Hellhole (6 page)

When the flatbeds rolled in from the spaceport, Sophie directed the routine shipments to her warehouses where line managers would unpack and sort the contents. Though she normally let employees handle the mundane work, right now she felt as excited as a kid waiting for a birthday gift. As the flatbeds were unloaded, she searched for and found the hermetically sealed, well-cushioned box she’d been anticipating. Using the utility cutter on her belt, Sophie slit the protective polymer wrap.

Devon came up flushed with excitement. “We’ve got a whole tank of trout fingerlings, Mother. Our fish hatcheries have been waiting for those. The algae and weed stock for the ponds should be ready. Before long, I’ll be able to go fishing!”

Her heart went out to him. “Oh, Devon, I’m sorry I never took you fishing on Klief when you were a boy. It’ll be a great experience for you.”

Her eighteen-year-old son had studied records of their former home planet. He had only been ten when she’d taken him to the new colony in the wake of a painful divorce. She didn’t regret coming here, and Tiber Adolphus was a thousand times the man her ex-husband had been – but Devon had been forced to grow up in a much more difficult place than Klief, and this planet had little to offer a growing boy. Now that he was of age, Devon was a good marriage prospect: strong, classically handsome, and good-natured . . . and his mother’s wealth and influence in the colony town didn’t hurt. Unfortunately, Hellhole didn’t have many available women in his age group.

Devon continued to chatter. “Carter also snagged us a crate that was marked ‘Livestock Embryos.’ I figured we could use those.”

“We can always use livestock embryos. What kind of animal?”

“Goats, I think.”

“The meat isn’t to my liking, but goats survive here better than most other animals. At least it can be processed into sausage or jerky, and the milk and cheese is useful. Good job, Devon.”

The sealed container drew her attention again, and Devon helped her remove the rest of the polymer peel to reveal dirt-encrusted masses with woody protrusions – the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Devon touched one of the roots. “They survived the passage, but can they survive planting here?”

“So long as we give them tender loving care.”

Sophie had been waiting six months for this rootstock to add to her vineyards. She had already been producing red grapes, but if these vines took hold – if she watered, fertilized, and protected them from the harsh weather – she might be able to add a Riesling to her catalog. Tiber would love it; not because he preferred whites to reds, but because it was another mark of much-needed civilization – of
civility
– on this planet.

“I want you to take care of this personally, Devon. Let Carter and Elbert manage the other shipments in the warehouses. Tell them to hurry, too – the weathersats show a growler coming into the area this afternoon.”

Devon bolted off with more urgency than was actually necessary. She felt a glow of pride; he was a good kid.

“Excuse me, are you Sophie Vence?” came a gruff voice.

She turned to see a boulder of a man with a neatly trimmed dark beard, and a light blue pajama-like uniform identical to those of his companions, who stood together at some distance behind him. They were of mixed races, hair colors, complexions, and physical builds, but they all looked oddly the same. Sophie couldn’t identify the religious sect, nor did she care. Hellhole got more than its share of fringe groups and cults, an endless string of nuts, but the General insisted that all newcomers be tolerated, provided they adhered to certain ground rules.

She proffered her formal business smile. “Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?”

“I am Lujah Carey, and I represent the Children of Amadin. We require equipment and materials. I understand you are the best person to provide them.”

“You weren’t steered wrong, sir. What do you have in mind?”

“Everything we need for survival. We could not bring much when we left Barassa, so we liquidated all our possessions to provide money to buy the necessities.”

“This isn’t like a shopping mall on Sonjeera, Mr Carey. Although our manufacturing gets better every year, most of the big items still come in by stringline, and half the time we don’t get what we asked
or
paid for.”

“I can pay.” The man showed her an account transfer card that held an extraordinarily high balance. “Amadin will provide.”

“That’s all well and good, Mr Carey, but Constellation credits aren’t worth the same here. Our economy runs more on hard work and barter.”

