Hellhole: Awakening (16 page)

Escobar’s lips drew together. “Thank you, Major Crais. I should have thought of that detail myself. No need for ironic reminders.”

Bolton focused his attention on the Redcom, ignoring Carrington. “I’ve also ordered the pilots to continue their simulation drills—in fact, I’ve increased the frequency of the training, to impose a sense of urgency. Everyone is convinced this is only a temporary setback … for now.”

“It
is
only a temporary setback,” Escobar said.

Near him, the comm-officer touched her earadio, then turned to the command chair. “Redcom, one of the scouts located the substation! It’s destroyed—sabotage, no doubt—but he did find the intact stringline that leads back to Sonjeera.”

The bridge personnel cheered. Sounding relieved, Pilot Suri Dar transmitted from her isolated chambers on the hauler framework. “At least now we can go home safely.” Her voice rang out across the bridge.

Escobar chided the stringline pilot. “Have all five haulers regroup at the ruins of Substation Four and await my orders. Major Crais, I want to see you in my office.” He forced himself to add, as if taking medicine, “And call the diplomats so they can participate in the discussion.” He looked at Gail Carrington. “You’re welcome to join us as well, Ms. Carrington.”

She said, “I don’t need your invitation.”

*   *   *

Within an hour, the five haulers had rendezvoused at the ruined substation. Escobar hosted a small meeting with the door closed. Carrington looked hard and aloof, Bolton seemed worried, while Jackson Firth was full of ideas, none of which were practical.

Escobar began the meeting. “General Adolphus has cut the stringline, and we cannot proceed to our target as planned—at least at the moment. We need to find an alternative way to complete our mission.”

“We have the route back to Sonjeera, but that does us no good,” Carrington said. “Better if we find the
other
end of the severed stringline so we can go forward to planet Hallholme.”

Escobar said, “We had precise data on where we fell off the iperion path, so we could backtrack to the substation—and even that took us half a day. With dissipation, the outbound end of the stringline will be much more difficult to find.”

“Then we do the difficult thing,” Carrington chided.

Bolton had already pondered the situation; he offered his advice before anyone else spoke. “If I may suggest another alternative? Even if the
direct
stringline to planet Hallholme is cut, we still have a roundabout way to get to the General—and to Keana. We could return to the Sonjeera hub and relaunch our fleet to a different Deep Zone world—say, Ridgetop or Candela. Once we overwhelm and secure the rebels there, we commandeer the General’s own DZ stringline network and proceed to Hallholme. We’ll approach from his flank, where he won’t expect us.”

“Unless the General has blown all the direct lines from the Crown Jewels,” Carrington said.

“The DZ cannot survive without help from the Crown Jewels! That would lead to mass starvation and hardship,” Jackson Firth said, then allowed himself a smile. “Hmm, but should that happen, we would be welcomed as saviors by the time we arrive.”

Carrington said, “Supreme Commander Riomini has no intention of waiting that long. We must resolve this situation.”

Escobar felt the weight on his shoulders. “I have no desire to bring the fleet back to Sonjeera, Major Crais, even if only to launch again for a roundabout assault. It would be embarrassing. We would appear to be returning in defeat.”

“But it may be the only way to win,” Bolton said.

Escobar could already imagine the catcalls and the ridicule, a sharp contrast to the fanfare that had feted them when they departed: “Strike fast, strike hard!”

Jackson Firth brushed at his collar. “At the very least, now that we’ve found the return stringline, we must dispatch a message drone. The Diadem needs to know of this setback so she can alter her expectations accordingly. We should wait here for her orders.”

Escobar leaned forward to skewer the diplomat with his dark gaze. “I am in command of this fleet, and I make the decisions.”

Firth bristled. “Diadem Michella needs to know! We’re already delayed.”

Bolton pointed out, “It will take days for a message drone to reach Sonjeera, and days more to return, not counting however long the Diadem takes to formulate her response.”

“We can’t wait that long!” Frustrated, Escobar turned to Carrington, who sat brooding, offering no help whatsoever. “Ms. Carrington, feel free to make suggestions.”

