Hellhole: Awakening

by Brian Herbert

  Parra had no idea what his ancestors had done to Ishop’s family. In fairness, according to Laderna’s obsessive research, the poor man wasn’t a bad fellow, as far as noblemen went. But Ishop did not indulge in sympathy. No amount of kindness could make up for seven hundred years of damage.

  In just a matter of months, Ishop would legally qualify to regain his status as a nobleman. The mandated centuries of exclusion would be over, and he could return to the fold, a lost son who had been cast out through no fault of his own. He had always known he was destined for great things. He belonged among the gentry.

  First, though, he had to make the proper accounting, cross off the last names on his list. Laderna said it was a necessary step in his own healing process. How else could he sleep at night? The two of them had been so exquisitely careful in their work that no one would guess, much less prove, their involvement.…

  When the military stringline haulers finally launched from the hub, the crowd in the square shouted brave curses against the rebels. Ishop had no love for General Adolphus. As far as he was concerned, the man could not be crushed swiftly, or painfully, enough. Ishop had seen the slickwater pools on Hellhole, how gullible people were affected by them, infected by them. The threat of mass insanity spreading to civilized worlds made his skin crawl.

  Ishop loathed both germs and disorganization, and this alien threat was far worse than any human disease. Fortunately, Diadem Michella recognized the danger and had sterilized the disgusting alien emissary from Hellhole, along with his horribly transformed companions. The aliens would be stopped, and the Constellation fleet would handily defeat General Adolphus. Ishop could be confident in the future.

  Now, first things first.

  On the screens, the Constellation fleet raced away down the stringline. Zinn Parra and his two friends shared a private joke and chuckled.

  With a quick, smooth motion, Ishop fired darts into their necks in rapid sequence, and then—before they could even swat at the unexpected stings—he shot a second, retractable dart into the neck of Parra, the actual target. When the dart came back to Ishop’s receptacle on its gossamer thread, he had the cellular evidence for his collection. The poison would take several minutes to paralyze the three noblemen, which gave him plenty of time to slip away and find a place from which to watch.

  The crowd shook fists in the air; friends and strangers clasped one another; women offered kisses to anyone nearby. Ishop dodged them all. When he reached the wide stone stairway of the Council Hall, he turned in time to see his three victims slump to the pavement, clutching their throats. Ishop hoped their bodies might even be trampled in the crush of people, which would further muddy the crime.

  By killing all three noblemen instead of just Parra, he concealed his real target and made it look like a random act, maybe an assassin dealing with some feud. No one would guess that Ishop Heer merely sought restitution for an ancient crime that everyone else had forgotten.

  At the top of the stairs he met Laderna Nell. From her smile he knew she had observed the full scene. Grinning, he let her take his arm as they walked away from the celebration, and he said, “Now I’m ahead of you, five to four. Not counting collateral damage, of course.”

  “You’ve lost count, boss—it’s four to four.” She brought a list from her pocket. “Facts are facts.”

  He scanned the names. “You’re not giving me credit for the Duchenet family. I tricked Keana into going to Hellhole. She is removed.”

  “But not dead. Don’t change the rules, boss.”

  He scoffed. “You saw the fleet that just departed. Those Constellation warships will turn Hellhole into a cinder, and Keana is already possessed by an alien presence. She’s as good as dead.”

  “Then you should give me part of the credit. I helped you trick her into rushing off to that planet.” She tightened her grip on his arm as she strolled beside him. “After all, I’m the one who found Cristoph de Carre in exile. If Keana hadn’t gone chasing after him—”

  “Very well, we’re partners, not competitors—we can share credit.”

  Laderna examined the list. “By law, the time limit is up in three months, and you are allowed to present your petition for restitution to the Council of Nobles. The seven hundred years will be over.”

  “Setting aside Keana Duchenet, we still have three names to go,” Ishop said, maintaining his focus on the goal. “Plenty of time to finish our work.”

