Adolphus pressed his lips together. This was a serious setback that affected the future of the spaceport. “I’ll send engineers to develop a plan. I’m sure they can drill down, breach the aquifer, and drain it into the basin on the other side of the mountains.”
As the three of them watched, the alien fluid retreated as if by its own choice, seeping back into the ground, leaving the cracked pavement dry. “If you can get the slickwater to cooperate, sir,” Theris said.
Sophie suggested, “Maybe Devon and Antonia can help?”
Hearing a rumble of sonic booms, Adolphus looked up to see the descending passenger pod. Theris used the codecall at his collar, and a flight director frantically transmitted revised instructions to the pilot, who altered course and guided the passenger pod to a new landing zone. Technicians ran across the field to wave in final positioning at an undamaged spot.
Adolphus brushed dust off the front of his shirt and stood ready as the passenger pod’s hatch opened. Turlo and Sunitha Urvancik emerged, and their expressions lit up. Turlo blurted out, “General, the Constellation fleet is due to depart in five days!” The barrel-chested man pulled out a wrinkled wrapper from a package of nuts, holding it between his two fingers. “Molecular imprinting: We have here the plans of the Army of the Constellation.”
Adolphus felt both relief and determination. “I’ve put most of our defenses in place already, but this will fill in the rest of the blanks. Now we have them!”
A stray breeze blew the wrapper out of Turlo’s grasp; he and Sunitha scrambled after it, snatched it from the field, and handed it to the General. “And, sir, there’s one other thing.” Turlo looked flushed and breathless. “The commander of the fleet is the son of Commodore Hallholme!”
* * *
Adolphus commandeered Rendo Theris’s office inside the cluttered operations building. He requested a precision surface-layer scanner from one of the spaceport techs and revealed the hidden intelligence files that Dak Telom had obtained. The General read the summaries and viewed images of the full Constellation fleet being assembled on Aeroc. He had every detail he could possibly need. It was all a matter of planning.
Turlo and Sunitha sat across the table, fidgeting but relieved. The General studied the classified orders. “This is beautiful data. More than I could have hoped for. Our response is going to require careful timing, maybe even more precise than our Destination Day announcement of all the new DZ stringlines.”
Sophie smiled. “You’ve done it before, Tiber.”
“Yes, I have.”
Sunitha Urvancik sounded hopeful. “So this is enough to help us defend the DZ?”
“Oh, better than that.” He gave the two linerunners a warm smile. “In a single maneuver, we’re going to defeat the Army of the Constellation—and you two will play important roles.”
9
When the Diadem’s fleet finally launched for the Sonjeera hub, Redcom Escobar Hallholme made certain that satellite images and ground-based cameras captured the spectacle. If this operation succeeded—and it would—his name was going to be as prominent in the historical records as his father’s. At last, a measure of well-deserved respect. His entire career had existed in the shadow of expectations.
In a gold-and-black Constellation uniform, he stood on the bridge of his flagship, Diadem’s Glory, which was clamped with nineteen other warships in the framework of the stringline hauler. He wished his father could have been there to observe the fleet’s departure; such a gesture of support would have meant a great deal to Escobar, but the old man had bowed out, choosing to remain at the family estate on Qiorfu.
On further consideration, Escobar thought the Commodore might have done him a courtesy by staying away. The doddering war hero would have stolen all the attention from his son.…
“Our ships are secured in docking clamps, Redcom,” said Lieutenant Aura Cristaine, the flagship’s first officer. “Stringline engines are primed for departure. The five haulers are ready to leave the Aeroc terminus.”
Drawing a deep breath, Escobar nodded. “I want the haulers to arrive one after the other at Sonjeera—it’ll be quite a spectacle. Consider it a practice for when we sweep in to planet Hallholme.”
Lieutenant Cristaine tapped her earadio. “Yes, Redcom. Each hauler pilot acknowledges.”
He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, conscious of the imagers recording every moment. “Departure is hereby authorized. We won’t give the General’s rebellion another day to gather momentum.”
