Hellhole Inferno

by Kevin J. Anderson

  7

  Lord Selik Riomini rather liked the appellation people used for him—the Black Lord—but it hardly said everything about him. True, he traditionally dressed in black, and his house flag was predominantly black, and he kept a number of obsidian sculptures in his villas and manor houses. Yet, black did not describe his moods, because he was often quite pleased with the ever-widening reach of his power.

  The color black did, however, nicely suggest the danger he presented to anyone who dared to oppose him.

  Queasy from the spicy lunch he’d eaten, Riomini rode in an armored staff car that made its way from his Vielinger manor house, passing through an ornate gate at the western entrance of the estate. Black paramilitary vehicles led and trailed his staff car, bristling with weapons; his ubiquitous female guards rode alongside his car on high-speed cycles. Black flags fluttered on all of the fenders.

  Lord Riomini took a formidable force whenever he traveled from Aeroc. As part of his aggressive persona, he liked to let his enemies know that he could strike with great ferocity at any time. That was how he’d wrested Vielinger, the Crown Jewels’ only known source of iperion, away from the inept de Carre family.

  Riomini’s staff car passed through a military guard station and entered a fortified industrial complex, then came to a stop in front of the largest building. He had an appointment to meet with Commodore Hallholme, who was delivering prisoners he’d captured from the rebel world of Buktu out in the Deep Zone. Riomini intended to put those enemy captives to work in the iperion mines, but first he had an inspection to complete.

  Surrounded by his entourage, the Black Lord strode into the building, where he inspected an assembly line of spacecraft engines, where robotic arms fitted parts and performed quality-control tests. At Riomini’s side, the stocky facility manager rattled off details, while Anson Tebias, the Black Lord’s most trusted adviser, accompanied them, waiting for an opportunity to talk. In his mid-thirties, Tebias was tall and painfully thin; he made Riomini think of a stretched-out noodle, but Tebias was a very intelligent man, and he gave good advice.

  The facility manager said, “As you know, my Lord, these spacecraft engines are destined for the Constellation fleet, so we must make certain each one is perfect. It is generous of you to fund this operation for the benefit of all.”

  With a smile, Riomini said, “I’m only doing my duty for the Constellation, as any person of means should do.”

  But Selik Riomini harbored deep resentment toward Diadem Michella, who did not adequately appreciate his contributions. He should already be the next Diadem, but the old woman kept stringing him along, never fully endorsing him, toying with him and other candidates. At one time his main competition had been Enva Tazaar, but even after the ambitious noblewoman’s fall from grace, Michella had not embraced him. And she refused to retire … or die.

  “Excellent work,” he told the facility manager with a knowing glance at Anson Tebias. “Keep constructing the new warships. There’s no telling how soon we may need them.”

  Regardless of how Diadem Michella snubbed him, he would make assurances of his own.

  * * *

  Leaving the industrial complex, Riomini’s convoy was delayed on the main Vielinger highway by an accident between a cargo hauler and a transport bus. There were several injuries, and wrecked vehicles blocked the road. Showing no patience, Riomini commanded one of his armored military vehicles to push the wrecks and emergency vehicles off the road. He needed to be on his way.

  By the time he reached the iperion mines, Commodore Hallholme was already there, resplendent in his gold-and-black Constellation uniform as he paced outside one of five landed transport copters. Riomini had wanted to make a grand entrance to impress the old soldier; instead, delayed, he had to mumble excuses as he stepped out of his staff car.

  Though he was the old veteran’s superior, Riomini always felt intimidated in Hallholme’s presence. The Commodore’s legendary status and judgmental demeanor had a way of unnerving him.

  With only a cursory salute to the Black Lord, Hallholme signaled for his men to begin unloading Buktu prisoners from the burly copters. They had been held in custody since the Commodore’s return in defeat from his last engagement with General Adolphus, but Riomini had pulled strings to get them transferred here to Vielinger. Several hundred expendable laborers would come in handy in the dangerous mines. He would save on expenses by trimming safety margins. Better to put DZ rebels at risk than loyal citizens.

