Hellhole (24 page)

“That would be great.” Devon smiled gratefully.

Following a faint beacon from the locater IDs on the religious group’s vehicles, Devon drove toward the great shatter-canyons, impact spokes, and vast central crater that Antonia had seen from orbit.

They had no way of knowing exactly which path the group had taken, but it was clear where they were going. “It’s no surprise,” Devon said. “At least half of the cults that come here think the impact zero-point is some kind of holy site, touched by the Hand of God. It’s some of the roughest terrain on the continent. Sooner or later, we’ll probably have to pave a road out there. My mother would like to make it a tollway. No shortage of crazy people believing crazy things.” Devon shrugged as he drove. “One batch after another comes here, announcing that they’ve got the
only
version of the truth. Then they either mock or hate everyone who believes differently, not recognizing their own tunnel vision. Then, when they try to convert you . . .” He muttered something under his breath.

He guided the overland vehicle up a steep crumbling hillside then roared down into a ravine, and she knew he was trying to show off for her, testing the limits of the Trakmaster’s shock absorbers.

“What if the Children of Amadin are angry when we find them?” Antonia asked.

Devon shifted the wide tracks to avoid a particularly large boulder. “I’d rather have them angry with us than find them all dying of a plague.”

“Has that happened before?”

He told her about a burgeoning native mold that had grown in one independent settlement, consuming all artificial fabrics, leaving the baffled group to rush naked back to Helltown in embarrassed desperation. Then he described an infestation of small ant-like insects that crawled out of cracks in the ground two years previously, getting into everything. “Oh, they didn’t cause actual harm,” he added when he saw Antonia’s alarmed expression. “They didn’t bite or eat our food. They were just –
crawly
. It was awfully hard to get rid of them.”

“Does that sort of thing happen often?” Antonia asked.

“There’s always something,” Devon laughed.

They descended a steep grade down one of the impact crater’s ripple ridges, switchbacking down a rough rocky slope toward a basin ahead. Noting a smear on the weathersat images, Devon said, “Whoa, that came up fast! Static storm, heading our way.” He looked around for shelter.

“Can we outrun it?”

“Not at this speed, not on this terrain.” He scanned ahead, narrowing his gaze, no longer a shy young man struggling to make conversation with her, but intent on his work now. “There – see that dark crack in the cliff wall ahead, just to the left? That’ll be a narrow box canyon. It looks big enough to fit the Trakmaster.”

Without waiting for Antonia’s response – what would she say? Of course she’d agree with him – Devon urged the vehicle forward over rough boulders and loose stones until he reached the opening, spun the Trakmaster around in a small clear patch, then backed in. “That’ll do just fine,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

The static storm came upon them with surprising intensity. The winds whipped up and bolts of static electricity capered from boulder to boulder, then struck the Trakmaster like scorpion stings.

The air inside the vehicle felt charged and smelled like ozone; every breath crackled when Antonia inhaled. When he saw how edgy she was, Devon gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll be okay here. It’s just a typical local storm.” The winds howled, and dust scoured the hull. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said.

Devon fixed them something to eat from the small galley. Antonia stared out through the dust-streaked window, blinking each time a flash of static crossed her field of vision. “Just a typical local storm,” she whispered to herself.

She remembered sitting with her parents in their home on Aeroc, listening to the rain run down the windows and patter on the pavement outside. She had loved the rain. On quiet evenings like that, her mother had played the piano, and Antonia sat on the bench beside her, picking out harmonies.

A static flash crackled through the canyon, and a roar of wind swept pebbles down the slope ahead of them. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” she reminded herself, trying to quell her fears.

A
s a war hero and savior of the Constellation, Commodore Percival Hallholme lived on a pedestal that was not of his own making. With that lofty perch came a number of problems, especially the embarrassment of the hellish planet that had been named after him. Diadem Michella had granted him an honor, but he wished the decision could be reversed. Unfortunately, that propaganda battle was already lost. Hellhole would forever be linked to the great heritage of the Hallholmes.