  11

  Inside the parlor of the old Adolphus manor house—he simply could not call it his house, even after more than ten years on the Qiorfu estate—Percival Hallholme leaned forward, elbows on knees, enjoying the rapt expressions of his two grandsons.

  “And how could you fight back after the explosion in the weapons grid?” asked Emil, the older boy.

  “It wasn’t just an explosion, boy—it was sabotage! One of the General’s traitors had hidden on my own ship, posing as a crewman.” He puffed out his chest. “So there we were, hanging in space above Barassa, our warship facing off against two rebel vessels that had enough firepower to tear us to shreds.”

  “If you didn’t have any weapons left, what stopped them from shooting you?” Coram, the younger son, didn’t understand politics, tactics, or implications; at eight years old, he just focused on details of the exciting story.

  “Ah, but that was the one advantage I had,” Percival continued. “Their saboteur had destroyed our weapons grid, but we caught him and confiscated his transmitter device before he could send a confirmation signal to General Adolphus. We drifted in space, gunport to gunport, ready to blow each other up—but they didn’t know I couldn’t fire!”

  “So what did you do, sir?” Emil asked.

  “Why, I bluffed my way out of it, of course! My first officer had shot the traitor, and he lay dead on the deck, which meant we couldn’t interrogate the man and learn if there was more to the plot. But I sent a transmission demanding that the rebels surrender or we would open fire. They split up and tried to run away, but we headed after them in hot pursuit.”

  “But if you couldn’t shoot them, what good did it do to chase them?” Emil persisted.

  “I couldn’t let them think I was afraid of a fight, boy! We tried to repair our weapons systems, but we had to let the enemy escape, alas. But that was only one of many battles with the General’s rebels.”

  “Was there only one traitor aboard your ship?” Coram asked.

  “We found a few others when they committed acts of sabotage. We managed to repair the ship each time, and we prosecuted every traitor we could.” He shook his head. “Even today, I suspect the General still has many loyalists hidden in the Crown Jewels.”

  “But the General is far away,” Coram said.

  “We’re at war with him again,” Emil snapped at his brother. “That’s why our father went off with the fleet—to defeat him for good.”

  “And your father will do a fine job of it,” Percival promised, because it was what the boys wanted to hear. “You’ll see him on the news feeds.”

  Their mother, Elaine, hurried into the room to gather the boys. “And you both will be great commanders, too, when you’re old enough. You’ll wear Constellation uniforms, and you’ll be brave soldiers—but let’s hope no one ever needs to fight General Adolphus again.”

  Emil sounded disappointed. “Then who will we fight?”

  “There are always enemies, boys.” Percival meant to sound sad, as a warning, but the boys seemed to take it as a promise.

  Elaine smiled at the old Commodore. “You fill their heads with so many stories—how are they supposed to sleep?”

  When Percival shrugged, a sharp pain coursed down his spine, but he kept his expression calm. He did not like to let others see his ever-increasing infirmities. With his debilitating disease he no longer felt like a hero; he was barely able to walk across the meadows and down to the Lubis Plain shipyards, much less command a fleet in battle. “If the boys are going to bed, I’m off to town to see if I
can find Duff Adkins at the tavern.”

  Elaine scoffed. “You know he’ll be there.”

  She was a good wife to Escobar, a military spouse who stood by her husband, raised a family, maintained a household. She was also the grandniece of Lord Riomini, so the marriage offered significant political connections, although Elaine seemed happier here at the Qiorfu estate than back at court on Sonjeera. Percival liked her, maybe even more than Escobar did.

  The old man put on casual civilian clothes, swallowed a pain reliever so he could better hide his limp, and took a groundcar down to the military town that was adjacent to the shipyards. Because he and Adkins, his longtime adjutant, were both retired, and wanted to put their military service behind them, the men frequented one of the local taverns preferred by the Qiorfu farmers and townspeople rather than Constellation servicemen.