He looked briefly flustered, then an expression of stillness came over his face, and he continued with persistent calm. “My people will need several large overland vehicles, at least ten prefabricated shelters, along with hand tools and building materials so we can erect our own permanent structures. We have food supplies, but we will need additional agricultural resources. You may keep the entire balance on this transfer card if you help us set up a self-sustaining settlement where we can live our lives in privacy and liberty. I understand much of the planet’s surface remains unclaimed?”

“Well, I could provide what you need, Mr Carey, but you have to understand how Hellhole works. No one can survive here on his own. Each person has a role. Everybody contributes. We’re a tight-knit community.”

The man shook his head, maintaining a determined expression. “The Children of Amadin came to escape the confinement of a secular society. We do not wish to be part of your community. We will honor Amadin in our own way.”

“And that’s your right –
after
one year. This should have been explained to you when you signed aboard.
All
arrivals to the planet Hallholme” – Sophie forced herself to use the planet’s formal name – “are asked to put in a year of community service, to support the colony. That year benefits all of us, including new settlers. After you put in your time, we grant you a piece of land and the resources you need to establish yourselves. Think of it as a safety net: we help you settle in, get on your feet, and take care of you until you’re ready to take care of yourselves.”

Carey’s voice became hard, suspicious of the offer. “We can take care of ourselves right now.”

Sophie had seen stubborn people before. Newcomers took amenities for granted, not understanding how much Tiber Adolphus had done for this place. When he and his men had been dumped here, Hellhole was a blank slate, raw and entirely untamed. Through his management skills, the General got water pumping, shelters built, power running, fast-growing crops planted. Against all odds, he turned Hellhole into a livable, and in some ways pleasant, place.

She drew a deep breath and tried one more time. “All of the colonists for the past decade have put in a hell of a lot of backbreaking work, just so there could be a town and a spaceport and
supplies
here.
We
made it happen. All we ask is that newcomers do a bit of work to make this planet better for the colonists who come after.”

“Colonists who came before us and those who come after us are not our concern,” the religious leader said. “We came here for freedom, not to be chained to a new overlord. We will pay whatever price you ask for our equipment, then we will fend for ourselves. We’ll thank you not to bother us.”

Most such groups who refused to become part of the community came crawling back to the General’s safety net within weeks. They simply didn’t know how difficult this planet could be. Adolphus could have cracked down and imposed a year of servitude, but he refused to be a dictator (regardless of how the Constellation portrayed him). In the majority of instances, the recalcitrant groups decided that independence wasn’t such a good idea after all, at least not until they had gotten on their feet.

Knowing that further argument was useless – and that someone else would sell these people the equipment if she didn’t – Sophie offered him three refurbished, high-capacity overland Trakmasters and a minimal setup to give his isolated camp at least some chance of survival. The blue-garbed followers went away to pick up all the items she had designated.

Sophie called after them, “Good luck!”

Lujah Carey refused to accept even that with good grace. “We are blessed by the grace of Amadin. We don’t require luck.”

“We all need luck here.” She had seen this too often. People didn’t realize what they were getting into. Whether or not Carey and his followers wanted it, Sophie would send someone – probably Devon – out to check on them in a few weeks.

T
hough Fernando Neron didn’t seem concerned about being lost in Michella Town, Vincent worried. A flurry of activity swirled around them: large family groups headed off to supply stations; loaders and flatbeds arrived at shielded warehouses where swarms of people unloaded supplies and stacked them inside; traders and shippers met their intermediaries; shops opened to display new wares; guests found temporary lodgings.

No one gave the two men a second glance.

Vincent followed him past buildings that seemed aerodynamic to provide a smooth wind profile. Towering greenhouse domes protected large-scale crops, while little waist-high domes served as flower gardens outside private dwellings – a way of defying the bleakness of Hellhole, he supposed.

They walked along a wide main street where the buildings took on a more carnival-like character, a succession of wildly different styles, some painted garish colors, others with statues or symbols sprouting from their sandy yards. The first building appeared the most welcoming, with block letters engraved in the wall, “Come join us in the truth.” The second building seemed more adamant, “We have the truth,” and the third said, as if it were some kind of debate conducted via proclamation, “Don’t be fooled by deceivers.”

