Hellhole: Awakening

by Brian Herbert

  “You’re not filling me with confidence, Major.”

  Bolton did not even seem embarrassed. “We also had a false bomb scare and had to evacuate half our ships.”

  He sighed. “More excuses. Has the perpetrator been caught?”

  “No, Redcom. Likely one of the General’s deluded loyalists causing problems.”

  Escobar tried to calm himself by imagining the size and power of the force he would eventually bring to bear against Adolphus. Then all the delays would be forgotten. “Once we get the fleet to the Sonjeera hub and launch to planet Hallholme, it is only a four-day stringline flight. We can wrap up this bothersome uprising swiftly enough.” His words were clipped, his voice angry. “The sooner we depart, the sooner we defeat the General.”

  Bolton looked away. “There’s … another snag, Redcom. The Diadem just issued a directive that we must bring back thousands of prisoners so she can hold a dramatic show trial. Our fleet has to be prepared to hold and control all those captives.”

  Escobar shook his head. Did she understand what she was asking? “I understand the Diadem’s need for a grand spectacle, but I don’t think she comprehends the difficulties of transporting thousands of prisoners!”

  Major Crais was all business, completely organized. “To that end, Redcom, I requisitioned large stockpiles of a stasis drug from Sandusky so we can sedate them en masse, and stack them like cordwood if we need to. It will make the prisoner situation manageable. The last shipment of the drug should arrive from Sandusky within two days.”

  A delay, but not a disaster. “Yes, yes. But when do we actually launch the fleet? That’s the only detail I really care about.”

  “Best estimate, sir—ten days.”

  Each answer disgusted him more and more. “A week behind the original schedule! I hope to conquer the General before he dies of old age. You’re losing credibility, Major, and sooner or later your noble friends will no longer be able to protect you.”

  “We’re loading as fast as we can, sir. Given the uncertainties of the engagement, we don’t want to leave behind anything important. If we take dangerous shortcuts, we risk high casualties. We need ample supplies so that we are in a position to impose what might be an extended siege.”

  “Extended siege? The longer we delay, Major, the more lives we’re going to lose because the General has a chance to strengthen his defenses. He’s got to be expecting us. In fact, he’s probably surprised that we haven’t already bombarded his planet.”

  “General Adolphus understands the complexities of large fleet movements, sir.”

  Escobar grumbled as he paced the tower’s observation deck. “If we struck faster, we’d likely need half as many ships to take him out.”

  “But we don’t want to take that chance. Lord Riomini and the Diadem don’t want to take that chance. Ten days, Redcom. You have my best estimate.”

  “And I’ll hold you to it, Major.” Escobar turned to the windows and watched one of the upboxes surge up its launch chute and streak into the sky. With a ripple of sonic boom, it vanished into the blue.

  * * *

  As Bolton Crais rode the lift back down to his office, he reminded himself that he had actually pulled strings to be transferred to this assignment. Bolton’s marriage to the Diadem’s daughter had never been more than political window dressing. He was realistic about that much. She had cuckolded him, flaunted her affair with Lord Louis de Carre until political backlash brought down the de Carre family. Even so, Bolton cared a great deal for Keana, though he felt more like a brother to her than a romantic hero. He worried about her, especially now that she had fallen under the spell of the rebels. And, possibly, the aliens …

  The Diadem might have abandoned her daughter, but Bolton still hoped to rescue her. He was determined to prepare the fleet properly so Keana could be saved. On his own authority, Bolton had added many key items to the fleet manifests, just in case; to avoid criticism, he had used his family wealth to purchase auxiliary life-support equipment, medical supplies, a pair of discontinued civilian trailblazers, even a cargo of iperion, to be used in the event of an emergency. To avoid drawing notice and a potential reprimand from Redcom Hallholme, he loaded the additional equipment aboard the stringline warships in innocuously marked containers.