  As the teams of guarded prisoners were led into the main mine entrance, the Commodore approached Riomini. “The Buktu captives are now in your care, my Lord. I gave them my word that they would be treated humanely. Is there anything else you need of me today, sir?”

  The words sounded good, but the Black Lord found the old Commodore’s tone irritating, an edge that did not sound adequately deferential. Riomini waved a hand. “Go, and await my further commands.”

  Hallholme nodded stiffly, gave another salute, and hobbled back to his aircraft. The copter had already taken off in an efficient-seeming rush by the time Riomini reached the mine entrance. A tall Nordic man identified as the leader of the prisoners, Erik Anderlos, listened as the mine supervisor issued gruff instructions to the new captive work crew. Anderlos did not look pleased, although he grudgingly joined the other prisoners.

  The iperion mine supervisor, Lanny Oberon, wore dusty gray coveralls. He greeted Lord Riomini with a slight bow.

  Riomini said, “Work these prisoners hard, and deal severely with troublemakers. Feed them just enough to keep them working.”

  Oberon also looked displeased to hear the rough instructions. He’d been known to speak his mind and had kept his position only due to his expertise in extracting iperion from difficult veins. “The de Carres would never have used slave labor—they ensured the safety and well-being of the miners. But you are not giving me the budget or authorization to do that, my Lord.”

  Riomini said, “Our priority here is to ensure the efficient operation of the mine and to produce the maximum amount of iperion. We have to extract whatever is left in the veins. You seem to be forgetting that these prisoners are enemy combatants, traitors to the Constellation. By rights, they should have been summarily executed, but this way they can perform a useful duty to make up for their crimes.” Then he added, as a concession, “Any funds we save by using these prisoners will go toward improving the structural integrity and operating efficiency of the mines.” He looked around. “Where’s the maintenance foreman? That’s his responsibility.”

  “Jando Knight is on duty underground, sir, going about his rounds. Do you also wish to speak with him? I am in charge of orienting the new workers.”

  “No. He knows what I expect of him.” Riomini narrowed his gaze. “As do you, Oberon.”

  The supervisor was not intimidated. “I will perform my job faithfully, my Lord. No one is better at my job, and I’ve always been loyal to my employer, but I must also protect the welfare of my workers.”

  “Don’t forget, these are enemy prisoners—if they get a chance, they’ll cut your throat.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” Oberon bowed again, and trudged toward the main iperion mine shaft.

  8

  The large prison encampment near Slickwater Springs was surrounded by two high fences thrown together with construction wire and livestock mesh barricades taken from Sophie Vence’s warehouses in Michella Town. The holding area had been built quickly after General Adolphus accepted the surrender of the Constellation soldiers. Tents and prefab colony huts offered shelter but few comforts.

  Adolphus’s camp guards patrolled the perimeter in vehicles and on foot. Despite the guards and the fences, Bolton Crais knew that the rugged, hostile landscape of Hellhole was the primary deterrent to escape.

  In theory, it was only a temporary settlement, but Bolton knew the resolution of the conflict was far from over. He and his fellow prisoners of war had been here for many weeks already. It seemed like an eter
nity.

  Around him, the camp was a buzz of activity as he climbed the steps of a wooden frame building at the center of the complex. Though the structure was not quite completed, it was being used as a makeshift entertainment hall, as if the prisoners had resigned themselves to staying here for some time. They had access to movie and game loops as diversions from the tension and boredom. When finished, the building would be a meeting hall, where Redcom Escobar Hallholme would address his captive officers, and where Sophie Vence, as the camp administrator, would meet with Bolton or other camp representatives to listen to their complaints and respond to them. Two evenings ago, after a growler storm had skirted the valley and injured more than a dozen prisoners with static discharges, the officers had gathered outside the building, voicing concerns that the temporary shelter of the camp was insufficient to protect them from threats.