He looked out the broad forward screen of the Diadem’s Glory, but the view was cluttered with warships arrayed in the framework. The five large military haulers began to move out from the Aeroc terminus ring, one after another, lining up on the iperion path for Sonjeera. The short trip to the Constellation’s capital world would take only three hours, whereupon the officers would attend a special ceremony hosted by the Diadem: more politics, more showmanship … and more delays.
From one side of the bridge, not quite unobtrusive, Gail Carrington watched his every move. At the last minute, the hard-looking woman had been assigned to the flagship as a special observer, a mysterious officer of classified rank. Escobar had known nothing about it in advance, but since she was here by explicit order of Lord Riomini, he was powerless to challenge her presence. The woman’s intense blue eyes observed the operations as if looking for a weak spot, filing away every detail. Escobar tried to ignore her.
Major Bolton Crais was a much easier man to ignore. Escobar had little respect for the rich nobleman with no real military experience, a man who had been blatantly cuckolded, yet didn’t seem to mind! As a logistics officer, Crais’s weapon of choice was a database and a calculator, and his bravery probably extended no farther than taking an unauthorized break during a warehouse inventory.
As a detail-oriented accountant and supply staff officer, the major did possess vital skills for such a large operation, but his meticulous preparations had delayed the fleet’s departure for days, to no visible effect. Once the hundred ships were loaded and ready for the main thrust, Escobar had expected Crais to sit on the sidelines. Crais did not need to go on this military operation, yet he insisted on coming. The befuddled man was worried about his wife, Keana (more than the Diadem herself seemed to be), but the battle might get ugly. Escobar could not guarantee the safety of the Diadem’s daughter. Those weren’t his orders. Crushing the enemy was the most important thing. He hoped this desk officer would let military professionals take care of the crisis and not get in the way.
As the five haulers began the journey to Sonjeera, Escobar considered the military might at his fingertips: weapons, squadrons of fighter craft, thousands of fighters and support crew—enough firepower to overthrow the upstart General, as well as an occupation army to take over the illegal stringline hub and impose the Diadem’s rule throughout the Deep Zone.
The General must know that Diadem Michella would retaliate, but Escobar doubted the rebel leader would anticipate such an overwhelming military assault. The five haulers would arrive like a thunderclap; the hundred large battleships and frigates would disengage while unleashing thousands of smaller fighter craft. An invincible, overwhelming strike!
It would be over so quickly that Escobar hoped he’d have a chance to relish the taste of victory. A faint smile curled his lips as he realized that someday his two sons would have to endure listening to their father drone on about his war stories. He looked forward to the day.
* * *
In preparation for the fleet’s arrival, all stations at the main Sonjeera hub had been vacated, and commercial traffic was placed in a holding pattern to make room. Civilian ships in the system flew about in a flurry of confusion.
Bolton Crais shuddered to think of the administrative nightmares caused by rerouting and delaying those vessels, but he supposed the chaos was Michella’s way of emphasizing the sheer scope of this operation to crush her rival.
When the five stringline haulers docked at the
main Sonjeera hub, Diadem Michella summoned Redcom Hallholme, Logistics Officer Crais, and for good measure the individual captains of the one hundred warships to come to the central concourse. She had planned, funded, and choreographed a send-off ceremony with nearly as much precision and enthusiasm as had been spent on the military operation itself. The invited officers wore dress uniforms and full rank insignia; Escobar Hallholme even carried a ceremonial military sword.
The old Diadem welcomed them aboard the giant station with a sweet smile and velvet voice. Bolton had been married to Michella’s daughter for a long time, and he knew that beneath her honeyed exterior, the Diadem was as cuddly as a fistful of broken glass. By contrast, Keana was naïve, filled with unrealistic romantic delusions. Her marriage to Bolton had been a political match, and they had never been right for each other, although he did understand her … even if Keana didn’t exactly understand herself.
Michella shook Escobar’s hand and, purely as a formality, greeted Bolton with the same respect. “Gentlemen, today you make the entire Constellation proud.”
