Hellhole (65 page)

“If we succeed, such desperate measures will not be necessary,” Zairic said. “I believe there are always solutions. Even in the face of our race’s imminent extinction, I found a solution.”

The General reached out to shake his hand. Fernando-Zairic’s grip was limp now, as if he still hadn’t become accustomed to the rigidity of bones. “Go ahead, then. Maybe you can pull off a miracle and make the Diadem see reason.” In his heart, though, he thought it was a fool’s errand.

After taking his leave of Slickwater Springs and returning to his job as a topographical prospector, Vincent Jenet spent most of his time alone in the wilderness, mapping blank grid squares from his Trakmaster. He remained blissfully unaware of news and politics from the rest of the Constellation. The open landscape was his comfort, and he enjoyed being alone. He found it fulfilling.

Returning to Michella Town from a weeks-long expedition, he learned from the agitated people on the streets what had happened. So much had changed in only a month! Hellhole and all of the Deep Zone had broken away from the Crown Jewels, and soon enough they might actually be at war. And he had thought Hellhole was so far from the heart of politics that no one would care about it one way or another.

In town, when he heard about the eleventh-hour peace mission Fernando intended to undertake, Vincent thought it sounded entirely unlike anything his fast-talking friend would do. It also sounded like a very bad idea.

Since the party of shadow-Xayan peacemakers had not yet departed on their hare-brained mission, Vincent hurried to the spaceport to locate them; he probably wouldn’t be able to talk Fernando out of going, but at least he hoped for a chance to say goodbye.

At the spaceport, he met crowds of annoyed and terrified offworlders who desperately wanted to get away from Hellhole, but all travel had been restricted. An impounded stringline hauler remained docked at the old terminus, its female captain taken captive and placed in detention on the planet’s surface. No one else was allowed to leave. The passenger pod containing Fernando and his emissaries would be the only vessel allowed to depart Hellhole for the time being.

Vincent finally spotted Fernando-Zairic and three placid human converts wearing comfortable clothes made from the red weed. While their features were human, their demeanor was strikingly different from the others in the crowd. Moving ponderously but with a liquid grace, the Original alien Cippiq had come to the spaceport, showing himself openly now that the secret was out. He was an object of awe among the spectators. Cippiq had volunteered to accompany the group to Sonjeera, to show the whole Constellation that the Xayans were real.

Vincent ran up to his old friend. “Fernando! I’m glad I got here in time to say goodbye – and maybe talk some sense into you. What do you think you’re doing? Can’t someone else go?” The whole idea of this expedition to Sonjeera gave him a sense of foreboding.

Fernando brightened upon seeing him. “You worry too much, as always! But you don’t have to say goodbye.” He raised his chin and spoke impulsively. “I want you to go with me. Come on! You and I were a great team. We have plenty of room on the passenger pod, and you can help me.”

Vincent was taken aback by the comment. “Help you? How?”

“We have other shadow-Xayans and one of the Originals, but we need an objective human representative as well, to give unbiased perspectives. You can speak to the Sonjeerans as someone who’s seen the slickwater pools and knows us. And because you aren’t a convert, the Diadem can’t accuse you of being brainwashed.”

Vincent’s pulse raced. He didn’t like this at all. “I’m sure the General could find a more qualified person among all these people clamoring to get off the planet.”

“But you have my recommendation, and that trumps everything else. What did you have planned for the next several days?”

“I was going to map another grid square . . .”

“It’ll still be there when we get back.” Fernando took his arm, talking him into the plan, as he had talked Vincent into so many other ill-advised decisions.

“I’m still not sure it’s a good idea.” Vincent had never expected to leave Hellhole again, but he realized that he did want to accompany his old friend, to help Fernando remain in touch with his human side, if nothing else. “You really think I can help you?”

“Maybe. And you know me – I’ll probably get in trouble without you. This is another big adventure, and I’d rather have you there. Just go along for the ride if you want. Do it out of friendship.”

