Hellhole (37 page)

Vincent looked contemplative as he surveyed the carcass. “When Fernando and I were collecting animal bones, he told me he’d spotted a large creature, but I didn’t believe him. What he described was nothing like this, though.”

“Oh, he – I – was right to fear that creature. I know what it was now.” Fernando-Zairic nodded. “Some life forms are already returning to Xaya, just as
we
hope to return.”

“But our people have run extensive post-impact models.” Adolphus shook his head. “
All
significant vertebrates should have perished in the asteroid strike. This creature could not have survived.”

“And yet it is here, and it was alive until moments ago.” Zairic looked over at the General. “Where there is one, there will be others.”

Adolphus regarded the sad hulk of the slain creature. “Unless it’s among the last of its kind.”

Jordan shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe we shouldn’t have shot it, sir, but we were all so shocked. What if it had attacked us?”

Adolphus touched the rubbery patches on the hide of the horse-sized creature. “But where did it come from? We’ve been studying and terraforming this world for a decade, and this thing doesn’t fit with what we know.”

“Humans have not been here long, and your understanding is incomplete. Who can ever hope to understand a whole world?” Fernando-Zairic smiled – an odd smile that looked as if the alien presence was consciously moving the man’s features to create the expression. “Again, if you immerse yourself in the slickwater as I did, you will receive the blessing of our data and our lives, and you will understand much, much more.”

Adolphus felt a chill, and a longing. “Oh, I want to understand – I just need to decide how much it’s worth to me.” He glanced at the slickwater pools, whose surfaces continued to dance with the patterns of ancient storms. He reached a conclusion. “Mister Neron, or
Zairic
if you prefer – give us the location of your museum bunker and guide us in our work. Let’s dig down into the mountain and find out what else survived.”

“That would be an excellent start.” Fernando was still smiling.

T
he spy reported directly to Carlson Goler on Ridgetop, although the Territorial Governor wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the news. The Constellation government dispatched many such observers to monitor activity in the Deep Zone, and the covert operatives revealed their identities only when they discovered a matter of utmost significance.

The man came to Goler’s A-frame house on a hill overlooking the goldenwood groves. Dressed in the dirty clothes of a tree cutter, he had short reddish hair and a sunburned face. He kneaded a shapeless, sweat-stained hat in his hands, but the glassy edge of his stare showed that he was no meek commoner. He told Tasmine that he didn’t need an appointment.

During his term on Ridgetop, the governor had spoken to this particular man three different times. In each instance, his information had indeed proved reliable and interesting, and afterward the spy had created a new identity for himself. Goler was well aware, however, that the operative worked for the Constellation, not for him.

His old household servant led the man, moving with the ponderously slow gait that she reserved for people she didn’t like. “Governor, this man says he’s got something to tell you.” She sniffed.

“I’m sure he does.” Goler gestured for the spy to take a seat facing the wide-paned windows with the panoramic view. He didn’t bother to ask the man’s current name, since it would be different soon enough. “Would you please bring us some food from the kitchens, Tasmine?”

The old woman made a noncommittal sound as she painstakingly hobbled out of the room. Goler wasn’t fooled by her performance, since she walked without any difficulty when no one was around to see her.

The spy waited until she was out of earshot, then said in a low voice, “I’d heard rumors before, Governor, and now I’m certain. There is an entire network of independent commerce among the Deep Zone planets. A black-market trade. Undocumented ships, illegal cargo deliveries.”

Goler scoffed. “That makes no sense at all. Who can ride a stringline without being detected?”

“
Off
-stringline.” The man reached inside his shirt and extracted a sheaf of papers covered with handwritten notes. He hadn’t wanted his observations to be copied or erased by data thieves. “Ian Walfor is running old commercial ships from Buktu to other planets using antiquated FTL propulsion. He goes to Candela, Hallholme, Nomolos, at least three other planets that I know of.”

Goler laughed outright. “Those ships were scuttled or stripped down for parts as soon as they arrived in the Deep Zone decades ago.”