After his victory in the last battle of the rebellion, the Commodore was not allowed to retire without attending a naming ceremony on the planet. He had been there (presumably smug) when General Adolphus arrived in disgrace, stripped of everything.

Hallholme should have despised his enemy, the man who had single-handedly led the most destructive campaign in the history of the Constellation. But he didn’t. The old man’s feelings were quite complicated. After all, he knew what had really happened. Diadem Michella could say all she wanted about honor and bravery, but for Hallholme, the words did not ring true.

In the former Adolphus manor house, he awoke before dawn, as usual. Thanks to his advancing age, he slept only five hours per night, which left him with even more waking hours each day to reminisce and regret. Today, he had something special to do.

Dressed in one of his old Constellation military uniforms, with epaulets and a braided officer’s cap, he rode in the back of a military staff car. As dawn brightened, the driver took him along a little-used roadway to a ridge above the Lubis Plain. The sun was just clearing the horizon beyond the shipyards.

The driver stopped the car at a gate. “Are you sure this is the place you want, sir?” Duff Adkins had served as a sergeant under the Commodore during the rebellion and had chosen to retire into the old man’s service.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Hallholme stepped out of the car before Adkins could hurry around to get the door for him.

Ivy, tall grass, and wild thistles choked the rusted fence and gate, and the pavement on the other side was cracked and weed-infested. The Commodore fumbled in his jacket pocket, brought out a large key, and limped forward. Aided by the driver, he cleared plants away and pushed open the gate. “Wait for me here.”

“Yes, sir.”

With halting steps, Hallholme made slow but steady progress along the overgrown path to the top of the hill. Looking back, he saw that the driver had followed him anyway, lagging behind at a respectful distance. He smiled to himself. Duff worried about him too much.

Now the retired officer had a view of the decaying military cemetery. Little automatons tended the gravesites, cutting weeds and grass, trying to straighten headstones, climbing the exterior walls of outbuildings to repair them.

Hallholme worked his way past the graves of the rebel soldiers who had joined the ill-fated cause of General Adolphus. He passed beneath an archway on which he noted that the engraved names of the dead were chipped and moss-filled; the brave men who had fallen in battle deserved better, even if they had fought on the opposite side. The antique gardener automatons didn’t seem to be functioning properly. Even after the machines passed, weeds, tangles of vines, and tall grass remained; the headstones looked no better after being adjusted.

He shook his head in dismay. The cemetery’s disrepair was but a small dishonor compared with the appalling compromises
he
had made during that last battle. No honorable soldier would have placed thousands of innocent civilian hostages on the battle lines as insurance against attack. It was no more noble than throwing babies out of airlocks. Percival Hallholme had made Adolphus believe that all those innocents would be sacrificed if they opened fire, and the General had flinched at the crucial moment, allowing Constellation forces to slaughter them.

From history’s perspective, it didn’t matter. Hallholme had won the battle, saved Sonjeera, and defeated the bloodthirsty rebels, so all was forgiven. The Diadem even cheered his innovative approach, gave him a medal, named a planet after him.

Michella had ordered him to win the engagement using any and all means necessary, with no idea too extreme. But even then, Hallholme was willing to go only so far. Yes, after months of preparing for the inevitable showdown at Sonjeera, the Commodore had undertaken an extensive program to detain rebel sympathizers. Yes, he had crowded them into armored cells and had even commanded his guards to inflict pain using shock prods. General Adolphus had no doubt in his mind just how far his nemesis would go.

And the deception had worked.

Hallholme had not, in truth, placed any of the hostages aboard his warships, where they could be sliced to ribbons in a space combat. They were kept in security chambers down on Sonjeera, safe and far from the battle, with the video images relayed through the Constellation warships. The guards’ shock prods had no lethal settings.

