Hellhole (49 page)

Irritated, Ishop stalked away from the unhelpful General and approached the people working around the site, taking care where he stepped. A gust swirled grainy dirt around his legs. He found this place very unsettling and definitely cultish.

Planet Hallholme had been a haven for nuts and fanatics ever since the Diadem opened up the Deep Zone. What these people accepted in the name of their supposed enlightenment turned his stomach.

Sophie Vence introduced herself to Ishop in a challenging tone, making it plain that she wasn’t intimidated by him. “I understand the Diadem has taken a personal interest in our resort. Perhaps she’d like to visit us on her next vacation?” Her antipathy toward Michella was as plain as the General’s. “Please let her know that we’d be delighted to let her swim in our therapeutic springs.”

Ishop gave her an insincere smile. “I’ll pass along your offer.” He looked at the visitors gathered around the pools, hesitating on the boardwalks. “Tell me, what do all these people want?”

Sophie spread her hands. “Miracles – at least that’s what a lot of them say. They come here to be healed, or to achieve enlightenment. Many claim it works.”

“Does it?”

Her brief laughter sounded flat. “It isn’t for me to decide whether it works or not. I’m a businesswoman filling a need. They pay, and as long as they’re adults, I let them make their own decisions.” She added an intentional jab. “We have freedom here on Hellhole.”

Trudging around the site, he recorded candid files of a dark-haired young woman who helped new arrivals to their temporary quarters. A young man, identified as the son of Sophie Vence, met the newcomers and answered their questions. When he spoke to Ishop, his attitude seemed friendly enough. “I hope you’ll give us a good report, Mr Heer. Do you think you could get the Diadem to write us an endorsement? We’re thinking of expanding.”

The sarcasm was not lost on Ishop. His response was deadpan. “Perhaps if you disposed of all the dirt first.” He swept a meaningful look around at the rugged cabins and tents, the rocks, and dusty boardwalks. It was impossible to imagine this place ever being clean.

A glimmer of humor showed in Devon’s eyes. “I’m afraid that dirt is an essential part of the experience at Slickwater Springs. But our satisfied customers say that once you take a soak in our pools, you hardly notice the dirt anymore. I can offer you a discount, if you’d like to dip your toe in . . .?”

Ishop backed away, shaking his head and moved off to continue his investigation.

One group of people stood apart from the hesitant ones, more like a docile herd than an agitated crowd. Sophie Vence gestured to one of the men, who glided over to Ishop with the grace of a dancer. “This is Fernando,” she said, “and also Zairic. He was the first who claimed to take on a Xayan personality. Now he prepares the way for others. He can tell you everything you need to know.”

Ishop regarded the man with skepticism. “You won’t find me easy to convince, but I’ll listen just the same. Wait – I don’t forget faces. You were aboard my passenger pod the first time I came to inspect the General’s accounts.” His impression during that trip had been that this fellow was a fast-talker and maybe even a confidence man.

Fernando-Zairic merely smiled. “That was a different me on the passenger pod, a man at the end of his rope with very little chance of redemption. Let me tell you how I changed, how I came to be completely at peace. You could have the same epiphany.”

He spoke in a zealous voice that immediately set Ishop’s teeth on edge. The man’s tale was preposterous – nonhuman memories stored in a liquid that bubbled up from the ground! His converts jabbered about some imaginary history, pretending to be exotic aliens who had much more glamorous lives than their own. Their opalescent eyes were oddly unfocused, no doubt from drugs. It was like an elaborate, pathetic game of dress-up for hopeless people.

Ishop had seen reincarnation cults before – Constellation records were littered with them – so he wasn’t surprised to hear that none of the cultists recalled being ditch-diggers or dishwashers in their previous existence. “My, the Xayans must have been an incredible race indeed, if they had no boring people or mundane tasks whatsoever.”