The spy handed the sheets over to the governor. “They might have been decommissioned on paper, Governor, but once the FTL ships reached their destinations long ago, they were refurbished, not destroyed. Walfor found some way to keep them operating.”

Goler spread his hands in exasperation. “Why would he do that? What possible purpose could there be? Using standard FTL to go from Buktu to Candela – let alone Hallholme or Nomolos – would take months in transit. Traveling via the Sonjeera stringline hub takes only a few days. It’s a ridiculous alternative. Why would anyone bother?

“Nevertheless, he does it.” The spy was humorless and insistent.

“And just how would he fuel these FTL ships?”

“I merely report, sir. I leave it to you, and the Diadem, to investigate further.”

Goler remembered that Buktu did have plenty of hydrogen ices drenched by solar radiation. Walfor might manufacture his own fuel, provided he had enough of an industrial base. He nodded slowly to himself. “Mr Walfor sounds very resourceful if he can manage all that.”

The more he considered, the more plain the reasons became. For many rugged DZ individualists, bypassing Constellation tariffs and oversight would be its own reward – an alternative to the governmental stranglehold on supplies going out to the Deep Zone worlds – such a black-market network, however slow, proved the principle.

Goler ventured, “Well, the Constellation did abandon the stringline out to Buktu and effectively cut off the colony. What were those people supposed to do? She gave them no alternative. If Walfor has set up his own supply line, then the Diadem herself must bear some responsibility.”

“I’m not a politician, sir,” the spy said evenly, “but I’m certain that the Diadem did not intend for Administrator Walfor to
improve
his situation after being cut off.”

Tasmine reentered the room bearing a tray on which she had sloppily placed cold meats and a few vegetables. “The kitchen is being cleaned right now. This is all I could find.”

“That will be just fine, Tasmine. Thank you.” Goler knew she could have done much more had she wanted to.

Not noticing the snub, the spy picked distractedly at one of the pieces of meat. “The Constellation government must have its portion of the trade.” He pushed the handwritten papers closer to Goler. “Sonjeera needs to know.”

He picked up the report. “I will inform them next time I report to Sonjeera. Thank you for such excellent work. I’ll submit these papers personally.”

“Perhaps it’s worth an immediate mail drone, sir?” Now the spy was beginning to irritate him.

“I’ll consider it. I have a number of documents that should go to Sonjeera.”

The spy took a few more bites from the meats on the platter, just to be polite, then picked up his shapeless hat. “I will take my leave. I doubt you’ll see me again. It’s better if I take a new identity and go to a different Deep Zone planet from now on.”

Goler couldn’t agree more. “Yes, that would be for the best.”

Tasmine waited in the hall, a hand pressed to her lower back, exaggerating her pain, and let the man find his own way out. She had eavesdropped on the whole conversation. “You should arrest that man, sir – manufacture some charges against him and isolate him in a Ridgetop prison. That would keep his mouth shut for awhile.”

“Tasmine, you’re ruthless.”

“I’ve had to be.” Without invitation, she ate some of the food from the tray.

Goler scrutinized the careful notes and evidence. He didn’t doubt the assertions were true. “Information this big won’t stay secret for long.” He handed the stack of papers to Tasmine. “But for now, shred these.”

She smiled. “I’d be happy to, sir.”

“Then get a message to Ian Walfor. Inform him that we know what he’s up to, and we want an explanation. We can always report him to Sonjeera later.” So many political repercussions. He had to proceed with extreme caution.

The old woman took the papers and left, moving with a spry step now. Goler knew that his evasion was only a stopgap measure. Other covert operatives were just as likely to discover the information. Diadem Michella would find out eventually, but Goler wouldn’t make it too easy for her.

E
ven though Sophie didn’t need a particular reason to invite Tiber Adolphus for a nice dinner, she still tried to make each such meal a special occasion. Over the course of his career, the General had eaten enough mass-produced food in military mess halls that he viewed meals as little more than the acquisition of nourishment. Sophie took it upon herself to show him that dining could be a civilized activity with nuances in flavor and texture, pleasurable counterpoints and refreshing surprises – like a complex symphony. “If one of your goals is to make Hallholme a civilized place, then you need to lead by example,” she told him.