  Even after the Hallholmes had been their planetary administrators for more than a decade, the locals still looked askance at the elderly Commodore. He would always be seen as an interloper here, the man who had defeated General Adolphus. The people of Qiorfu had formed the heart of the initial rebellion, and they still had fond memories of the Adolphus administration. They knew how Tiber Adolphus’s father had been tricked out of his possessions, how the corrupt legal system had failed; they knew of the treachery that had caused the uprising in the first place.

  Percival didn’t want the forgiveness of the locals—he would never get it anyway—but he insisted on their acceptance. Perhaps in several generations the wounds would heal. Rather than gloating in his triumph or position, he treated the people with respect, greeted them rather than confronted them. Still, they didn’t seem to like him much.

  When he entered the tavern, conversation fell to a lull as the bar patrons looked up to watch him before returning to their own conversations. As usual, Duff Adkins sat alone at a small table. The husky man had thinning black hair, with a streak of gray on one side. He already had a large mug of local beer and a second one across from him. “I guessed when you’d get here, Commodore, so I had this ready for you. It’s still cold.”

  Percival took the seat across from his old friend, sipped from the mug.

  Duff Adkins had been the Commodore’s right-hand man for much of his career, serving as a sergeant during the rebellion and then retiring into Percival’s service. Adkins had accepted punishment for one of his friend’s early unsuccessful missions. (Percival had been appalled to learn that Adkins had planted evidence that cleared his superior of any miscalculations.) Later, when he was promoted to the rank of Commodore and sent out to defeat Adolphus, Percival insisted on having Adkins assigned as his de facto first officer, much to the displeasure of other officers—nobles and military scholars, people with credentials but no experience. He had demanded to have Adkins, and he had won the war.

  Percival had dedicated the rest of his career to becoming a better military leader and being worthy of the loyalty that Duff had shown him. But those days were long past, and Percival was weary from carrying myths of his military career on one shoulder and his guilt on the other.

  Both men wore nondescript clothes, simple shirts and trousers like everyone else in the tavern, but they could not hide their shared military background. It was in their blood and set them apart as distinctively as if they came from a different species.

  Adkins took a long drink of his beer. “The fleet should be launching about now, Commodore. Shouldn’t you be on Sonjeera, waving farewell to your son and cheering the fleet?”

  Percival sighed. He’d been invited to watch the departure of the strike force but had declined, much to the Diadem’s disappointment. He was less than enthused about a military parade or a speech. “Maybe I should be there, but my limp and my disease make me want to stay home. I’d rather the public remembers me from the archival footage, not as I am now.”

  Adkins responded with a sober nod. “You have been used for propaganda purposes over the years, sir. It was the right decision.”

  “We’re retired, Duff. You don’t have to call me ‘sir’ anymore.”

  He grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  The old Commodore leaned back, drank the sour beer. “I didn’t want to steal my son’s spotlight, so I sent my ceremonial sword instead. Escobar seemed happy enough with that.” He wrapped both of his hands around his mug and stared into it for a long moment.

  Percival had watched his son closely, seen the young man’s ambitions. He knew how Escobar always strove to be better, to make his own mark … and that often caused him to choose foolish paths and go overboard. Invariably, Percival would have to call in favors to salvage his son’s reputation—all without Escobar knowing about it, or else the young man’s resentment would grow greater yet. The old Commodore’s legendary status already rankled his son.

  Adkins lifted his beer. “Then let’s hope for success, sir.”

  “Success,” Percival said with a nod. He had sent a lengthy letter of congratulations to Escobar before the fleet departed, hoping for the best. But in his heart, he sensed that his son was in over his head.

  Worse, he was sure that Escobar would underestimate General Adolphus.

  12

  A day into the stringline voyage, Bolton joined Redcom Hallholme, Ambassador Firth, and the three members of his diplomatic team for dinner at the captain’s table aboard the Diadem’s Glory.

  The chef had prepared a feast: roast prime rib of the most tender pampered beef from the rangelands on Orsini. They had opened three bottles of Qiorfu wine from old-stock vineyards that had once belonged to the Adolphus family and were now managed by the Hallholmes. They relished the wine, not because the vintage was so fine, but because it symbolized what Tiber Adolphus had already lost.

