Hellhole: Awakening (38 page)

Adolphus stared at them, and Sophie frowned. “We’ve never seen anything like that at Slickwater Springs.”

Then, in a burst of released energy, a group of the spectral shapes struck two of the spaceport workers hard and knocked them flat. A glowing cord of lightning lashed the ground like a bullwhip. More slickwater bubbled up, frothing and angry.

“Stay clear of the flood! Back to the vehicle!” the General yelled, and Theris did not need further encouragement.

Encix, though, remained where she was. “All this telemancy is like a scream in the air. I did not wish to exert so much power, but I will do what I can. The slickwater needs to understand … needs to be quiet.” The alien moved forward to the advancing flood that percolated up from the ground. With no hesitation, she waded into the slickwater. “I can feel the flood of stored memories and history. To tap into the telemancy reservoir and quell this reaction, I require as much contact as possible.”

She settled her sluglike abdomen into the quicksilver fluid and bent forward to immerse her upper body as well—torso, arms, even her face.

As the liquid pooled around Encix, the General felt an energy and pressure increasing in the air, static sparking everywhere. Guided by the Original, the combined telemancy accumulated and mounted, and Encix linked with the lost Xayans stored in the fluid. She soothed the reservoir and urged the slickwater to withdraw, as if it were a single living organism. The static and shimmering manifestations faded in the air as the slickwater responded to her.

As Encix nudged and controlled the liquid, the angry pools receded, dropping back through the cracks in the launchpad pavement, draining back into the ground.

Theris received word through his codecall headset. “Monitors say the slickwater is flowing into the subterranean void.”

Encix turned her alien face toward Adolphus and Sophie. “Although the shadow-Xayans may practice telemancy to defend this planet, I can still do some things better than they can. I am reluctant to exert so much power, but it was the only way to utilize these defensive measures.”

The pavement was badly damaged from the upheaval, but completely dry now that the slickwater had retreated. The shimmering, luminous manifestations had vanished, as the alien fluid returned to quiescence.

Standing alone where the slickwater had once been, Encix raised her humanoid hands to the sky. Her facial membrane vibrated with indistinguishable words, as if she were rejoicing.

Sophie was relieved. “Good. The slickwater is no longer a threat.”

“No,” Encix said. “The threat is not the slickwater.”

Adolphus turned toward Theris. “Have the geologists run deep seismic tests to make sure, but the spaceport should be stable enough now for continued expansion.”

Sophie remained troubled. “Encix, why would you need such a defensive mechanism in the first place? You said the Xayans were a peaceful race, what did they have to defend
against
?”

“We have long had enemies—dangerous enemies,” the alien said. “Your Constellation is not the only threat to this planet.”

Theris touched the codecall receiver in his ear. “General, your passenger pod is ready to depart. Mr. Jordan has fifteen warships loaded in docking clamps aboard the stringline hauler.”

The General was troubled, but anxious to get to Candela. Knowing Michella’s temper, she could already have attack ships on the way. He strode toward the launching gantry with his passenger pod, throwing a glance back at the Original. “The Constellation is my more immediate concern.”

57

Aboard the
Diadem’s Glory,
a pair of rangers donned spacesuits, took cutters, bypass toolkits, and weapons, and prepared to go outside along the hauler framework to the isolated pilot’s blister.

Bolton addressed the two men as they suited up, while Escobar remained silent, watching them. “If you find any food supplies up there, you’ll both get a double ration. We need to find out what happened to the pilot.” Through a porthole in the spacecraft’s ceiling, he glanced up at the domed enclosure high overhead in the immense framework.

Pilot Suri Dar had sealed herself away up there and refused to respond to any communications. Bolton felt little confidence they would find good news, and he dreaded another disaster.

The day before, a major tragedy had taken them all by surprise. The pilot of the second military hauler, carrying twenty fleet warships, had suffered a psychological breakdown. In a thin, hysterical voice, the pilot announced that he would find his own way to planet Hallholme, declaring it the only way to save himself. His hauler veered away from the other four carrier ships and activated stringline engines, plunging into the unexplored vastness with no iperion path to follow and no chance of reaching the destination.

