Hellhole Inferno

by Kevin J. Anderson

  58

  At dusk, the smoke storm engulfed the Slickwater Springs settlement like a dark blanket. Outside, the torpedo ants continued to batter the main lodge building, which had been built close to their previously undiscovered buried nest complex. The yellow illumination from emergency lights around the compound cast an eerie glow through the haze.

  Ishop felt trapped inside the building. Sophie Vence and the others hunkered down, waiting out the storm and the insect infestation, knowing they had to begin the emergency evacuation soon.

  Michella demanded to be returned to her bungalow, a uselessly shrewish complaint that made Ishop loathe her even further. Sophie brushed aside the old woman’s comment and instead found temporary quarters for them to spend the night. “The lodge will remain sealed against the torpedo ants. No one goes outside. Once the storm passes, the shadow-Xayans can drive the swarm away with combined telemancy, and then we can begin shuttling people from Slickwater Springs to the spaceport. Thanks to General Adolphus, we now control the stringline hub again.”

  To Ishop’s disappointment, Sophie reported the news that George Komun had been defeated and executed and that immediate plans for a planetary evacuation had been initiated, without hindrance. Before having them escorted off to their temporary lodge quarters for the night, Sophie smiled at Ishop and Michella. “Sleep well—and think of ways you can convince us you’re worth saving. We might not have the time or resources to get everyone away.”

  But Ishop did not sleep. The torpedo ants kept up a high, thin chittering and battered their wingless bodies against the mesh-glass windows in his room. Most important to Ishop, though, he was no longer under close guard. With the smoke storm and ravenous insects besieging the lodge, apparently Sophie wasn’t concerned about any escape attempt. He and Michella were locked in their rooms.

  A simple lock, however, proved to be no challenge for Ishop Heer. He waited, listened, and sat in silence until the quietest, darkest hour of the night. Then he broke out of his room.

  He crept through the dim corridor, studying his options, seeing lights and movement in the main section of the lodge, the comm chamber, the offices near the registration foyer. He grimaced at every small noise he made, but no one noticed him. Too much other activity was happening, not just the problems at Slickwater Springs but also the emergency preparations for evacuating the planet. No one cared about the two valueless political prisoners. Back by the rooms holding the two prisoners, everything was quiet.

  Yes, this was a perfect opportunity. He slipped along from doorway to doorway, searching, until he found a small maintenance closet. Inside, shelves held a variety of tools in disarray; shelves contained pry bars, chisels, a mallet—any one of which could make a useful and deadly bludgeon. Rummaging, he found a pen-size laser cutter, which he felt was much more appropriate, much more subtle, for his purposes. Yes, he already knew what he wanted to do.

  A few minutes later, it was even easier for him to undo the lock outside of Michella’s room. He opened the door very slowly, just enough for him to slip through.

  The withered old woman slept in an alcove on a window seat that had been converted into a narrow bed with a dimmed lamp next to her bed. Old Michella had fallen asleep, not while reading but no doubt scheming. In the shadows, she looked like a pile of bones bound together with poisonous thoughts—as if a snake had shed its skin and left only the form of this withered crone. The eerie light from outside was more than he needed for his work.

  He had killed many people, always through furtive means. He thought of how he had killed old Janine Paternos by slitting her throat in the middle of the night and then vanishing before anyone could find him. This was similar … but that sort of quiet and unexciting murder wasn’t sufficient for him. And it was certainly not sufficient for a hateful monster like Michella Duchenet.

  No, he needed her to feel terror, to understand what she had brought upon herself, how she had created her own nemesis in Ishop Heer. Michella wasn’t stupid, and his vengeful hatred couldn’t be a complete surprise to her, but Ishop needed her to know. He wasn’t the sort who liked to gloat, but he required a certain amount of satisfaction, for his family bloodline, for how Michella had demeaned him and ground him under her heel, but blithely expected him to be just as pleased with her company as before.