“I have yet to hear any plan that I am willing to endorse. I can state without reservation, however, that Lord Riomini would oppose having his glorious fleet return home without firing a single shot, stymied by a juvenile effort to impede our progress.”

The diplomat actually raised his voice. “I insist! The Diadem must be informed.”

Bolton added, “A discreet message drone with a coded report would be an acceptable alternative to having all our ships return to Sonjeera. The news could be kept quiet—I doubt the Diadem would want to advertise the setback. And in the meantime, we keep searching open space for the outbound end of the stringline. We might get lucky and resolve the problem before we receive a response.”

Escobar was flustered, but he needed to make a decision, and that sounded like the best alternative. “Very well. We’ll anchor our five haulers here and send a private message back along the stringline. The Diadem and Supreme Commander Riomini must be informed. We can finesse the phrasing, make it a mere informational report, a courtesy message so that the Diadem can update her plans. This is
not
an admission of defeat.”

“I can word it properly, sir,” Firth said with inappropriate brightness. “My team can be finished within the hour.”

“Glad we can get some use out of you, Mr. Firth,” Escobar said while thinking otherwise. “In the meantime, I fully expect that somebody aboard will devise a viable solution before we receive a response from Sonjeera.”

“Or,” Carrington said, “we could just find the other end of the stringline and be on our way.”

Escobar ended the meeting and returned to the bridge, where he sat in his command chair and tried to look important. Everyone kept glancing at him, and he could read their thoughts, sense their anxiety, disappointment, and disapproval. They expected more from the son of Commodore Hallholme. To be honest, Escobar expected more from himself.

Once they sent the message drone racing back to the Crown Jewels, he felt the urgency increase. Anxious to solve the problem on his own, rather than let the Diadem give him an answer—or a reprimand—Escobar held private meetings with his engineers, who were also at their wits’ end. On impulse, he made a fleet-wide announcement, guaranteeing an extra six months’ pay and a personal citation from the Diadem (he was certain he could convince her of that, once they succeeded) to anyone who could offer a solution.

In the ensuing hours, Escobar received numerous submissions of ideas, which his bridge staff vetted. A few suggestions were innovative, but most were ridiculous and poorly thought-out. Although it helped morale to maintain optimism, Escobar worried that they weren’t taking the situation seriously enough.

*   *   *

The message drone returned in only two days, far sooner than expected. Even under the highest stringline acceleration, it could not possibly have traversed the distance to the Crown Jewels and back in that time.

Perhaps Lord Riomini had sent another fleet behind them, which was currently closing in. The message drone might have been intercepted and returned.…

“A second fleet is not likely, sir. It took us weeks to prepare, load, and launch,” Bolton said as the two men went to inspect the recovered message drone. “They could never have dispatched another battle group in only a few days.”

As soon as he looked at the returned capsule in the receiving bay, Escobar’s heart sank. “This is ours, still sealed.” Using the command code, he accessed the interior and found their own message inside, unread. “Why did it bounce back to us?”

Bolton checked the travel log. “It got only as far as Substation Three.” He swallowed hard. “The stringline was cut from that end as well.”

“Both ends of the segment are severed?” Escobar said. “We’re cut off? How did the General do that?”

“With careful planning. Now we can’t go forward or back.”

Escobar’s throat was dry. “General Adolphus has stranded us.”

22

The underground museum vault on Hellhole remained a mysterious, terrifying place for Keana, even though she shared her mind with the Xayan leader Uroa. His alien memories were elusive, explaining little to her; the chamber was filled with secrets and haunted by ancient alien spirits.

Working alongside the Original alien Lodo, the team of human investigators had spent several months combing through the countless stockpiled treasures—relics, bits of technology, stored knowledge, and cultural landmarks. The General had placed Cristoph de Carre in charge of the effort, to guide the engineers and experts.

Carvings and designs adorned the rock walls, and teams of xeno-archaeologists and scholars studied them, with Lodo’s assistance. It was the work of years, probably decades, to compile even a perfunctory
inventory
of the miracles stored here, much less catalog and understand them. She saw the artifacts around her, small containers and decorative items as well as exquisite little jeweled creatures made of shaped stone and silver and gold. The alien designs meant nothing to Keana as she viewed them with her own eyes, but Uroa’s presence identified the patterns.