Bolton had been astonished. Twenty warships, gone! All the personnel … as well as all their supplies. A fifth of the Constellation fleet now forever lost. Madness!

He reeled from the magnitude of the foolish loss (and their failure to safeguard against it), although some members of the remaining crew expressed an irrational relief that at least the mad pilot had
done
something rather than just sitting there and waiting to die. Some even believed that if all the stranded haulers were to try finding their way to planet Hallholme, even without a stringline to follow, maybe at least one would make it.

In a calm voice, showing his charts and numbers, Bolton made it clear that the odds of success were infinitesimal. He insisted that they wait for Zabriskie and Caron to return. Rationally, it was their best chance.

But the crew hated their inaction.

The Redcom issued orders for the other hauler pilots to stand down and join the rest of the crew. Only Suri Dar had not answered.

“We’ll find out what’s happened to her, sir,” said the first ranger. They sealed their suits and entered the airlock.

Stringline hauler pilots were, by their very nature, loners, even misfits. After Suri Dar isolated herself, a rumor started among the skeleton crew that she was hoarding an undocumented supply of food that should be shared with the conscious crew members. Even Escobar began to wonder if that might be true, although if the pilot had a large personal stockpile, it would amount to only a few mouthfuls when distributed across the twenty-five hundred crew members who were still awake.

The growing despair throughout the stranded fleet made each day like a barefoot walk across razor blades. Constant fights broke out; crewmen killed each other or committed suicide. The crewmembers remaining at their stations were so thin and jittery that they looked like real skeletons.

The food supplies were reaching critically low levels. Bolton could not sleep, and while he was awake, he could think of little other than the sharp teeth of hunger chewing in his stomach. More than 80 percent of the remaining crew was now sedated, surviving on minimal life support, kept at the lowest possible metabolic rate. Part of him envied those who were comatose, seemingly peaceful yet completely helpless. He didn’t know which was worse.

Through it all they kept waiting for word from the trailblazer ship—waiting,
waiting,
and watching the calendar.

In order to give them hope, Bolton had calculated the absolute best-case scenario. Once the trailblazer arrived at Hallholme and dropped the terminus ring, the pilots could rush back here at stringline speeds in only a day. That meant two more weeks at an absolute minimum before the fleet could expect any sign. But even that estimated time, Bolton knew, was extremely optimistic.

Sheer boredom enhanced their fears. An effort to discover the fate of pilot Suri Dar would normally have been watched with great interest by the remaining crew, but Bolton had advised keeping it secret. The rangers weren’t likely to discover good news, anyway. Lately he and Escobar had been forced to keep a lot of bad information secret.

Because the giant hauler was just a framework to carry twenty Constellation warships suspended from docking clamps, there was no easy access to the pilot’s blister from the ships. Outside, the two spacesuited rangers worked their way along the flagship’s hull, climbing to the docking clamp and traversing a structural girder. “We’ll reach the pilot’s blister in ten minutes, sir,” the first ranger transmitted across the scrambled codecall.

The warships hung silent around the
Diadem’s Glory,
many of them shut down and dark; even the inhabited vessels showed only minimal illumination. The air was stale. The ships were cold. The bridge of the flagship was a quiet and somber place.

“We’ve reached the hatch to the pilot’s blister,” said the second ranger. “Still no response to our signals.”

“Use the tool kit to force your way in,” Escobar said. “We need to know about her, one way or the other.” He lowered his voice to Bolton. “I can’t take the risk that she might power up the controls and take us on a joyride.” The comment hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

“We’re inside the first airlock door, sir,” came the codecall.

“Can you see anything through the viewport?” Escobar asked.

“Just the interior of the cabin, and it seems empty.”

“All right, access the pilot’s blister. Have your weapons ready, in case she’s violent.”

Because the stringline hauler was a military vessel, the rangers had the proper override codes. They made their way through the second airlock door and into Suri Dar’s small but comfortable quarters.