Business concerns usually kept her too preoccupied to do it right, but she forced herself to slow down for Adolphus’s benefit as well as her own. Because of their heavy responsibilities, they had to carve out time just to be together.

Now, in her living room, the General sat in a brown upholstered chair that she had come to regard as
his
chair. She had to admit he looked rather presidential in it. Tiber Adolphus had a natural air of command, reinforced by his years of military service, and if the Diadem bitch had only learned to work
with
him instead of against him, the two could have done great things for the human race.

As it was, Adolphus would just have to do great things without the Constellation.

Sophie cradled a dark green bottle in her arms as if it were a beloved child. “Presenting this year’s vintage Cabernet.” She showed him the plain, utilitarian label; she didn’t dawdle with artistic logos, but if she ever decided to export commercial quantities of Hellhole wines, even as novelty vintages, she would have to improve the design, maybe have Devon sketch something appropriate. Or perhaps Antonia Anqui had artistic skills. Sophie decided to ask the girl.

Adolphus inspected the bottle, expressing his approval. “It’ll go well with our steaks.”

Though the vegetable yield from the greenhouse domes exceeded expectations, the process of raising cattle from imported embryos posed many difficulties: grazing land had to be cleared and fertilized, pasturage planted with enough grass to sustain a herd. Native weeds infiltrated the hay; some weeds sickened the livestock, while others just made the meat taste foul. Barn shelters had to be sturdy against the myriad storms, and the cattle had to remain close enough so they could get inside when the weather turned.

Given the many far more efficient ways of creating protein, raising beef as a colony food source made no economic sense. Poultry had proved a much more successful and easily managed source of protein. But it wasn’t only about digestible calories, Sophie knew; one bite of a good filet proved that to anyone with taste buds.

Armand Tillman, one of the few local ranchers who had managed to keep his herd alive, occasionally slaughtered a steer and delivered the best cuts to Adolphus. The idea of accepting such an extravagant gift had made the General uncomfortable at first, and he tried to return the steaks. “I’m not the Diadem. You don’t have to pay me tribute.”

But Tillman insisted, and Sophie was delighted with the occasional bounty. “Don’t argue too vigorously, Tiber.” She had her kitchen staff prepare the steaks with such excellent care that the General did look forward to them. And, of course, to dinner with her.

The General handed the bottle back, and Sophie uncorked it (a resin composite cork, because she refused to import real corks from off-world) and poured them each a glass. The stemware was also made on Hellhole, from the ample local supply of silica and trace minerals.

She extended the wine to him. “Tell me your honest opinion.”

“I’m always honest with you, but I don’t have a discriminating palate.” Adolphus took up his glass, swirled the wine and regarded it. “The color is rich.” He inhaled deeply, then sipped and smiled. “You’re improving year by year.”

With a skeptical frown, she took a sip from her own glass. As always, the wine had a lingering aftertaste, some as-yet-undefined astringency imparted by chemicals in the soil. “It still has that unusual note. I’ll keep working at it.”

“Some might say it’s distinctive, compelling.”

She grimaced into her glass and swirled it again. “Some might say that, but they’d be a minority.”

Adolphus sat back in his chair. “Our wine doesn’t have to taste exactly like what the nobles drink on Sonjeera. We’re not trying to be the Constellation.”

She bent close and kissed him on the lips, tasting the wine there. She would have kissed him more deeply, but her cook sauntered in with two sizzling platters of steaks. “Later,” Sophie whispered.

She lit a candle at the small dining table, and he was amused. “I keep the power running in Michella Town, and you use candles? We have better methods of lighting a room, you know.”

“We probably do, but that would miss the point.” As they cut into their steaks and smelled the visceral aroma of beef juices, she asked him more about the slickwater pools, about Fernando-Zairic’s fantastic claims, and the strange creature that Craig Jordan had shot.

“That makes two very significant discoveries. If large animals did survive the impact centuries ago, then we’ll have to completely change our models of this world.” He set down his fork. “And if those slickwater pools
are
an accessible database of the original alien civilization, then this planet has just become vastly more interesting.”