Hellhole Awakening

by Brian Herbert

  Tanja’s throat was dry, and her heart pounded. She forced herself not to turn away and hide from the end of her world, but she could think of no appropriate response to what she had just witnessed.

  Two hours later they watched the second horrific asteroid strike, which was even larger than the first.

  95

  Ishop’s complete disbelief swelled inside of him like a gathering storm. The Council of Nobles had dismissed his legitimate claim! They had disregarded the law, the Constellation Charter—even though they had applied the same proviso when it suited their purposes. Even Michella had brushed him aside, after all he’d done for her, all the political messes he had cleaned up.

  Because he was her most loyal aide, Michella had lavished praise upon him. She’d supported him, appreciated his work, trusted him with her life … so long as he knew his place. In her view, the most talented butler in the universe did not deserve even a minor seat at the master’s table.

  His ancestors had been Diadems—and the nobles had laughed at him!

  Michella seemed not to give any thought to how much blood he had on his hands because of her. Wallowing in dark thoughts, he wondered what difference a little more blood would make.…

  He paced the patio of his townhouse, seething. Laderna came up from behind and held him close, and he felt the comforting softness of her caress. “You’re not alone in this—I’m still here,” she said in a gentle voice. “And I know you’re a nobleman, as good as any of them. Better, in fact.”

  She never denigrated him, never laughed at his dreams, and she supported him regardless of his title. As a lord, he had planned—strictly in a business sense—to marry an acceptable noblewoman and establish a Heer dynasty, rebuilding the family name after centuries of neglect. He had been willing to keep Laderna around, perhaps even as his own trusted assistant—like he was to the Diadem—to do necessary but unpleasant work.…

  Now all that had been dashed, and still she was here with him.

  It was a typical sunny Sonjeera day, and Ishop decided he had to leave Council City. He took Laderna on the hovercycle—one of several flashy gifts from the Diadem, though one he rarely used. Now, as Laderna sat behind him and held on tight, he streaked off on a cushion of air and followed a winding road out of the city, skimming so fast that he felt he could race away from the insults the nobles had heaped on him.

  Ishop turned into a tree-lined sanctuary, the new Hirdan Wildlife Park, and stopped at a brass dedication plaque at the gate. Laderna laughed at the irony as she read: “‘The land for this park was donated by Lord Hirdan, in honor of his deceased son.’” She chuckled. “One of our first accomplishments on the list!”

  “Somehow I don’t see the humor right now,” Ishop said. “The list did me no good. All that work, all the terrible risks we took, for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing! You exacted your revenge, and don’t tell me there wasn’t personal satisfaction in that. Besides, now we can enjoy this nice park.”

  They rode the hovercycle to a lookout that showed off the grandeur of Council City. They absorbed the view in solitude, but were interrupted by a group of bicyclists, so they left. Continuing on the hovercycle, they found a grassy slope that overlooked a small blue lake; their only company was a flock of large white-winged birds.

  Laderna reminded Ishop of what he already knew so well. “Remember, the list really isn’t finished. There’s still the Duchenet name.…”

  He looked into her eyes, then kissed her, tasting a sweetness he hadn’t noticed before. “And I always finish a job, once I’ve set my mind to it.” He gazed down at the serene lake. One of the white-winged birds flew near them, flapping slowly as it rode a thermal, then glided back down to the water.

  “What a lovely place to plot a murder,” she said.

  “You mean an assassination—a necessary political homicide. The Diadem made a point of explaining the difference to me, many times.”

  “She still trusts you, Ishop. You still have access to her. It should be a simple matter to poison an old woman, just like we did to that snotty socialite on our list.”

  “Evelyn Weilin,” he said with a wistful smile. “The acid made her skull collapse and her face dissolve! Yes, that might be fitting for Michella. Reminds me of that alien creature dissolving in the hangar.…”

  “Now you’re thinking, boss.” She raised her eyebrows, leaned closer. “Shall we make love to celebrate?”