Many of the churches looked like fortresses with barred windows and security fences. Hellhole seemed to be an irresistible gravitational force attracting many such fringe groups who found no place in the civilized, controlled Constellation. The media often mocked the string of ridiculous cults that came to this planet.

Fernando found it fascinating. “Look at that, Vincent – maybe we should go inside and talk to them.” The next building was guarded by a two-meter-tall sculpture of a lemur. Another one had a stern-looking turtle monument out front, which seemed more threatening than welcoming. “Aren’t you curious to see what all this means?”

“I’d rather take care of more important business first. Where are we going to stay, how will we get jobs?” He hurried Fernando down the street, past the main cluster of churches, toward large warehouses and busy shops.

When it became clear they weren’t just going to bump into someone who would tell them how to find lodgings or work, Vincent said, “Maybe we need to go back. We shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave the spaceport. The colony office would have been the right place to start.” That was obviously the safest alternative.

Fernando made a raspberry sound. “This is our big chance, and I don’t want to go backwards. We’ll figure it out together, make our own way.” He picked up the pace to emphasize his point.

Vincent remained concerned, despite his friend’s optimism. “Michella Town doesn’t look like the kind of place where somebody holds your hand.”

Fernando gave a sniff and strutted along. “We don’t want anybody to hold our hands. We came here to be independent and self-sufficient.” He shaded his eyes and looked at the structures up and down the streets. “But it would be helpful if someone could just . . . point us in the right direction.”

Until now, neither man had felt a need to hurry, but Vincent realized that the colony settlement was rapidly turning into a ghost town as people scurried inside and closed doors and shutters. “Where’s everybody going? I don’t like the looks of this.”

As the crowds dwindled, he spotted the young woman from the passenger pod. Antonia Anqui appeared forlorn and shell-shocked, as if the reality of her situation had just sunk in. She met Vincent’s gaze, then pretended to be studying one of the nondescript thick-walled buildings. But the door was closed, and metal shutters sealed the windows.

Fernando waved to her. “Hi there! Looks like we’re all in the same boat.”

Antonia’s brows drew together. “I think we’ve fallen through the cracks.”

“At least nobody’s bothering us or telling us what to do.” Fernando lifted his chin. “Stick with Vincent and me, and we’ll get through this.”

Vincent frowned. “Not that
we
know what to do. The Constellation didn’t prepare us for this.”

Fernando made a raspberry sound again. “Oh, they stopped giving a damn about us as soon as they put us on the stringline ship. Sink or swim. Survival of the fittest. Fine with me – we can take care of ourselves.”

Antonia gave a silent nod of agreement. Despite his friend’s good cheer, Vincent suspected Fernando was hiding something from his past, and maybe Antonia was, too. Most people who came to Hellhole probably had dark marks on their records; he certainly did.

While they were discussing options, Michella Town became oddly still. Restaurants and drinking establishments, which had been wide open only minutes before, now closed their doors, drew down their awnings, and closed their shutters as tightly as blast shields. A few stragglers moved about with seeming urgency, rushing inside.

“Must be afternoon siesta.” Fernando let out a nervous laugh. “Seems like they’d lose a lot of business.”

Antonia looked around. “Or maybe they know something we don’t.”

Fernando sighed. “As soon as those shops open up again, I’m going to look for a survival guide. Do either of you have any credits I could use? I, uh, still need to open an account at one of the local financial institutions.”

Before Vincent could answer, a low, warbling sound echoed through the town, a mournful siren that built in volume. “What is that?”

Antonia’s dark eyes grew round. “Something bad.”

“I don’t like this.” Vincent looked up and down the deserted streets, watched a last few people duck inside buildings and seal the doors. Several of the lower structures began to hum and actually folded themselves closer to the ground to reduce their wind profile.