  Theoretically, the punitive mission should last no more than a couple of weeks, but many things could go wrong, especially in such a large operation. He would not let the Redcom’s impatience force him into making mistakes. Escobar Hallholme was not even a shadow of his illustrious father. Bolton was convinced the new Redcom was in over his head—and they had not even departed yet.…

  The descending lift came to a stop, and Bolton stepped out, making his way into the military encampment. He organized his mind, monitoring all the loose ends that still needed to be tied together before the fleet could depart.

  Ten more days. Even that seemed unrealistic.

  3

  During a decade of service, the linerunner Kerris had followed many stringline routes throughout the Constellation, both in the well-traveled Crown Jewel network and out to the far-flung Deep Zone. Turlo and Sunitha Urvancik flew the small ship, maintaining the iperion path that made hyperfast space travel possible.

  Before throwing in their lot with the General, the two linerunners had always done their lonely work without drawing any attention. Now that the DZ had declared independence from the Constellation, though, the Urvanciks had to slip back to Sonjeera like thieves in the night. If they succeeded in this intelligence-gathering mission, they would help save Hellhole, perhaps even bring down the Diadem’s government.

  “And that wouldn’t make me shed a single tear,” Sunitha said.

  Turlo saw the hard expression on his wife’s face. Sunitha had large, dark eyes and dusky skin, a beauty that had not diminished as she grew older; her hair was still deep black, with only a few shadows of gray. “Nothing will bring Kerris back,” he said. “But at least it might help the scars fade.”

  At the beginning of the General’s earlier rebellion, their only son had believed the Diadem’s propaganda and joined the Army of the Constellation. He considered himself a patriot. But in the war, after Kerris witnessed unspeakable things, his initial patriotism turned to disenchantment and then to outright shock. He had died a “hero,” according to the Diadem’s official consolation note, but Turlo and Sunitha learned later that their son had been killed in an accident caused by the incompetence of his own comrades. The Diadem’s note had placed the blame squarely on Adolphus, keeping the blood off her own hands.

  Now Turlo believed Kerris would applaud their decision to side with the General. If only their son were still alive, he could join them in the fight for true freedom.…

  “I just want life to get back to normal,” Sunitha said.

  The stringline timer sent a signal chime through the cockpit, and the two became all business. Once they acquired the information from the loyalist spy, the General could finalize his defenses and set a trap before the Army of the Constellation came to destroy him.

  Sunitha leaned forward to verify their position as space traffic increased on the outskirts of the Sonjeera system. “Need to make sure we’re not too close to the planet, not too far out.” All the Constellation’s stringlines converged at the central Sonjeera hub, but any vessel on the interdicted Hellhole line would arouse immediate suspicion. Without giving Turlo time to brace himself, she disengaged the Kerris from the iperion path and they coasted in toward the capital planet.

  Officially, the two linerunners had been “lost” on one of their routes, written off as dead. If they were discovered now, secretly working for the rebel General, the Diadem’s torturers would make even their son’s lingering radiation-poisoning death seem easy.

  The best idea, Turlo decided, was to avoid getting caught in the first place.

  Once the Kerris was off the stringline, Turlo activated the spacedrive, nudging them toward Sonjeera. He merged into the flow of traffic converg
ing on the planet. They already had a fake ID beacon, which identified the Kerris as nothing more than a small cargo distributor. Nothing of interest to the authorities.

  Sonjeera’s orbit was crowded with transfer stations and holding matrices for cargo boxes. Some trade items and raw materials were delivered via downboxes to Sonjeeran markets, but the majority were shuffled aboard other stringline haulers to be delivered throughout the Crown Jewel worlds.

  Because all Constellation travel and commerce had to go through the bottleneck, the orbiting complex was enormous. Even with the Deep Zone lines now embargoed, the hub was a hornet’s nest of confusion. The disorder worked to Turlo’s advantage as he received clearance and an assigned dock from a crisp, impatient-sounding woman. “We may as well use our last Constellation credits,” Turlo said. “I want to pick up a case of Sonjeeran brandy. We can sell it at a premium to the DZ planetary administrators.”

  Sunitha raised her thin eyebrows. “Oh, so now you’re a black-market trader?”

  “It’s more festive to have them toast their independence with something other than Sophie Vence’s wine.”