  He needed to see the look on Michella’s face as her whole world crumbled even more than it already had. He had to do it for himself, and for Laderna. Ishop understood that Michella was no longer a bargaining chip worth anything, and he had never been of value himself for a ransom or a trade. Now, with the asteroids coming toward the planet, with the smoke storm outside, the horrific torpedo ants swarming and pattering against the window, and not enough time for a complete evacuation, Ishop had no doubt they would abandon him.

  But he intended to see Michella writhe and die first.

  Ishop heard her fitful, troubled sleep now, but her face was turned away from him in the dim lamplight. Such a humiliating downfall from her lavish royal apartments back on Sonjeera, where an army of servants attended to her every whim. Here, she had probably been forced to make the bed herself. Poor thing! Ishop felt acid in his throat.

  He could not drive away the image in his mind of Laderna in her last hours, sealed in a quarantine chamber, tortured and interrogated, and then exposed to a flesh-eating virus. Laderna had placed herself at risk for him to eliminate the last name on their list. A Duchenet name. Now Ishop had to finish that quest, not only for the revenge he craved for himself, but for Laderna, too.

  Michella stirred in her uncomfortable sleep. Soon she’ll be out of her misery, he thought.

  Through the room’s window, Ishop could see the insects continuing to swarm in the hazy yellow emergency lights, although the smoke storm was dissipating. Next morning, if the shadow-Xayans used telemancy to drive away the voracious insects, he would miss his chance. He had to move quickly.

  Ishop brought out the laser cutter, adjusted its range so he didn’t need to approach old Michella curled on her bed … nor did he want to stand too close to the window. Smiling, he activated the cutting beam and etched a red line around the window frame.

  Outside, apparently sensing the hairline incision, the torpedo ants went into a frenzy, slamming their bodies against the reinforced mesh-glass. Their humming and buzzing grew louder, vibrating through the weak spot in the window.

  Throughout it all, the Diadem continued to breathe easily, sound asleep. With all the horrors and crimes on her conscience, it seemed impossible that she wasn’t haunted by nightmares. Or perhaps Michella Duchenet was herself such an abomination that the nightmares were afraid of her.

  Ishop held the laser cutter in his hand, leaned over her, activated the end so that it hummed and glowed, but did not extend the blade. It was close to her sinewy throat, the shriveled wattles of skin, tendons like steel cables. He hoped the cutter would be sufficient to saw through her larynx.

  “Eminence,” he said, “I’ve brought you something.”

  Her eyes flew open, focused on him, saw him leaning over her, but the shadows cast by the light from the lamp must have made him look distorted, like an ogre above her. She squirmed backward, sat up, as if ready to scream, but thought better of it as soon as she recognized him. He remained close, within striking distance. He held the laser cutter.

  “I wanted to see your face before I do what I have to do,” he said.

  She stiffened, looked frail and surprised. “Ishop, what are you doing? Have you found a way for us to break out of here?”

  He had given up thinking about a realistic escape, although in the turmoil after her body was discovered, he thought he just might have a chance to slip away, steal a vehicle, race away to a spaceport, hijack a ship. Not likely, but Ishop had survived plenty of unlikely scenarios.

  “I don’t think you’ll like the way I’ve planned to free you, but it’s what you deserve.”

  She blinked, lifted a scrawny hand, saw the laser cutter. “W
hat is this? Have you found a weapon? Can you fight the guards?”

  “I intend to kill you. You’ve always treated me like nothing more than a dog, someone you need—but when I need something from you, I am nothing more than excrement to be scraped off your shoe. I have noble blood, and you cast me aside. You made the other nobles ridicule me, laugh at me, after all I’ve done for you!”

  “Ishop, stop this nonsense. Put your toy away and then—”

  “This toy can decapitate you in an instant.” He extended the glowing blade. “I want to see you hopeless. I want you to understand the avalanche of hatred that you yourself triggered.”

  She seemed baffled more than terrified. “But I’ve always been good to you, Ishop.”

  He laughed. “You really don’t understand, do you? After humiliating me in front of the Council of Nobles, after destroying my dreams, you think a pat on the back can make up for it? After all your countless poor but ruthless decisions, I was the only friend left in the Constellation—and you spat upon me, too.”