  He shook his head. Too many plans were already whirling through his mind. “She’s not dead yet.”

  * * *

  Ishop didn’t waste any time. He had waited long enough already, months of planning, anticipating, building the case for reclaiming his noble name, putting all the pieces together. Only to be snickered at.

  Slipping into the Diadem’s office alone, he replaced her favorite black tea with a special mixture that he and Laderna had concocted, taking care to leave subtle evidence (which he would be sure to “find” later) that blamed one of the servants. Michella’s favorite beverage was expensive tea imported—ironically, from Ogg, the planet where the Osheers had been exiled so long ago—and Ishop knew that Michella enjoyed several cups each day. Her special, private treat.

  The following morning, with a carefully crafted humble demeanor that showed he was ready to get back to work, he arrived for a scheduled meeting with the Diadem. By now, the old woman had probably forgotten about his request, or at least she might pretend so. It took all his skill to drain the hatred and anticipation from his expression.

  Michella sat at her desk reading a document. She looked up and greeted him with a warm, grandmotherly, and totally false smile. A maidservant stood on one side, preparing the Diadem’s tea as well as the sweet kiafa that Ishop always drank. He had never seen this particular maidservant before, but old Michella went through employees quite rapidly, always finding something about each one that displeased her.

  While the Diadem continued to read, forcing him to wait (not an accident, he was sure), Ishop watched the maidservant check the temperature of the teapot, arrange the Diadem’s cup, and extend the silver tray as if she were performing an elaborate ritual. He tried not to fixate on the teapot.

  At last, Michella gave him her attention, accompanied by a sweet smile. “Now then, Ishop, I wish you had consulted with me before revealing your silly story to the Council members. I could have saved you some embarrassment.”

  “It is not a silly story, Eminence. I have the legitimate paperwork to prove lineage.” His pulse was racing. “My claim is valid.”

  “Your family story is very interesting, dear Ishop, but it’s ancient history, and we don’t want to dig up old bones, do we? Haven’t I rewarded you enough? I had no idea you were dissatisfied. What more would you like?” Now she gave him her best warm smile.

  “I would like my noble title restored,” he answered, crisp and cold. “And I would like the Tazaar holdings as my due.”

  She fluttered her fingers, as if to brush the words out of the air. “Out of the question. Planet Orsini is an important bargaining chip, and right now, with the unrest brewing among the nobles, I will need to use it to buy absolute loyalty from one of the most powerful families. Other nobles are far ahead of you in line, don’t you see? No, we’ll have to reach a more sensible resolution for you. A villa or two would be realistic, but not an entire planet, and certainly not a Crown Jewel world!” She laughed, expecting him to laugh with her. He didn’t.

  Moving with efficient habit, the maidservant poured a small amount of tea in a second cup. Ishop held up his hand. “None for me, thank you. I prefer my usual kiafa.”

  “The second cup is not for you, dear Ishop,” the Diadem said. “My special-blend tea is far too expensive for guests.”

  “Even a noble guest?” He felt tense, like an overtight spring ready to be released, then realized it was a stupid, impulsive thing to say. He didn’t want her to offer him any tea!

  “Ishop, if you were counted among the nobles, how
could you continue to do your quiet work for me? That’s much more important, for the good of the Constellation.”

  To his horror, the maidservant raised the second cup to her own lips and took a long sip. Knowing she only had a few moments to live, and seeing a quick way to conceal his guilt, Ishop said, “But your own maid can drink your special tea?

  The Diadem primly arranged her hands on the desktop and pursed her lips as she pretended to consider. “Who knows what other assassination attempts might be brewing? General Adolphus still has many loyalists, and Enva Tazaar already turned against me, and Lord Riomini proved his defiance, and there was the bomb plot.” She shook her head, then looked up at the maidservant. “I can’t be too careful, Ishop—you know that very well. She has been tasting my tea and my food for three days now. Didn’t you know?” Michella placed a finger to her lips. “Ah, you were preoccupied. At any rate, it seemed a wise precaution. Adolphus’s traitors could be anywhere.”