  Jackson Firth raised a glass and said in his bland voice, “A toast to our mission, ladies and gentlemen. Through a position of strength, we shall impose Constellation freedom upon the Deep Zone. My team and I have already begun discussions about the next steps to take after our powerful fleet frightens the rebels into submission.” He nodded to his diplomatic companions with their frilly collars, wide sleeves, and impeccably styled hair. “We drafted firm responses to every possible thing General Adolphus could say. Be assured that we can make a ready reply no matter what he tries, so I am confident of negotiating a satisfactory settlement for the Constellation.”

  Bolton saw anger rise on the Red Commodore’s face. “I have run simulations, too, Mr. Firth, and I don’t expect him to survive the initial engagement. All day long, throughout the four days of this voyage, team after team will be in the simulators, running mock battles and setting up engagements. My fighters will be ready at the snap of a finger.”

  Bolton had helped to program the fleet simulators that ran the fighters through numerous military engagements. Because no actual battle had taken place in more than a decade, none of the soldiers had recent experience.

  “I have been monitoring the simulations, Redcom,” Bolton said. “I can present you with the scores, which may help you determine who is best qualified to command the initial attack squadrons.”

  “I’ll look at your numbers, Major,” Escobar said. “At the proper time.” He turned back to the ambassador, saving most of his scorn for the useless diplomats. “Though we have five times the projected military capability of our enemy, I will not assume that he can be defeated easily. General Adolphus is demonically talented, and it’s my job to anticipate any surprises.” He had raised his wineglass in response to the toast, but did not yet drink. Now he faced Jackson Firth. “Your job is to leave the military matters to me. Once I have crushed the General and taken thousands of prisoners for the Diadem, then you can tidy up your documents and get signatures from anyone left on that planet.”

  Bolton sat between the two, watching the tension rise, but Firth was a professional diplomat and not easily offended. “Very good. To be better prepared, we should discuss what concessions you would like for yourself, Redcom. Perhaps a fief on planet Hallholme once we conqu
er it? It would seem an apt reward for your service. I am certain the Diadem would allow it.”

  “I have no interest in that dreadful place. It may be named after my family, but I have no fondness for it. The Hallholmes have already taken the old Adolphus holdings on Qiorfu, and I don’t want to make a habit of scavenging the General’s leavings.”

  After the dinner began, Gail Carrington appeared in her black, insignia-free uniform. She stopped beside the captain’s table, saw that all the chairs were full, and waited for someone to rectify the error. Bolton summoned a steward. “Please join us, Ms. Carrington.” He added uncomfortably, “I never know whether or not to salute you, ma’am.”

  “Pay no attention to me at all, Major.”

  “Beyond observing, what is your role, precisely, Ms. Carrington?” Escobar asked. “As the fleet commander, I need to know.”

  “You already know what you need to know. I served the Black Lord for years as one of his most skilled special operatives. When I require you to listen, I will inform you.”

  She took the seat brought by the steward and waited for him to set another place; within moments, the staff had adjusted to the additional person at the head table. She looked at the lead diplomat with blunt dislike. “Lord Riomini objected to your assignment aboard the fleet, Mr. Firth. He gave me instructions to watch you as well.”

  Firth raised his eyebrows. “My team and I serve at the pleasure of the Diadem. Lord Riomini’s opinion matters little.”

  “He is Supreme Commander of the Army of the Constellation.”

  “And I believe he holds a grudge against me because I’ve voiced public support for Enva Tazaar to become the next Diadem. Lady Tazaar is the same age as Michella was when she took the Star Throne. Lord Riomini is too old with too much baggage.”

  Bolton watched the exchange, remaining silent. He had heard, in hushed discussions when no one thought he was listening (an advantage to being underestimated), that Firth himself had forwarded embarrassing evidence against Selik Riomini to the Diadem, thinking it would ruin him.