“One day we will be able to share the lost Xayan history,” Cristoph said, “but at the moment we have more pragmatic concerns. Our priority is to identify some scrap that might be converted into a weapon or defensive technology.”

Lodo swayed his humanoid torso from side to side. “Most of the Xayan race was focused on cooperation with a common goal, striving to achieve
ala’ru.
Why would we need weapons?” His caterpillar body moved in a wet whisper of motion.

Keana detected a hint of avoidance in Lodo’s answer, and words surfaced in her consciousness from Uroa’s personality. He spoke through her voice: “This vault holds secrets to be unlocked, Cristoph de Carre—and some of them may be dangerous.”

Though they had worked closely together for weeks, ever since Keana had awakened from her coma, Cristoph remained awkward around her because of the unwitting part she’d played in the downfall of his family. She had fundamentally changed after her immersion in the slickwater, and was no longer the flighty, self-centered woman who had drifted through a privileged life. Fortunately, there was a war to distract them while they cobbled together a relationship.

Now, though, he perked up at her comment. “Dangerous? Could they be useful as weapons?”

“The answer is the same,” Uroa said. Though Keana strained to see deeper into her mental companion’s thoughts, she could find no clearer answers.

Lodo cautioned Uroa, “We discussed the possibilities in Xayan convocation. Encix advised against the use of inappropriate power.”

“I sided with Zairic,” Uroa said, “and Encix did not lead my faction. She always was difficult.”

“And you always were careless,” Lodo replied. A hint of humor? Or a stinging rebuke? Keana could not tell.

Each time they arrived in the vault, strange lights and shapes accompanied them like spectral escorts, wavering and crackling in the air, vanishing and reappearing like wisps of colored smoke. Several dropped from the tunnel ceiling in front of Keana’s face, as if recognizing the presence of Uroa within her. As always, she felt a tingling sensation on her face and arms when the luminous afterimages touched her skin, but she knew the manifestations were harmless.

In the vault’s large central chamber, five sarcophagus chambers had held the preserved Originals while they waited for centuries, clinging to the vanishingly small chance that someone would eventually discover them. Only five Xayans had survived the asteroid impact, but Allyf had died during the centuries of stasis, Cippiq had been murdered by the Diadem, and Tryn had departed along with a hundred shadow-Xayans to form a seed colony on Candela. Now only Lodo and Encix remained on Hellhole.
Xaya
.

Back at the height of their former civilization, the Xayans had never ventured beyond their own planet. How could they rely on such infinitesimal hopes? Though previously Uroa had shared his memories and thoughts with her, now she heard only silence.

*   *   *

After hours of intriguing but ultimately fruitless searching, Keana and Cristoph followed Lodo back out of the tunnel to the guarded opening in the side of the mountain. The other engineers and archaeologists continued their cataloging work, but Keana was losing hope that they would find any miraculous solution before her mother sent a massive retaliation—and she knew her mother would strike as soon as she was able.

Fortunately, Devon-Birzh and Antonia-Jhera worked with the thousands of shadow-Xayans to practice their telemancy as a defensive measure. And General Adolphus had his own traditional military plans.

From her interactions with the Originals, Keana knew that Encix was willing to save the planet, but only in order for the Xayans to achieve their racial ascension. Encix did not seem overly concerned with the safety of humans for their own sake. Were the Originals just using the hybrid vigor exhibited by the shadow-Xayans to achieve what
they
wanted? Although she was merged with Uroa, and felt his longing for
ala’ru
as well, Keana vowed not to abandon the human colonists on Hellhole.

Guards and observers remained outside the entrance to the museum vault, ready to use lethal force to prevent any Constellation spies from discovering the existence of the Xayan chamber. As Keana and her companions stepped out into the open air, one of the sentries whistled to draw their attention, but not in alarm.

“Over there!” The sentry pointed to a rolling cloud along the ground in the valley below.