Lord Selik Riomini stood next to the Diadem, dressed in a black uniform with gold epaulets and spangled with military decorations. He wore a serious expression on his patrician face and squared his shoulders as if competing with Michella over which of them could look more impressive.
The Diadem continued, “I call for you, my loyal commanders, to remove this scourge from our peaceful Constellation. Bring our prodigal Deep Zone worlds together into a harmonious civilization again! I declare this a day of celebration for all Sonjeera. Our citizens cheer you as their heroes.”
Inside the hub’s concourse, broad screens (normally reserved for displaying the arrival schedules of incoming vessels) showed crowds in Heart Square and in front of the enormous headquarters of the Bureau of Deep Zone Affairs. People waved banners, and with a curl of black smoke they burned an effigy of General Adolphus dangling head down.
During the weeks while the fleet gathered, Bolton had noted the increasingly heated propaganda. People in the Crown Jewel worlds felt the pinch as supplies and tribute payments were cut off, and Michella encouraged the unrest, so long as she could point the finger of blame at General Adolphus.
The crowds began to chant, “Strike fast, strike hard!”—a slogan the Diadem’s publicity crew had developed for the operation. This war needed to be branded to stir the people’s patriotism while teaching them how to think, whom to hate, and what to do when they were rallying.
The Diadem called four foppishly dressed bureaucrats whom she had assigned to this mission. “Allow me to introduce the diplomatic team that will accept the General’s surrender and impose my wishes upon the defeated populace.” She gestured to a jowly red-haired man. “This is Jackson Firth, one of the official historians of General Adolphus’s rebellion.”
Firth bowed so deeply that he must have trained himself with regular stretching exercises. “My team and I are ready for our duty, Eminence. We will bring closure to this tragic turn of events. I understand the psychology of Adolphus better than most because I have studied him for years.”
In a slow, even voice as if explaining to a schoolchild who had never heard the familiar history before, the diplomat described the chaos caused by the previous rebellion. When Firth talked, he was so soft-spoken that he nearly put the audience to sleep. Maybe he intended to lull the enemy into complacency, Escobar thought.
“My team has already developed numerous possible diplomatic approaches.” He turned to Escobar with a patronizing smile. “Red Commodore, we are available for consultation in flight.”
The diplomat finished without bringing his speech to any sort of climax or resolution. Bolton and Escobar both hesitated before realizing they were supposed to applaud, which signaled the crowds on Sonjeera to cheer and whistle.
Michella said sweetly, “Red Commodore, I anticipate you have prepared some remarks for the occasion of the fleet’s departure?”
Escobar had not expected to speak, but he lifted his chin. “The occasion demands it, Eminence.” He remained silent for a few seconds to build suspense, then drew the ceremonial sword he wore at his side, grating the blade on the scabbard. He held the unsheathed weapon horizontally, one hand on the hilt, one on the blade’s tip.
“My father, Commodore Percival Hallholme, gave me this sword. Though he could not be here for the fleet’s departure, he is with us in spirit. When he defeated General Adolphus the first time, who could have guessed that my father’s greatest mistake would be mercy?” He glanced over at the Diadem. “The same mistake, albeit a human one, made by Diadem Michella herself when she sent him into exile rather than executing him?”
Her expression pinched at the implied criticism, but Bolton saw that everyone listening was riveted. The crowds on Sonjeera had fallen into a hushed silence.
Escobar raised his voice. “Now I take up this sword and launch another fleet against our enemy—and this time I will not show mercy. General Tiber Adolphus and his followers will curse the day they ever heard the name Hallholme.” With a brisk snap, he thrust the ceremonial sword back into its scabbard and bowed before Michella. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity, Eminence.”
The crowds chanted the persistent refrain of “Strike fast, strike hard!”
Michella turned to Bolton, as he’d suspected she would. “Major Crais, would you care to say a few words? You, too, have much at stake in this operation.”