A few curiosity seekers stood on boardwalks; some of the converts swam in the water, beckoning to Ishop. The liquid looked oily and vile. Ishop wondered what kind of disappointment the newcomers would experience when they immersed themselves and no flood of alien memories swept through their minds. Would they be devastated, or would they be too ashamed to expose the lie? Who would want to break the chain of delusion? Or maybe some sort of toxin provoked hallucinations, which they were all eager to believe.

Ishop walked to the edge of the closest unnatural pool, in which he saw cloud patterns that didn’t seem to match the ones in the sky. He turned back to the General. “This is obviously some kind of mass hysteria. Drugs in the water?”

Adolphus placed a firm hand on Ishop’s shoulder. The contained power within General Tiber Adolphus was unmistakable. “Why not find out for yourself, Mr Heer? It would answer all of your questions. What better way to offer Diadem Michella a complete report?” The grip tightened, and the voice grew stony. “Just a little nudge. Fernando fell in accidentally and, according to him, discovered true enlightenment.” Adolphus smiled. “Would you like to be enlightened, Mr Heer?”

Ishop felt an instant of fear. With the slightest shove, the General could indeed knock him in. And Ishop would be powerless against whatever hallucinogenic properties the slickwater contained. Ishop refused to be intimidated by the General, though his own resolve wavered. He could not let himself be manipulated. He was a noble, after all. “As tempting as your offer is, I have a report to file.”

Adolphus shrugged. “It would change your life. Maybe you wouldn’t want to return to Sonjeera. So far, all the shadow-Xayans have chosen to remain here.”

Recognizing how easy it would be for him to succumb to an “accident” now, Ishop scuttled back onto solid ground and retreated toward the staff car with forced nonchalance. “I have seen enough here. Take me back to Michella Town now.”

“As the Diadem’s representative wishes,” Adolphus replied amiably, and he called for Lt Spencer to prepare the car for the return trip.

Ishop decided the trip had been a waste of time: uncomfortable, unsanitary, and unproductive. The newest religious splinter group on Hallholme had beliefs just as oddball as any other, and the Diadem had sent him on a pointless chase.

Ishop was silent on the long drive back to Michella Town. He couldn’t wait to leave this awful planet.

W
hile the Diadem’s inspector snooped around on Hellhole, Cristoph de Carre kept all four Originals hidden deep inside their mountain redoubt. The aliens had been content to make their home here ever since Sophie Vence established her camps out at Slickwater Springs.

Around the tunnel leading to the buried museum bunker, digging machinery had dumped piles of tailings and debris. During the day, Nari and a mining team drove their vehicles in a busy show of moving dirt and rocks. To an outside observer, an exploratory mining operation was under way, and such diggings were plentiful across the continent. Ishop Heer would have no reason to note anything about this particular one – so long as the caterpillarlike Xayans did not show themselves.

Cristoph spent his evenings continuing his work in the eerily lit vault alone with the Originals, while waiting for the General’s all-clear signal. He had been through so much turmoil since his family’s downfall, his father’s suicide; here, in a secret chamber deep inside a mountain, Cristoph finally had a chance to contemplate his changed situation, and what he would do with the remainder of his life.

Though he had grown accustomed to the Xayans by now, the strange creatures still intimidated him. Nevertheless, he was fascinated by the wealth of cultural artifacts, works of art, and historical records. In the midst of this awe and mystery, Cristoph found a sense of peace. But he was aware of the tensions between Hellhole and the Constellation, so he also kept his eyes open for any technology that might be useful for defensive purposes. Weapons. But the Xayans didn’t seem to have any.

The vault was filled with cultural items, sculptures, colorful splashes and animated lights that were preserved works of art, subsonic vibrations that – the Originals explained – were the equivalent of symphonies. Sequential, near-microscopic carvings and designs that were Xayan epic poems and recitations of geneaologies. It was what they had chosen to preserve of their civilization.