But General Adolphus and his rebels did not know that, nor would the Diadem ever make that fact public. She had been deeply skeptical about Hallholme’s suggestion of restraint in the first place, certain that Adolphus’s barbarians would pillage all of Sonjeera. “If the General does not believe your bluff, I’ll order all the hostages executed anyway,” Michella had warned Hallholme. “Defeat him by any means. That is my command.”

So he had.

Behind him, Duff Adkins watched from the top of the rise. When it came to the other veteran, Hallholme didn’t feel in charge any more. Adkins had a tendency toward stubbornness that the Commodore found aggravating. The man no longer followed orders . . . but then, he was no longer a soldier under Hallholme’s command, so he could be forgiven. The retired non-com had repeatedly shown that he cared more about the Commodore than about himself, and Hallholme could not remain angry with Adkins for long. Such loyalty could not be purchased for any price.

One day both of them would rest in a cemetery like this, though one for Constellation veterans, not rebels. Hallholme hoped their gravestones would be tended with more care. This place was a disgrace, but he could do nothing about it. The Riomini managers of Qiorfu had blocked public access to the rebel graveyard for “security purposes,” citing fears of vandalism. But Hallholme knew better. In reality, it was to show utter contempt for the defeated enemy.

The Commodore shook his head. He wished he could speak up and demand respect for the fallen soldiers who lay around him, but he couldn’t cast doubt on his own loyalties. His son Escobar still had a military career ahead of him, and there were the two grandsons to think of.

Hobbling to the center of the cemetery, the retired Commodore stood at attention among the rebel gravestones, and saluted.

B
y the strict terms of his surrender, General Adolphus had been forbidden to leave the planet Hallholme, and he had accepted his exile with good grace – a fact that Diadem Michella mistrusted. He had once replied, “You have given me an entire world to roam. What more could a man want?”

Realistically, Adolphus could have slipped away at any time he chose, either through the use of bribes or by donning a disguise. But though he had the means to escape his restraints, the General would not do so. He had given his
word
and, unlike many political and military leaders, that still meant something to him.

By the same token, however, Adolphus made promises with great care. He might have agreed never to leave Hallholme, personally, but that did not prevent other Deep Zone planetary administrators from visiting
him
. Other than himself, there were fifty-three, but he wasn’t sure he could trust most of them.

Over the years, through subtle overtures, Adolphus had discovered eleven like-minded administrators of nearby frontier worlds. Because the Constellation transport network required every stringline traveler to pass through the Sonjeera hub, a gathering like this required precise orchestration and complete cooperation among the participants so that the Diadem noticed nothing odd about their movements.

Adolphus was accustomed to clockwork precision. Without such skills and discipline, his rebellion would have fizzled in the first month instead of lasting five years. Employing discreet messengers who posed as businessmen traveling to Sonjeera and then back out to other DZ planets, he had spent months coordinating travel for the attendees.

The eleven sympathetic planetary administrators had created plausible excuses for their absences – a death in the family, private management retreats, long-range exploration of uninhabited areas; some even admitted going to Sonjeera. But once the conspirators arrived at the main stringline hub, each one dropped out of sight, assumed a different identity, and took passage via the colonization service aboard the next hauler for Hallholme. Pretending not to know one another, the conspirators crowded onto the passenger pod along with hopeful colonists, penal laborers, merchants, and tradesmen. They studiously ignored conversation throughout the passage, knowing they would have plenty of time to talk face-to-face at the Elba estate – and that would occur today.

Adolphus breakfasted, drank a second cup of watery coffee (so far, not even Sophie Vence’s greenhouse domes had perfected a locally grown coffee crop . . . and he hated kiafa), then dressed in a professional-looking suit. As a calculated move, he opted for business attire rather than his old military outfit. While the traditional uniform had made him famous to some (and infamous to others), the General preferred not to remind these planetary administrators of his past. He wanted to show his partners a different Tiber Adolphus – one with the same competence and leadership abilities, but also with the vision to create a future independent of the fossilized old Constellation.