  Though he cursed inwardly, he responded with a vigorous nod. “I was going to suggest a similar thing myself, Eminence.” Trying to appear calm while his intestines knotted, he poured his own cup of kiafa from the second pot, letting it cool. It wouldn’t be long now, and he would have to look genuinely surprised.

  The Diadem extended a document toward him so he could comment on a new clause, when the maidservant cried out, first a gasp of pain and surprise, then a loud shriek. She fell backward as if her spine had unraveled and knocked the tea tray to the floor with a crash.

  The Diadem recoiled from her chair, and Ishop sprang away from the desk. He made a point of dashing his kiafa to the floor, knocking the pot into the pile of debris as well. “The tea is poison, Eminence—and my kiafa, too! Don’t drink anything!”

  The maidservant writhed on the floor, her mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. Her throat collapsed as acid ate outward from her esophagus. Then her face sagged as the roof of her mouth liquefied.

  That could have been Michella. His disappointment felt palpable.

  Ishop hurried the Diadem out of the room as he yelled for guards. After a brief panicked moment, he also remembered to call for medical attention, just to show his compassion for the maidservant, but knew it was useless.

  “I will order an immediate investigation, Eminence!” He knew that he and Laderna had covered their tracks and planted appropriate evidence; none of the indicators would lead back to them, but Ishop was discouraged.

  Wheezing, the Diadem wiped sweat from her powdered brow. “Look into it yourself, Ishop. There’s no one else I can trust.”

  Maybe she would simply collapse from a coronary right now, but he knew he would never be that fortunate. She was a tough old hag.

  “I will get to the bottom of this, Eminence. Remember, Enva Tazaar is still on the loose, and you’re right—Adolphus loyalists could be anywhere.”

  96

  As Percival Hallholme’s battle group raced away from Hellhole along the stringline, he had three days to plan what to do next—but there were no decisions to be made, no commands to be issued, only contemplation over his retreat. And, worse, how he would report his failure to Diadem Michella and Lord Riomini.

  When he’d been dragged out of retirement from Qiorfu, he had not accepted this command so that he could earn glory, or because he had any thirst for combat. He had been satisfied with his career, content with defeating General Adolphus in the first rebellion. But instead of acquiring another bright badge of honor for his legacy, Commodore Percival Hallholme now had a large stain.

  The Diadem had been naïvely confident in his ability to solve the problem and clean up the mess. Percival realized now that he never should have accepted the mission, and instead should have convinced Diadem Michella of the magnitude of the challenge. His opponent was General Tiber Maximilian Adolphus, who had lost the first rebellion only because of treachery, not through any lack of command skills.

  In his quarters, with the lights dimmed, Percival faced his own thoughts, wondering if he really had wanted the taste of glory again, and he thought that might be true. The earlier victory in orbit over Sonjeera had seemed so hollow from a military standpoint, leaving the Commodore with nagging doubts about his own abilities. To help erase the guilt for his part in the situation, he had secretly helped General Adolphus survive on the hellish planet, when he felt the Diadem acted dishonorably against a defeated foe.

  This time, Percival had hoped to defeat the General in an honorable way—the right way.

  As the stringline hauler hurtled back to the Buktu end of the DZ stringline, he spent hours at his desk, writing and rewriting his formal letter of resignation. That went without saying. He had not managed to stop the rebellion as ordered; he had neither defeated nor captured the enemy. He had not recovered the captured Constellation fleet, and he had not rescued the thousands of prisoners of war. Or his own son.

  He had been forced to retreat.

  Percival had, in fact, succeeded only in damaging thirty more of the Constellation’s finest warships, rendering them weaponless. And undoubtedly that would embolden General Adolphus.

  No, Michella would not be pleased at all. He hoped his resignation would be sufficient, but he realized that the old woman might require his execution as well. He looked down at the letter:

  Eminence, it is with great pride that I have devoted my life to the Constellation and the Star Throne. And it is with even greater regret that I must end this service. My abilities have proved inadequate during the Constellation’s greatest crisis. It is clear that I was not the right commander for this operation. I will lend my support to any better officer who can lead the Army of the Constellation to victory. Regrettably, I am not that person.

