both stringline networks?”

  “They didn’t come in on either line, sir—not from the DZ and not from Sonjeera.” Jordan sounded flustered, trying to keep control of the situation. “They came in on some other path. We’re checking.”

  Sophie, bleary-eyed, reacted with shock. “A new stringline?”

  “I’m going to my war room, Jordan. I want a full report when I get there.”

  After his nerve-racking expedition to Candela and the alarming events at the Ankor spaceport, Adolphus was glad to be back at Elba. On his first night at home, he had looked forward to sleeping in his own bed, comforted to have Sophie beside him. He drew strength and stability from her; she made him feel he could keep all the myriad cogs and gears in place, moving along.…

  Now, as if the two of them moved in a well-choreographed dance, Sophie pulled out his appropriate clothes while Adolphus dressed rapidly; in less than ten minutes he cut an impressive figure.

  Adolphus entered Elba’s conference chamber, where screens on the walls were linked to the Jacob’s bridge and to other primary ships guarding Hellhole. Although he had sent fifteen vessels to Candela, he still had forty-five armed ships here to defend the DZ stringline hub. He would have to make the best of them.

  As soon as the General activated the screens in the war room, Craig Jordan’s image appeared from the Jacob’s bridge. He gave his report without being asked. “Here’s what we know so far, sir. Seventy warships are heading this way under standard in-system propulsion.”

  “But where did they come from? And are there more in hiding?”

  “With our high-res scanners, backtracking the route of the inbound warships, we found four stringline haulers on the edge of the system, military-size carrier vessels.”

  Standing at his shoulder, Sophie interrupted. “We don’t have a stringline terminus so far out—how did they get here?”

  “Somebody placed another terminus ring outside the system,” Adolphus said, his thoughts spinning. “It means a trailblazer laid down a new iperion path, just like we did with our own DZ network.”

  “But a voyage from Sonjeera would have taken years!” Sophie handed him a cup of steaming kiafa from Elba’s kitchens.

  “We’ll ask for details once we’ve defeated them. Battle stations, Mr. Jordan!” He turned to Sophie, frustrated. “I can’t stay down here. I need to be on the Jacob’s bridge, at the front of the attack.”

  Sophie put her hands on his shoulder to keep him in his seat. “If those ships will arrive in less than an hour, you don’t have time. Stay here in the command center and manage our response. Take a breath. Do it right.”

  He looked around, anxious to be in the thick of the fight, but he had established this Elba war room as a satellite administrative chamber. It contained the equipment he needed. “You’re right.”

  “You don’t need to remind me,” she said with a smile.

  Jordan reported, “Message coming in, sir. It’s from—” He caught his breath. “He says he’s Red Commodore Escobar Hallholme.”

  Adolphus remained motionless as the pieces fell into place. “So, the missing Constellation fleet finally got here.” Somehow those ships had found their own path to Hellhole, though it had taken them months. Was this an ingenious surprise maneuver, or an act of desperation? Had they somehow kept the true nature of their mission a secret even from Dak Telom? Adolphus felt beaten by the very idea, the audacity of such a risky plan.

  He muttered under his breath, “I will not surrender to a Hallholme again.”

  Sophie’s voice was hard. “Damn right.”

  “Put him on, Mr. Jordan.”

  A male voice spoke over the connection, but there was no visual. “This is Red Commander Escobar Hallholme. I repeat, surrender and turn over the criminal Tiber Adolphus—or you will all be destroyed.”

  Adolphus switched to a private line, said, “He’s blocking his image, Mr. Jordan. I want to know why. Can you break through the codecall blocks he’s placed on his warship?”

  “Already working on it, sir. Getting close. When we get the visual line, we should be able to hold it open for maybe ten minutes before they find a work-around and it goes dark again. Here it comes, sir!”

  In the seconds it took for the images to appear, the General’s pulse raced. Then, as the screen came into focus, he found himself face-to-face with the son of Commodore Hallholme. As soon as he saw the Redcom’s face, Adolphus understood much more: Escobar Hallholme’s bluster was diminished by th
e haunted, desperate look on his emaciated face. He didn’t seem to know yet that he could be seen.

  “You have five minutes before we open fire,” the Redcom said, glaring ahead. “We await your response.”

  Adolphus looked carefully at the man. He had similar facial features to his legendary father’s, though his light-brown hair was neatly trimmed, and he did not sport the old Commodore’s distinguished muttonchop whiskers. Escobar’s hard eyes stared ahead like weapon beams. He looked confident, arrogant, completely in charge. But he had hollow shadows under his eyes, a gaunt and shaky look. Despite his bravado, he carried an aura of desperation, like brittle glass. Everyone on the enemy bridge was thin and stooped over, with haunted eyes, like images he had seen of torture victims.

  Sophie saw it, too. “Look at him, and the other officers on the bridge! They’re all starving.”

  Without activating his own codecall, the General stared and pondered. This revelation changed everything. “Let them eat silence for a few minutes.”

  The answers now crystallized, and Adolphus guessed what must have occurred. This surprise ambush was not part of a long-standing, devious plan at all. When the iperion path was cut, the lost fleet had indeed been stranded—just as the Urvanciks had determined. But they had gone so far astray that the General’s search parties had not been able to locate them. They had limped their way here, using the last gasps of their resources; only four of the five stringline haulers had made it.

  Although he admired the younger Hallholme for the impossible decisions he must have made just to keep his fleet alive for so long, Adolphus realized that every person aboard those ominous battleships had to be weak from malnutrition, desperate, at the ragged end. Before his ships fired a single shot at them, Redcom Hallholme had already lost 30 percent of his fleet.

  Adolphus could use that.

  Before he responded to the ultimatum, Adolphus made preparations. He had the kitchen staff deliver a platter of pastries, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs, an impromptu breakfast feast. Only when he had the extravagant food spread out before him did he activate his own codecall screen; for good measure, to make certain everyone aboard the seventy attacking ships saw him, he expanded the signal to include all standard Constellation military frequencies.