Because it was obvious that it was truly Fernando twisting his arm, not the aloof Xayan leader, Vincent made up his mind. “I can do that.”

“Besides,” Fernando said with a wink, “I’m not convinced Zairic is prepared for meeting with Diadem Michella.” Abruptly his voice changed, and Vincent saw a glimmer of the debate going on inside the other man’s head. “I will not be easily fooled or out-debated. Once I explain the significance of
ala’ru
, the people of the Constellation will put aside their war and join us. We all stand to benefit.”

Vincent shook his head, now fully convinced that he
had
to go along. This group reminded him of starry-eyed missionaries heading into hostile territory with more faith than common sense. Maybe he could add a more compelling perspective to their position, a human perspective. Or at least he could keep them safe.

“Yes, I’d like to go with you,” he said. “If the General gives his approval.”

“The human goes with us,” Cippiq said, ending the discussion.

W
hile responses and plans hurtled back and forth along the new stringline connections, Ian Walfor remained at Hellhole’s new, independent spaceport. His own people could do without him for the time being. They were probably the safest in the whole Deep Zone; since Michella herself had abandoned the stringline to Buktu and couldn’t send her military there even if she wanted to.

General Adolphus had made his announcement, and without a doubt, the shit was going to hit the fan. It was imperative that the DZ stringline network succeed. Right now, test ships were returning from the last of the new routes, demonstrating the viability of the entire network.

Administrator Rendo Theris was doing his best to manage operations at Ankor, but the responsibilities had begun to overwhelm him. Walfor, though, was perfectly comfortable with the operations, and he decided to assist the man. Theris didn’t seem to mind him looking over his shoulder as a double-check.

In the afternoon, the two men inspected the mechanism for launching upboxes and passenger pods to the orbiting hub. An engineer by training, rather than an administrator, Theris had a knack for troubleshooting. Based on a slight drop in the efficiency of the fuel cubes, he sniffed out a hidden reaction-chamber crack. Teams of workers promptly made repairs.

Though relieved that they had caught the problem before a disaster could happen, Walfor studied the error with razor-sharp suspicion. If a passenger pod or upbox exploded and damaged the orbiting hub, the General’s plan would be severely compromised – just the sort of sabotage a Constellation operative might plan. However, after studying the matter carefully, they concluded that the flaw was exactly what it seemed.

Just to be sure, he and Theris conducted a thorough ground inspection of the launch and receiving facilities, alert for additional problems. Everything seemed to be fine. Back inside the admin tower, Walfor took a seat at his borrowed desk to read the reports trickling in from the other DZ worlds: linerunners checking substations, new vessels arriving at Hellhole from all across the Deep Zone. Back on Buktu, Walfor’s crew was adapting their FTL ships for interplanetary commerce as well as defense of the independent frontier worlds. The scope was breathtaking.

Theris interrupted his thoughts with a loud yelp. “What the hell is that?”

Around the tower room, scanscreens from the numerous orbiting surveillance satellites showed a flurry of blips that indicated large objects converging in the sky over Ankor. The blips flew in an odd, squared-off formation and at remarkable speed.

Racing to the perimeter scan panels, Walfor shouldered one of the techs aside and enhanced the images. He zoomed in on the undersides of the strange craft to display hulls of textured, coppery metal with several segments that glowed red. Static flurried across the screens. Long-distance analytical equipment in the tower blanked out. Sparks sprayed out of one console, while workers cursed at their stations.

“That’s a damned powerful scan!” Theris shouted.

“I don’t recognize those craft,” Walfor said. He and his engineers had stripped and rebuilt just about every kind of vessel that had ever been used out here. “Are they Constellation vessels? How did they get here? Any activity on the old Sonjeera stringline?”

“None, sir!” one of the techs called out. “I don’t know where they came from.”