  Turlo and Sunitha found the crowded observation bar where they were supposed to meet their contact. Panoramic windowports showed sparkling Sonjeera below, and they watched the passenger pods and downboxes drop from orbit, and stringline haulers hurtling in on the Crown Jewel lines. Watching the time, feigning nonchalance, growing nervous. When their contact was late by ten minutes, Sunitha began to perspire; she drank two servings of hot, sweet kiafa, which only made her more jittery. Turlo pretended to be aloof, despite the knot in his stomach.

  A thin man with short brown hair and protruding ears sat beside them, startling Sunitha. He said in a low, conversational voice, “Been watching you. Had to make sure.”

  “We’re who you think we are,” Turlo said.

  “Depends on who you think we are,” Sunitha added, flashing her eyes at her husband.

  Toying with crumbs and drops of liquid on the tabletop, the stranger drew a casual script DZ, a symbol of Adolphus’s rebellion, then swept it away with the side of his hand. He leaned closer. “The General still has loyalists here, even one or two planetary leaders in the Crown Jewels. Not everybody accepts what the Diadem is doing. Tiber Adolphus isn’t the only one thinking of rebellion.”

  The spy, Dak Telom, was a midlevel officer of the Army of the Constellation who had access to supply records and ship movements. “I came in from Aeroc yesterday. The fleet is still being readied and loaded, but they’ll be launching soon. They’ll converge here at the Sonjeera hub, then set off for planet Hallholme. I have the specific details—total number of ships, weapons capabilities, crew complements—and of critical importance, their exact departure time and transit information.”

  Turlo smiled; he could feel his pulse racing. “That’s what the General needs.”

  “That’s everything the General needs,” Telom said. “He’d better make the most of it. We’ve all got a lot riding on him.”

  “Yes,” Sunitha said. “We do.”

  Dak Telom removed a foilpaper packet of nuts from his pocket, carefully tore it open, and dumped the nuts into his palm. He gobbled them in a single bite and tossed the empty wrapper on the table in front of Turlo. “Take that with you.” Turlo looked around for a recycler receptacle, but the spy put a hand on his wrist. He whispered, “Molecular imprinting on the inner liner. The General will know how to decode it. Use that data to keep the Deep Zone safe.”

  Dak Telom finished his kiafa in a single gulp and left without another word while Turlo pocketed the wrapper.

  4

  Although desolate Hellhole was considered the worst Deep Zone world, Tanja Hu could see that frozen Buktu was no prize either. The remote planetoid had only a gossamer-thin unbreathable atmosphere, showered by a heavy sleet of solar radiation.

  All things considered, she much preferred her own lush, tropical Candela.

  Nevertheless, Ian Walfor and two hundred hardy colonists had made the best of things on Buktu, even though the small world turned out to be far different from what the original probe data suggested. They had built their colony under difficult conditions and not only survived but thrived. That was what resourceful pioneers did. Deep Zone people, independent sorts who did not need the choke collar of the Constellation.

  Every time Tanja thought of the corrupt central government and the machinations of the bitch Michella, she wanted to hurt something. Thanks to the General, the frontier worlds had finally broken free, and Tanja took great satisfaction in that. Now, if only they could hold on to their independence.

  Ian Walfor’s ships from the industrial yards and spacedocks on Buktu would help ensure that.

  Down in the Buktu operations center, Tanja met with Walfor inside a smooth ice grotto, where a porthole field presented the black starry sky and the pocked ice field. He sidled close to her. “I brought you here for the view.”

  “I can get a view anywhere.” She looked at him stiffly. “You brought me here to help deliver ships to General Adolphus—and also because I’m the only one who can negotiate for the stardrive engines you need.”

  Walfor gave her a roguish grin. “True, you can pull strings with Administrator Frankov on Theser, but my reasons don’t have to be all business.”

  Tanja had long, inky black hair, high cheekbones, and large eyes. For several years, she had enjoyed (and diverted) Walfor’s flirtations. He was an attractive man in his own way, with a weathered face and wavy black hair, and she did enjoy his company. One day she might accept his advances—when the Deep Zone was free and safe, and she could turn her attentions to romance. For now, her duty to the rebellion, and to Candela, consumed her.