  He signed it with a flourish, stared at the document for a long time, then sealed it in his private locker. Now that he had attended to the distasteful matter, he could turn his mental focus to the next phase of the operation. He was not finished, by any means.

  * * *

  During the three-day flight to Buktu, the best Constellation engineers worked at the damaged weapons systems, trying to cobble something together. All the primary batteries and controls had been melted into slag, but Percival ordered his chemists and engineers to build explosive projectiles from scratch. Be resourceful. Even customized catapults would do, if used properly.

  “When we reach the facilities at Buktu, we’ll find much more that we can use,” he said to Duff Adkins.

  “If the General pursues us, he will bring those aliens to attack us again. How can we possibly fight them?”

  “We can’t afford to have a face-to-face battle. The idea is to not conduct a military engagement, but to leave chaos in our wake. Buktu will not be a last stand, but a primary line of defense. We will prevent any pursuers from getting through. No telling what’s on our tail, or how far back they are.”

  He had met again with Erik Anderlos, trying to convince the hostages to cooperate, promising leniency when they reached the Crown Jewels. Percival requested an inventory of the planetoid’s fuel-processing facilities, the supply and fuel depots, and the ice cave settlements, but no one would speak a word. Percival hadn’t really expected them to.

  “We’ll do our best to map out the facilities ourselves when we get there,” he told Adkins. “Our demolition crews can determine how to destroy them all, and we’ll make Mr. Anderlos and his companions watch.”

  The Buktu captives were kept in well-guarded chambers. They would be taken back to Sonjeera, paraded before the Diadem, and no doubt used for propaganda purposes. In old times—actually, not so long ago—Michella would have exiled them to the Deep Zone, but that was no longer an option.

  When the hauler reached the terminus at Buktu, the pilot disengaged from the iperion path and moved to the repaired stringline that would take them back to Sonjeera. The old Commodore intended to leave nothing behind that the rebel General could use. As the first order of business, he sent a team of commandos over to the DZ terminus ring. The demolition
specialists planted their compact explosives and returned to the flagship in time to watch the detonations rip apart the docking facility, thus cutting off easy transport back to planet Hallholme.

  When this was accomplished, he breathed a little easier. “Now the General will have a harder time coming after us.”

  Afterward, Percival refueled his thirty warships and loaded all the fuel stockpiles he could take aboard the hauler.

  “Do we occupy Buktu as a beachhead?” Adkins asked. They were standing on the bridge of the flagship, waiting for the refueling to finish. “Reinforce our defenses here and use it as our primary base? We could bring more war materiel from Sonjeera and use this as our foothold into the Deep Zone.”

  “We can’t hold Buktu with what we’ve got, Duff—we have to get back to Sonjeera and regroup there.” He scratched his head. “It’s best to use a time-honored military tactic. If you can’t hold a strategic asset, destroy it and prevent the enemy from using it as an asset.”

  “We’ll all be happy to see an explosion or two,” Adkins mused. “It’ll ease tensions among the crew.”

  Percival smoothed his muttonchop whiskers. “I wish we could accomplish something more significant than that.”

  He summoned Erik Anderlos to the bridge under guard and made the Buktu deputy observe the demolition operations. Anderlos reddened. “You already captured us, and you cut the stringline to Hellhole. Why destroy it all? Are you just proving your barbarity?”

  “We’re implementing a scorched-earth policy,” the Commodore said.

  As they watched, one of the fuel depots exploded, then a second, and a third as the demolition teams triggered explosives from storage silo to storage silo.

  He never should have left Qiorfu. He wanted to tend his grapevines, spend time with his grandsons, drink in the tavern with Duff and tell war stories, embellishing them and chuckling when he was caught doing it. That was what an old military officer should do with his remaining time.