Without consulting the administrator, Walfor activated the defenses the General had installed to protect both the launch site and the orbiting hub. The weaponry had been designed to thwart spies or unexpected visitors, not to repel a full-fledged military assault. Though the strange ships had not yet opened fire, he triggered the automated systems. His weapons sprayed wide arcs of color across the sky. Supersonic projectiles screamed toward the intruders.

As urgent alarms went off at the Ankor site, the grouping of odd ships tilted for an instant, moving like a linked flock of birds. They neatly dodged every one of the incoming projectiles, not even breaking formation, before the blips streaked away to vanish in a blur.

“What were those ships and what did they want?” Theris asked. “Walfor, have you ever seen anything like that? They were off – stringline!”

It didn’t make sense to him either, but Walfor understood well enough what he had seen. “They were gathering details on this spaceport. I think we just witnessed the Constellation’s first move.”

“
A
ll those old warships gone from Lubis Plain,” the retired Commodore said with a sigh, as if he had been disappointed to see them go. For the past several years, the old man had often stood on the edge of the field just to look at all the hulls glinting in the sunlight, lost in his memories. Now that he and his son had traveled to the Black Lord’s world of Aeroc, he was still obsessed with the antique warships. “You did a very creditable job of getting them spaceworthy again and shipping them out to the Deep Zone, Escobar. You’ve proved yourself, son.”

“And good riddance to them,” Escobar said. “Though Governor Goler has apparently sided with the General, according to that Ridgetop Recovery confession he transmitted. He already cheated on his tribute – the shipment
I
delivered to Sonjeera.” The younger officer ground his teeth together. “What if Goler turns those ships against the Constellation? Then the error could reflect on me.”

Percival just shrugged. “That’s none of your concern. The rightful territorial governor certified the shipment. You will not be held responsible because another man lied. You had your orders, son, and you followed them impeccably. Most impressive.”

Escobar took heart, but he remained guarded. “Do you think my work was good enough for Lord Riomini to notice, sir? He’s going to need a point man in his operations against the Deep Zone . . . unless he wants to take command himself.” Escobar was reluctant to have his wife send a cheery note to her grand-uncle, along with a subtle hint about her husband, but he was considering it. With the General causing trouble again, Escobar might never have another chance like this.

Dressed in his trim modern uniform, he stood with his father at a tram station on the Riomini homeworld of Aeroc, overlooking a vast trampled prairie where the largest divisions of the Constellation strike force were being assembled and readied for combat, as the Diadem had ordered. Percival Hallholme wore his customary old uniform; though he had not seen active duty for years, he did not feel comfortable in casual civilian clothes.

“Oh, the Black Lord won’t want to get his hands dirty, son. He may eventually take the credit if the operation is successful, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he selected you for the front lines.” The retired Commodore made a tsk-tsk sound. “You’ve always wanted to go into battle, haven’t you?”

Escobar flinched, wary of encouraging another one of the old man’s stories. “I had a brief taste when I led the Vielinger occupation. Some of the locals were quite incensed, and there could have been violent resistance. I ensured that the people remained calm – and the iperion mines didn’t miss a day of production during the changeover. Lord Riomini noticed that, I’m sure.”

“Ah,” said Percival. He had a way of annoying his son even when he said nothing or very little.

The Black Lord had just promoted Escobar to the rank of Red Commodore, or Redcom, putting him on track toward ultimately becoming a full Commodore. Escobar felt pleased to be called to the Aeroc training grounds to assist in the preparations against General Adolphus. If he ever hoped to match (or exceed) the old man’s illustrious war record, this was his chance to prove himself . . . or it would forever be said that he could not measure up. When he departed from the old Adolphus estate to assist the Army of the Constellation, with his father tagging along, Escobar had kissed his wife and given his sons a formal farewell. Then the old officer had swept the boys up in a big hug. The display of affection was somewhat embarrassing, and certainly not the way Percival Hallholme had raised
him
.