Hellhole (29 page)

Glum servants tended the plants in afternoon sunlight, trimming them in precise shapes as had been done for centuries. When the Riominis took over, the gardeners would continue to work; some of them might not even notice the change. The dirt-smudged men looked up as he passed, then turned back to their work.

Knowing what lay ahead, Cristoph had tried to drain the family accounts and hide enough wealth to survive, but the funds had already been frozen. More offworld troops had landed at the local spaceport and placed the estate operations under their control. Thuggish Riomini guards locked down the business operations and most of the family estate, barring Cristoph from seeing any but his own rooms.

Yes, they had planned this very carefully.

Cristoph stood on the grounds, gazing toward the rolling hills and forests where he and his father used to hunt, and where their ancestors had led riding parties, living out their decadent lives. His chest felt leaden with the knowledge that he represented the last de Carre generation.

As he took on more and more responsibility, he had tried to be close to his father, consulting him about family business operations, but Louis was distracted. It would have been better if Lord de Carre had found a stable and sensible woman, remarried, focused on Vielinger.

It was the fault of that Duchenet woman, who had seduced Louis. Recently, Keana had even had the temerity to contact Cristoph and offer to help with his father’s legal difficulties. She sounded truly distraught, but her message had infuriated him. Maybe if she had considered the consequences long ago, this would never have happened. But Keana hadn’t really cared about Louis or his future.

The drone of motors cut through his ruminations like coarse knives. In the sky, he saw a squadron of aerocopters, each marked with a black family crest. Riomini craft. They landed on the grass and in the vegetable gardens, scattering the workers. Cristoph crossed his arms over his chest as black-uniformed soldiers poured out of the aircraft and took up positions in the grounds to join their fellows who had already been stationed inside the castle.

A blond officer appeared, his cap and uniform spotless, his medals gleaming in the sun. He marched up to Cristoph. “I am Unit Captain Escobar Hallholme, representing the Riomini military services.” He eyed Cristoph up and down. “You are the son?”

“I am the son of Lord Louis de Carre.”

“I have been sent to inform you that your father is dead.” The words were brusque. “Suicide, before sentencing could be carried out. He did not want to face the consequences of the crimes he committed.”

Cristoph felt as if he’d been slammed by an artillery shell. “That’s impossible!” His father had faced the Reading of the Charges with a straight back. He had admitted his error, had protected Cristoph by taking all of the accusations on his own shoulders. “He would never do that.”

But his father had said,
You are the last hope of the de Carre legacy now
. Had he been planning to take his own life, even then? Tears burned in Cristoph’s eyes, and he tried to tell himself they were tears of anger.

“I’m afraid the evidence is incontrovertible. Slit his wrists . . . rather barbaric, but effective.” Escobar Hallholme seemed to take an odd satisfaction in passing along the grisly details. “The Diadem has decided that there will be no investigation into the case, so that the matter may be wrapped up as quickly and cleanly as possible. The court has made its ruling.” The officer glanced at the gardens, the castle. “By order of the Diadem, the de Carre family is no longer in charge of this estate or the iperion mines. Your titles and holdings are now the property of the Riomini family. I am ordered to confiscate all de Carre assets.”

Cristoph felt as if he had been dropped into the middle of an avalanche and was being pounded from every direction. “I will appeal!”

“That is not allowed.” Escobar ran his gaze around the gardens, as if measuring them for something he had in mind. He handed a rolled document to Cristoph. “This writ was signed by the Diadem herself.” As Cristoph opened it, the haughty commander continued, “In order to expedite the transition, your passage into the Deep Zone has been paid. A generous concession, seeing as you are now penniless.”

Cristoph grappled with the crushing weight of reality. His father had killed himself! Cristoph had never imagined him to be capable of that . . . and by slashing his wrists? Apparently, Louis de Carre was not the man Cristoph knew, not at all.

Cristoph forced the words out, “I intend to stay here and fight for my family’s legacy.”