  Michella now looked angry as well as afraid. “You are out of your place, Ishop!”

  “And you are out of time. I planned to kill you before, but after what you did to Laderna, I want you to suffer more than ever. I thought you might even be pleased if she slipped in and killed your hidden sister after all this time. But torturing Laderna to death, letting her rot and scream and die from a flesh-eating bacteria? For that, Eminence, I will take incalculable pleasure in watching you die.”

  “And you truly think I would have gotten rid of your assistant in such a way?” The old woman’s expression was calculating, hard. “I knew you were behind that scheme, Ishop. That wasn’t the work of a mere lackey. And I know full well how to control the people I need.” She narrowed her eyes, and her gaze seemed as powerful as the laser cutter in his hand. “You know me—do you really think I would waste a resource like that? Do you truly believe I would kill her when she might be useful to me as a way to keep you in line?”

  Michella moved slightly, and he tensed, but her weapon was her words. “Laderna is still alive. I kept her preserved on Sandusky. Don’t be an idiot.”

  Ishop was so startled he couldn’t stop himself from recoiling with the news. His mouth opened to say something.

  But the Diadem was already moving, like a serpent striking. She grabbed the lamp beside her bed and swung it as hard as she could. The old woman was impossibly strong. She smashed the lamp hard against his bald scalp, stunning him, and she was up, using her foot to kick his hand that held the laser cutter, knocking it away. It clattered on the floor, spinning.

  She swung the lamp again and pounded his head. Ishop reeled, now trying to defend himself against this unexpected whirlwind. He was a killer, but always a slippery assassin, not a direct fighter.

  Michella was shrieking. “Guards! I’m being attacked! Guards!” Even if they were just shadow-Xayan guards from Hellhole, loyal to Sophie Vence or the General, they would still come rushing in response to her shouts. Within moments they arrived at the door and threw it open.

  Michella had turned around, and Ishop was backed up with blood pouring from gashes on his head. Now she smashed him in the face with the lamp. Even as the guards rushed forward, the old woman let out a wild cry and shoved him, tripped him backward—and rammed him into the window that he had already cut and loosened with the laser.

  The armored glass broke around him, falling in many pieces as he, too, tumbled outside. Ishop scrambled for balance, but fell over the sill and crashed on the ground, dizzy and disoriented, his head roaring with pain, blood streaming down his face. And there were shouts from Michella’s room above.

  And then a buzzing, pelting sound as the torpedo ants came after him.

  Breathing hard, he knew he had to find shelter. He had lost the laser cutter, not that it would serve as a weapon against the swarm. In the pale gray light of approaching dawn, he saw the static of countless insects swirling in the air.

  Ishop tried to run, dashing across a dry, stony clearing in the rear of the lodge. He hoped he could make it to some other building, although the people here would hunt him down. Michella would reveal that he had tried to kill her—would they even care?

  As he fled, his foot broke through a hardened crust, and the ground collapsed beneath his weight. He tripped and went sprawling into a shallow hole. As he scrambled to get out, the hole widened, collapsing. Beneath him, the grainy dirt was pulsing … and it reeked with a putrid odor.

  The crater walls slumped, widening the hole, and the dirt squirmed and hummed. As he scrambled, trying to climb back out, he realized he was inside a buried nest of torpedo ants. They swarmed over his body, covering him, tearing him apart with thousands of small bites. He flailed, clawed at the crater wall, but the dirt continued to slough away, and he tumbled back down, even deeper into the nest.

  Then the writhing, whistling ants parted to reveal a huge insect head and body, a nightmarish, wingless creature that was as large as a man, and glowing with a faint blue phosphorescence. The queen of the nest … maybe the queen of multiple nests. A diadem among the voracious creatures.

  When Ishop opened his mouth to yell, thousands of smaller torpedo ants streamed down his throat, crawled into his ears and his nose, burrowing into his brain.

  Ishop screamed for much longer than he should have, but no one heard him with the exception, perhaps, of the queen and her minions.