The most congenial of the four Xayans, Cippiq, rose up in front of the young man, startling him as he pondered. The large creatures could move with remarkable speed and stealth. The alien spoke by vibrating the membrane over his face. “You are quiet for a human. Others speak much more frequently.”

His comment interested Cristoph. This Original seemed to have a sense of humor. “It’s not just humans,” he pointed out. “Zairic seems to talk a lot, too.”

The Original said, “Before the impact, Zairic spoke so well and so passionately that he convinced an entire race to follow his desperate idea.” He paused. “After the Diadem’s inspector departs, you will send more researchers here to study our museum?”

“General Adolphus is very interested to learn more about old Xaya, especially your science and technology. But we have to be conscious of security, at least for now. There are certain concerns.”

“Yes, Encix tells us that your race has factions, something we understand from our own experiences. General Tiber Adolphus hopes to find new weapons that incorporate Xayan science – correct?”

Cristoph felt uncomfortable. The alien’s assessment was almost certainly accurate. “This planet may face threats from the Constellation. I’m sure the General is anxious to find a way to defend us. I was wondering if your technology could be used to help us keep ourselves safe.”

“Weapons.”

“Yes . . . weapons.”

Cippiq lifted his arms, touched soft fingers to the sides of his smooth head. “Our minds are the shapers. Our minds are the tools.” His torso swayed back and forth. “Yes . . . our minds are the weapons, if we choose to use them as such.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Will you turn our vault into a military base, after your enemy spy leaves?”

Cristoph hesitated at the characterization. “I wouldn’t say that. Larger research teams will be sent here so we can expand the work. Our trusted experts will study this place, with your assistance, but I don’t think I’d call it a military base. And the Diadem’s man is just an inspector, not an actual enemy.”

“Then why are we hiding from him?”

Cristoph considered. “We are exercising caution. In the meantime, it’s a good opportunity for me to inventory this museum and assess what our engineers would need for a . . .” He realized he couldn’t think of a better word. “For a base.”

The alien, however, did not seem reluctant. “You have been very generous to the Xayans. We are happy to cooperate with General Tiber Adolphus. My comrades and I could use our telemancy to make structural modifications to the vault, should that prove necessary. With suitable expansion, the interior of this mountain could house ten thousand soldiers, where they would be protected from an outside attack. Bring us plans, and we can help you. We are your friends and allies.” As Cippiq spoke, sparkling spirals of light surrounded him like spindrift. “In return, we ask only that you encourage your fellow humans to awaken more of our Xayan personalities. We miss our many lost companions.”

“That’s a very exciting offer.” The Original’s bluntness surprised Cristoph. But he wondered how the Xayans knew so much about enemies and defenses if they had such a peaceful, unified society.

Hours later, Cristoph dozed in the low light and warm comfort of the underground chamber. The Xayans huddled in meditative silence; they never seemed to need sleep. Up above, it was deep night. Soon enough, he expected to receive word that Ishop Heer had departed from Hellhole.

The young man awoke to unidentifiable noises; he smelled something sharp and pungent, quite unlike the dry, dusty smell to which he was accustomed. He spotted movement by the dormant sarcophagi that had preserved the Xayans for centuries. The four Originals were gathered around the central container that held the body of their dead companion.

In addition to the vault’s usual dim illumination, the air felt alive in a different way than before. Spirals and ghostly shapes flitted about on the cavern ceiling, then disappeared to be replaced by other skirling patterns.

Cristoph moved closer, making no sound; he hesitated in uneasy confusion when he saw what the four aliens were doing. The lid had been removed from the malfunctioning coffin container, and the living Xayans extended protoplasmic tentacles from their hands into the corpse, penetrating its outer membrane and
absorbing
it. He heard distinct sucking sounds. A chill coursed down his spine.

Sensing that he was watching, the four aliens turned their large eyes toward him. The eerie wrongness of the scene frightened Cristoph, and he realized how alone he was here in the vault. He took a half-step backwards.