  Sophie made no secret that she resented the POWs and what they represented. She merely replied, “If our hospitality bothers you, maybe you shouldn’t have come to our lovely planet in the first place. I believe you intended to raze all of our colony settlements to the ground?” She was particularly brittle around Redcom Hallholme—with good reason, since his treachery had resulted in the death of her son and his girlfriend. “You haven’t even experienced the razor rain yet, or the spawning of cannibal beetles.”

  In times of tension, Bolton was the one who could speak in a reasonable tone, trying to make the best of the situation. “Nevertheless,” he pointed out, “we did surrender under promises from General Adolphus that we would be taken care of. Leaving us vulnerable to known meteorological hazards is not keeping us safe.”

  “You of all people, Major Crais, shouldn’t quibble about promises made or kept.” Sophie drew a breath, calmed herself with a visible effort, and responded in a lawyerly tone. “When the Army of the Constellation went to war against us, all your soldiers assumed the risk of unknown dangers. When we accepted your surrender, we admittedly assumed certain responsibilities for your welfare. We are doing our best to accommodate you in a humane manner, but don’t be so foolish as to ask that we build a fully secure prison complex to accommodate thousands. General Adolphus can’t be expected to provide more protection for enemy troops than he does for his own people, or for himself. Welcome to Hellhole—welcome to reality.”

  Her remarks had elicited a murmur of discontent from the officers, but the more Bolton thought about it, the more he felt she was right. Under the circumstances, the captors seemed to be doing what they could.

  With a sigh, Sophie added, “Your men and women have all the incentive they should need to do the work. When this large building is finished, it will serve as a solid emergency structure in the event of a storm. You’ll have to crowd inside during any crisis, but you should be safe enough.”

  Under a hurry-up construction schedule, only some of the windows had armored glass in them; the others were boarded up or covered with plastic film while the glass was manufactured. The communal building was sturdy, but Bolton was worried that the more permanence the camp had, the less likely it would be that the prisoners were freed anytime soon.

  Hellhole was cut off from the Crown Jewels, and though Bolton knew that the Diadem, Lord Riomini, and Commodore Hallholme would be searching for a new avenue of attack, he did not hold out hope for imminent rescue. And Keana Duchenet—who was still his wife, but no longer entirely human—had not offered a solution either. Bolton had joined this mission hoping to rescue her, wanting to protect her. That had not turned out as planned.…

  Now, as Bolton stood outside the communal building, he heard machine sounds. Through the open doorway he saw a POW construction crew at work inside the central hall, erecting and reinforcing a stage from which Redcom Hallholme could address large crowds. The Redcom had quietly summoned Bolton and several top officers to a secret meeting that would be held amid the construction noise, where their words would not be overheard.

  Bolton sat outside in the shade of an overhang while he waited for the others. A future garden had been staked out on his left, but the terrestrial vegetables and even a clump of ornamental flowers were not thriving. An unusual type of native blue ground cover had been planted around the communal tents, and at least it was doing well. Leaning down, he plucked one of the tiny succulent leaves and squeezed moisture out of it.

  With a wistful sigh, he remembered that back on Sonjeera, his wife had dabbled with gardening, manipulating indoor plants in their mansion like an orchestra conductor directing a performance—while their servants did the actual dirty work, as well as discreetly replacing any flowers that died, so that Keana believed in the prowess of her green thumb.

  Back then, Keana had been bored and oblivious, married to him due to an alliance of noble families rather than romance, although Bolton had cared deeply for her, and still felt that way. In those days, she never would have soiled her hands. But Keana had changed a great deal since then, and so had Bolton. So had the entire Constellation.

  Naïve and ill-prepared, Keana had rushed out here to rescue Cristoph de Carre, the son of her disgraced lover, but she had not known what she was doing. Hellhole had swallowed her up and changed her, joining her with an alien personality. Bolton had lost her long before that, but he had always hoped to get her back. Now, there seemed little chance of that.