  59

  Duff Adkins stood on the command bridge beside Commodore Hallholme, putting on his best face as the stringline haulers approached the General’s stronghold of Hellhole in an attempt to defeat him. Again. “The third time’s the charm, Commodore. It’s an old cliché, but appropriate under the circumstances.” The aide’s smile made him look twenty years younger.

  Percival could feel his own tension mirrored in his bridge crew as the fleet hurtled toward the target. “There’s another oft-repeated phrase, Duff. The definition of insanity is to do the same thing again and again and expect a different result.”

  Adkins chuckled. “But you’re not doing the same thing, sir. This time we have an indisputable advantage.”

  Knowing that the bridge crew was listening, Percival lowered his voice. “And yet, General Adolphus always finds a way.” For the benefit of his people he added more loudly, “But not this time. I’m sure he’s run out of luck, and we have a far superior force than we’ve ever had before. Mr. Adkins, please join me in my ready room. We have last-minute plans to discuss before we arrive at the DZ stringline hub.”

  Although he had no fondness for the music, the Commodore called for a resounding chorus of “Strike Fast, Strike Hard” to play throughout the fleet. That stirring patriotic refrain had launched his son’s abortive assault against the General, but Diadem Riomini had insisted on reinstituting the theme.

  The military stringline haulers now carried twenty of the warships he had rescued from Tehila, as well as fifty brand-new frontline vessels Riomini had built at the Lubis Plain industrial complex. Percival had been shocked to learn about the secret fleet. Such an operation did not take place overnight—had he been so oblivious in his retirement on Qiorfu? Had Escobar known what was going on? It struck Percival that the Black Lord must have been intending to overthrow the Diadem all along. Michella’s recent actions had made it easy for him.

  They were fortunate, Percival supposed, that Riomini had managed to ascend to the Star Throne without all that turmoil; however, those quiet and ambitious schemes only added one more facet to his doubts about Riomini as a worthy leader. Percival understood the law, and his obligations to the Constellation, but he also knew that loyalty and leadership needed to be earned. Diadem Michella had already caused him great consternation with her many unwise decisions. Back when she’d forced him to use dishonorable means to defeat General Adolphus the first time, her orders had broken a fundamental part inside him. He remembered thinking often that honor was like a crystal goblet—even if broken only once, it was still
broken.

  Though he would not speak ill of his leaders in public, Percival wrestled with his concerns that Lord Riomini was cast from the same mold, and might even be worse than Michella Duchenet. Riomini was not the type of leader who would inspire automatic loyalty. Nevertheless, Percival intended to score a final victory over the rival who had plagued him for most of his career. This would still be his personal triumph, no matter what the Constellation did afterward.

  After Umber’s administrator, George Komun, had guaranteed safe passage through the DZ stringline node, Percival wasted no time launching his strike. The military haulers departed from Sonjeera as soon as they were loaded with Lord Riomini’s battleships, launching with no fanfare, no drills. Time was the most important factor.

  By now Komun should have seized the Hellhole hub, but Percival couldn’t guess how long the inexperienced man might be able to hold it against the General. The Umber administrator was certainly no match for Tiber Adolphus. Percival had to get there in time.

  His fleet had reached the small planet of Umber, which was normally an insignificant stop on a list of unremarkable frontier worlds. Rather than establishing a forward base as he’d done at Tehila, Percival took only the time necessary to move the haulers onto the DZ iperion line. Then his ships were off again, heading straight for Hellhole.

  In his ready room, he took a seat and gestured for Adkins to join him. “We have to do it right this time, Duff.” He clenched his fist and looked at his adjutant. “We have to do it right!”

  “You will, Commodore. Even if he suspects we’ll be back, the General can’t possibly expect us so soon.” The adjutant called up models of a scenario. “In our best-case projection, this is what we should see when we arrive.” He showed an image of the DZ stringline hub surrounded by thirteen battleships from Umber. “We can anticipate that Administrator Komun will be able to hold the hub for a few days at least.”