  She had been hardened by many difficulties and tragedies, most of which she blamed on Constellation corruption and on the Diadem herself. It was a barbaric fantasy, but she often imagined the withered head of evil Michella Duchenet thrust onto a stake; then Tanja could relax.

  Seeing her expression darken, Walfor said, “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

  She drew her brows together. “Then these days I must be beautiful all the time.”

  He let out an exaggerated sigh. “We’re all in this together. I don’t know why Frankov’s engineers refuse to leave Theser. They’re like conceited lordlings forcing everyone to come to their court. How can they refuse to travel? Don’t they trust their own stardrives?”

  Tanja was also annoyed at the inconvenience, especially during a war. The brilliant Theser engineers supplied vital components, but no amount of coaxing would budge them from their laboratories inside the crater walls on Theser. Through her friendship with Sia Frankov, the planetary administrator, Tanja had arranged to get the shipments herself. She straightened, keeping her mind on the goal. “That’s a difficulty we can overcome,” she said. “In fact, it’s not even much of an inconvenience, now that the new Candela-Theser route is established. Trust me, it would take longer to argue with them, and we still wouldn’t succeed. Leave it to me—I can round up stardrive engines for your scrap heaps.”

  “Defense ships,” he corrected. “They need to be functional, not pretty. And we’ve got plenty of hulks here that nobody ever noticed.”

  Of all the Deep Zone planets, Buktu was the farthest from Sonjeera. Years ago, the original pioneers had made the long journey from the Crown Jewel worlds, theoretically a one-way trip to a comfortable new home, where they would be far from the Constellation.

  Unfortunately, the long-distance remote surveys of Buktu gave falsely positive images, and, after two years in transit, the colonists found only an ice-covered planetoid with virtually no ecosystem. Without enough fuel to return to civilization, they were stuck there. Though hardly a garden spot, the planetoid did have resources, and the determined colonists tunneled outposts into the thick ice, excavating cozy chambers where people could live. The large ice sheets were saturated with numerous exotic isotopes that could be harvested and used for FTL stardrive f
uel, long-term energy sources, and containment-field systems.

  Meanwhile, back on Sonjeera, the Diadem had set her sights on the many untouched planets in the Deep Zone, sending out trailblazer ships to open stringline trade routes, and to annex the worlds that assumed themselves to be independent. Also tricked by the rosy measurements from the original probe, Michella dispatched a Constellation trailblazer to Buktu. She was deeply disappointed by what she found.

  When the unexpected stringline ship arrived at Buktu, reestablishing contact, the colonists were surprised and disappointed as well. They had not wanted any further contact with, nor obligations to, the old government.

  After an uneasy nine years, however, not to mention great expense from the Constellation, the Diadem finally declared the Buktu route “not commercially viable.” She abandoned the stringline path, announced that the Buktu colony was defunct, and commanded Ian Walfor and his people to return to Sonjeera so they could be relocated to a more hospitable place.

  But the Buktu colonists refused, unanimously, and stayed where they were, even cut off from civilization. Incensed that Walfor and his people would snub her benevolent gesture, the Diadem washed her hands of these subjects—which was what they had wanted anyway. The abandoned iperion path was left to deteriorate.

  Meanwhile, Walfor turned the resources of Buktu to his own advantage, using the saturated ices of his planetoid to create stardrive fuel, and his engineers built repair and reconstruction facilities for the numerous abandoned one-way ships out in the Deep Zone.

  Michella didn’t realize it, but the Buktu colonists had done very well for themselves indeed.

  Even Tanja was surprised by just how successful the colony was. She stared through the porthole field and admired the operations. Outside on the glacier fields, large equipment trundled along the rough surface, chewing the top layer of frozen water and gases. Melters scraped off the ice and processed it into useful fuels. Bulbous tanks stored the residual fuel and stockpiles of valuable chemicals for transfer to the General’s war effort.