  Diadem Michella, who seemed irrationally paranoid about alien contamination, had written off her own daughter, but Bolton would never give up on Keana. He still loved her, and had promised to protect her. When she went missing, he had insisted on joining Redcom Hallholme’s strike force for the express purpose of trying to rescue her. Instead, he and all the Constellation soldiers were trapped in this fenced compound.

  He hadn’t seen Keana in days. He wished she would visit him here in the camp more often. She had come twice since his capture, and he knew she still had feelings for him, but Keana was changed and overwhelmed with other concerns … undoubtedly alien concerns. He wished his life could go back to normal, but that would never happen now.

  As if summoned by Bolton’s thoughts, one of the strange Xayans entered the camp, accompanied by three human figures who glided forward, as if in a trance. Bolton looked up, saw the other human prisoners shy away from the alien creature’s long pale body, the strange flat face, the quivering feelers that extended from the smooth forehead. Bolton identified the creature as the one called Encix. The few alien survivors seemed intently interested in the pool of prisoners inside the camp. Encix had repeatedly tried to convince them to immerse themselves in the slickwater pools as an offer of freedom—an offer that no one had accepted. Yet.

  But he was much more intrigued to see the accompanying humans—converts who had immersed themselves in slickwater, acquiring alien lives. They were changed, different, intimidating. And one of them standing next to Encix was Keana.

  His heart leaped and he stepped forward even while other prisoners shied away. “Keana!” She looked at him as the alien moved forward on a long caterpillar body. Her eyes were distant, but he could still see his wife there, still knew she could interact as herself even though her mind was in a kind of symbiosis with an alien presence.

  A faint smile crossed her face. “Bolton, we are hoping to convince you—and all these other prisoners—to join us. To achieve your freedom. If you come to the slickwater, there would no longer be any need for you to stay in this camp.”

  His chest went cold. “I … can’t do that.”

  Emerging from the main command tent several rows away, Redcom Escobar Hallholme marched in front of two other junior officers, Lt. Seyn Vingh and BluCap Agok Yimidi. The Redcom flinched noticeably when he saw the Xayan, clearly wishing he could avoid contact, but Bolton realized that Encix was coming toward the central building with a purpose.

  The Redcom looked angry. “You are not welcome here, and none of my men and women will let themselves be possessed by aliens. You’re wasting your time.”

  Encix said, “That is because you don’t
understand the wondrous opportunities … and you don’t understand the urgency.”

  Escobar and the two other officers joined Bolton outside the meeting hall, facing the alien and the shadow-Xayans accompanying her. Anxious Constellation soldiers turned their attention to Encix as she proceeded along the dusty thoroughfare and stopped in front of the officers. Keana stood beside the alien, like an equal, but she let Encix speak. “Who will leave this camp and become one of us?”

  “General Adolphus made reassurances,” Escobar said. “We will not be harmed. We will not be forced.”

  “Of course not,” Keana said. “No one is to be coerced. We hoped you would at least consider?”

  Bolton’s heart ached, wanting to be with her, but he couldn’t leave his comrades, nor did he want to lose himself … certainly not like this.

  “You can go now,” Escobar said. “You have no place here.”

  They regarded one another in silence, and then the alien’s voice thrummed through a facial membrane. “You are the leaders of this group of humans. You are the ones I must convince, so that your faction assists us. This planet is threatened. You must see reason.”

  Keana added, “Encix is telling the truth. Your people have the opportunity to save this planet and save the Xayan race.”

  Encix said, “If your faction would accept the slickwater and reawaken more of us, we would have sufficient numbers to reach ala’ru.”

  “Why should we care about your strange race?” Escobar said. “You are allied with our enemy, so you are our enemy.”

  “The Ro-Xayans are the only significant enemy,” the alien said. “The squabbles of your factions will be irrelevant if the Ro-Xayans destroy this world.”

  “You have already made the offer. No one is interested. No one will ever be interested,” Bolton said. “I’m sorry, Keana.”