“Thank you, Eminence,” he said. “But I am here only to see an end to this operation, and to rescue my wife, Keana Duchenet—your daughter.” The words struck a chord with the crowds below, and they applauded loudly. Bolton muttered, although he was sure the voice amplifiers caught his comment, “This is not a festival—it’s a military operation. Our ships are ready. We should depart with all due haste.”
* * *
After the speeches were done, the five military haulers transferred onto the stringline to planet Hallholme. Michella had blessed her brave Army of the Constellation, and Supreme Commander Riomini issued the official order to launch. All according to the proper formalities.
Impatient, she went to wait in the hub’s private observation lounge with Lord Riomini. Here, free of eavesdroppers, they could be candid with each other. Normally, Ishop Heer would have recorded the conversation with a secret imager, but her aide had asked to remain in Heart Square, wanting to observe incognito for security reasons.
“It won’t be long now, Selik. After four days in transit to Hallholme, the fleet will secure the planet and seize the illegal stringline hub.”
“The General’s handful of outdated ships can never stand against an entire fleet of modern vessels,” Riomini said. “I don’t expect it will take them long. Then we can get back to normal.”
The five military haulers lumbered away from the stringline hub, gathering speed along the molecule-thin path in space. Michella tapped her fingers together and studied her rings before confessing, “I have learned a valuable lesson from this, Selik. We granted the Deep Zone population far too much autonomy, and they abused their freedom.”
“That’s the problem with ‘rugged individualists.’” Riomini paced the lounge restlessly, completing a second circuit. “When you opened the DZ to colonization, you wanted to get rid of the rabble, send them where they could cause no harm.”
She frowned at him. “Since they are obviously causing harm, that solution didn’t work as expected.”
The Black Lord ventured an idea. “Eminence, we should discuss the administration of the Deep Zone once this operation is wrapped up. For my role in the victory, I believe the Riomini family has earned authority over at least ten DZ planets.”
She let out a grating laugh. “I just gave you Vielinger! You also have Aeroc and Qiorfu with the Lubis Plain shipyards, and you command the Army of the Constellation. Curb your ambitions, Selik.”
His expression hardened. “When my uncle helped you become the next Diadem, your ambitions were plain as well.
”
She raised her eyebrows. “And why are you so confident you’ll become the next Diadem?”
“Because I am the obvious choice.”
“Nothing in politics is obvious,” Michella said, giving an indulgent sigh. “See that your man wraps up this operation cleanly and efficiently. Afterward, we’ll discuss the spoils of war.”
10
With all the distraction of the fleet launch and the wild celebrations, Ishop Heer seized the opportunity. He had nearly finished his list of murder victims, which was cause for his own momentous, although private, celebration.
Of course Ishop supported the Constellation efforts to destroy the monstrous rebel General, but his family name had been ruined many centuries before Tiber Maximilian Adolphus was born. He and his assistant Laderna had business to take care of.
As the Sonjeerans watched the giant display screens, Ishop slid through the throng like a shadow. He flinched as he brushed against people, worried about what sort of diseases the unwashed populace carried. But he focused on his goal. He would bathe thoroughly afterward.
A trio of noblemen stood just ahead, regarding the screens with haughty pride. “Strike fast, strike hard!” came the chants. Only one of the three nobles mattered to Ishop.
He had memorized the list of names that Laderna compiled, descendants of traitors who had wronged his ancestors seven centuries ago; because of those people, his family name had been erased from the list of nobles, and he had been born and raised as a mere commoner, denied his rightful social position, many hundreds of years later. For that, an accounting must be made.
He fingered the triggering mechanism of the tiny skin-colored weapon concealed in the palm of his hand. The central nobleman, Zinn Parra, wore a fine white suit with purple collar and lapels. Golden jewelry adorned his hands and dangled from his wrists. Parra probably planned to attend a gala ball that evening.
The man would never make it, nor would his companions. Ishop had nothing against the others, except for the fact that they had chosen their friends poorly. Besides, they were in the way.
Hellhole: Awakening Page 6