“No, sir, you will not. I have my orders. You have one hour to gather as many personal belongings as you can carry. Afterward, I have instructions to escort you to the spaceport, where you
shall
be aboard the next stringline hauler. The colonization office at the Sonjeera hub will assist you in finding a suitable DZ world where you can make a new start.”

Though Cristoph tried to dig in his heels, he realized he had no further power here, no influential friends, no alternative. With feet as heavy as stone blocks, he walked toward the fortress-like structure that had been his family home for thirty-seven generations.

From the front portico, he watched, sickened, as mercenary troops ransacked whatever they could carry – jewelry, silver settings, rare statuettes. Dead inside, Cristoph told himself that these heirlooms were just things, objects of sentimental, but minimal value – far less significant than the land and the manor house, or the people who lived here on Vielinger.

In the brief time remaining to him, he walked slowly through the corridors of his home, ignoring the unruly troops, thinking of times that would never be again, reliving them for a few fleeting moments. He erected his own walls in a fortress against pain.

Generations of love and attention had gone into this estate. There had been weddings and birthday celebrations here; children had been born in the manor house, and many de Carre patriarchs were buried in the private cemetery on a nearby knoll.

Standing at the main fireplace mantel in the gaming room, he collapsed the projected image of his mother, whom he had never known, and slipped the datadrive into his pocket. He hesitated when he saw the tall portrait of his father in the hall, alongside Eduard de Carre and Ambrose de Carre, and other forefathers. He could never take such a large painting; it would probably end up on the trash heap, but he could do nothing about that. He gathered less-formal images, some of him and his father, even one of Louis as a boy. He also found a treasured, glowing image of Keana Duchenet in his father’s suite, but he left that behind.

Because Cristoph would have to fend for himself, he was pragmatic enough to retrieve a small envelope of gems his father kept behind his headboard, an emergency stash that Louis had once shown him. Cristoph also had Star Crowns hidden in his own wardrobe, which none of the ransackers had found yet. The money wouldn’t last him long, but it might be enough for a few necessities.

Taking little else except memories, Cristoph de Carre walked with fatalistic stiffness away from the estate and his family’s past. He wanted to say goodbye to Lanny Oberon, who had never believed that the numerous accidents were the fault of Cristoph’s mismanagement or lack of care. In fact, once the iperion mines reopened – under Riomini administration – Oberon would probably want to offer Cristoph a job, try to take care of him. There was still plenty of work to do, and Cristoph was certainly qualified.

But he couldn’t let that happen, and he doubted Vielinger’s new overlords would allow it. They would suspect him of wanting to foment rebellion or cause sabotage. None of the other miners would want a deposed nobleman pretending to fit in. Better if he disappeared entirely. Yes, Cristoph would miss Oberon, but he couldn’t let the mine supervisor take such a risk.

Instead, he would go far from here, make a clean break, turn his back on unchangeable circumstances. Maybe it would be a relief to get as far as possible from this place and these scheming nobles . . .

A powerful certainty came to him: Keana Duchenet had caused this, damn her. All along, she must have been playing her part in a grand plan to bring down the de Carres and steal Vielinger. For two years, the Diadem and her daughter had conspired with the Riominis to distract Louis, weaken Cristoph, sabotage the mining operations, soften up the planet for a takeover. They had destroyed his father and defeated him, and now he was being sent into exile . . .

At the spaceport’s DZ colonization office, Cristoph made his choice, an unlikely selection that he realized would be a great hardship. But he had his rationale: only one man had stood up to Diadem Michella and
almost
succeeded. General Tiber Adolphus, on Hellhole.

That was reason enough for him.

T
he linerunner
HDS Kerris
streaked along the quantum path, monitoring the precise iperion demarcation. This was Turlo and Sunitha Urvancik’s fifth run to the planet Barassa.

Normally, one of their colleagues, Eva McLuhan, monitored the Sonjeera–Barassa route. Eva had been an unpleasant curmudgeon who wanted little to do with human company. Whenever she reached a terminus station, she stayed just long enough to file a report and resupply her ship. But six months ago, Eva had failed to arrive at her destination; when scouts backtracked the line, they discovered Eva’s small vessel parked at an isolated energy substation. All of her ship’s systems were powered down, and Eva had been suited up inside the airlock with the door cycled open to space. She’d clipped herself to the bulkhead, and opened her faceplate to the vacuum.

“I guess the solitude got to her after all,” Turlo said to his wife. It was a hazardous profession; working alone in the incomprehensible vastness, linerunners had to be self-reliant and able to fix any mechanical malfunctions on their own. The greatest hazard, though, was the sheer loneliness.

“That’s why it’s so important we’ve got each other.” Sunitha snuggled close, wanting comfort. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

As the linerunner streaked along, Turlo composed a detailed map of the residual iperion on the route. “This section of the line is getting weaker, just barely within tolerance. I’m going to release another controlled dusting.”

“Our records will show that the line readings weren’t in the red zone.”

“I’m not taking chances. Neither of us wants a lost stringline ship on our conscience.”

“I just hope they don’t take the extra iperion out of our paycheck.”

Stringline paths decayed over time unless the iperion trail through space was regularly replenished – and that was expensive, especially with Vielinger’s output on the wane.

Now, on the run to Barassa, Turlo monitored his controls, using the bare minimum of iperion needed to shore up the quantum path. Sunitha distracted him, running her fingertips through his close-cropped hair, leaning close. He tried to recall the last time he’d seen her so aroused. They were in the romantic recovery phase after their quarrel en route to Ridgetop, and Turlo felt as if it were a second honeymoon.

He called up the coordinates and pointed to their location. “In half an hour we’ll be at the next substation, and we have to get off the line anyway. There’s a cargo hauler due to come by within four hours.”

Sunitha sighed. “Bad timing. You might lose your chance if you wait too long.”

He increased the ship’s acceleration. “I’ll just have to keep you interested in the meantime.”

He gave her a quick kiss, but she held him for a longer one. “After all the practice you’ve had, you should be a better kisser by now. Pay attention.” She touched his lips with hers, soft and slow, breathing warm air into his mouth.

He regarded her, his eyes shining. “Once we dock at the substation, we’ll have hours with nothing to do . . .”

“Hours? You mean we can actually indulge in foreplay? That’ll be an interesting change.” In response, he swatted her playfully.

Once they anchored the linerunner to the unmanned substation, the two couldn’t tear off each other’s jumpsuits swiftly enough. They would perform a routine checkup of the complex later, while waiting for the large Constellation cargo hauler to hurtle past.

“It’s been awhile since we did it with the gravity off,” Sunitha suggested with a giggle.

Turlo flicked a switch on the wall, and they needed a minute to grow accustomed to the sinking sensation of falling but never landing. Sunitha drifted toward him, and he caught her hands, pulling her close, which accelerated them together, and they collided with enough force to make them both laugh.

Mounted on the wall stand opposite their bunk, Turlo spotted the image of their son. Proud Kerris wore his impeccable army uniform in a preserved moment of idealism and optimism, back when the young man actually believed in the Constellation’s cause . . . before everything changed. Next to their son’s image hung a shimmering medal fused to the cabin wall, which had accompanied the “personal” video message dictated by Diadem Michella herself: “It is with great personal sadness that I must inform you . . .”

Turlo touched the nearest wall and imparted just enough force to send them slowly spinning in the other direction, turning Sunitha away from their dead son’s image, before she could notice it.

He and Sunitha rarely took such time and care with each other, enjoying the luxury of hours of forced downtime. They did not notice when automatic sensors heralded the stringline hauler that blurred past them much too swiftly for human senses to detect . . .

T
anja Hu returned to Candela from her secret meeting with General Adolphus just in time for the major rains to start.

She had been through monsoon seasons all her life, but this was different. Worse. In previous years, the people always had a day or two between major storms, a brief respite to gather themselves for the next onslaught. Now, however, it had rained every single day since she came back from Hellhole. It was a torrent, hour after hour, day after day.