“Nobody’s in the cockpit, sir. Moving toward her private cabin now. The door is sealed, both the electronic and some kind of manual lock.”

“Force your way in if necessary.”

Bolton stood nervously, waiting for the report. “Why would a stringline hauler captain need to lock her quarters? She’s always alone up there. Why do they even
make
a lock?”

“Some pilots are paranoid,” Escobar said.

“We’re getting through,” said the second ranger. “Door’s open. What a stench!” He uttered a string of curses.

Bolton knew the answer even before the rangers reported.

“Captain Dar is dead, sir. She took her own life, at least a few days ago.”

“I expected that,” Escobar said quietly to Bolton, then transmitted to the rangers, “See if there are any nutrient supplies we can confiscate.”

“Nothing left, sir. Just wrappers and empty containers. Medical packages scattered around, too—I think she took an overdose.”

Bolton looked at the haunted expression on the Redcom’s face, saw his jaw muscles ripple as he ground his teeth together. Escobar ordered the rangers to return to the
Diadem’s Glory.
Bolton felt as if he had just suffered another blow to the gut.

“Review the records of our conscious crewmembers, Major,” Escobar said. “Find someone we can train as a substitute stringline pilot.”

58

Ishop and Laderna maintained their close surveillance on Burum Elakis. The man was a clever operative and gave very few indications of his plans, but he was no match for Ishop Heer.

As he stepped out of a lap pool at the exclusive private gymnasium building, he saw Laderna coming toward him with her usual brisk, businesslike step. Ishop preferred to swim at midmorning, when few others were around. He hated the smell of perspiration and the thought of other users on the equipment, so he sterilized each item before using it and checked the disinfectant levels of the pool water prior to stepping in. Michella had recently encouraged him to improve his physical condition. The old Diadem insisted that all her closest aides be as fit as she was, and Ishop couldn’t disagree; he would be a noble soon, and he had expectations to meet.

Laderna grinned at him as he took a towel from the middle of the stack to be sure no one else had touched it. “I have confirmation, boss. Elakis has assembled and planted the bomb to assassinate the Diadem. We have to act right away to save her.”

Such news was sufficient to cheer him, but he didn’t feel any rush. “The Diadem did call an emergency Council session this afternoon. I suppose receiving a severed head is an emergency, although I daresay Governor Undine would have preferred preemptive action instead. Did Elakis plant the bomb in the Council Hall? Now that I am a noble myself, I feel an obligation to save them all.”

“It’s more targeted than that. He planted the bomb in the Diadem’s autocarriage—more people will see the explosion out in the crowded streets, though it’ll play hell with traffic in Heart Square.”

“I’d better not ride with her, then,” Ishop said with a wicked smile as he went to get dressed.

Laderna beamed with pride. “I have the names of the coconspirators in the palace, a gardener and a driver in the motor pool, all of them clandestine supporters of General Adolphus.”

“Excellent work, as usual,” he said. “Now I should shower, get dressed, and go rescue the Diadem.”

She touched his arm, made him pause. “Or…” Laderna let the word hang for a moment. “We could remove the Duchenet name from our list, finish the job that we started.”

It would bring perfect closure, he realized, but he shook his head. “The Diadem can still help us. She’s too valuable an ally. But maybe later…”

While Laderna waited outside, Ishop dressed hurriedly in an informal suit and rubbed ointment onto his bald scalp. Not fine clothing, but under the circumstances, it would have to do. Time to be a hero.

At the palace he used his exclusive access codes to let himself into the gardens, where Michella was taking a brisk walk; Ishop knew she would be rehearsing her speech to the Council. She wore a dark exercise suit with the oval, star-studded Duchenet crest on the shoulder. Seeing him, she did not slow, and he had to jog to keep up with her. “Care to join me?”

“I already did my exercise today, Eminence.” He smiled, relishing the surprise. “I thought you’d like to know—I discovered an assassination plot, and I suggest we take a different vehicle to the emergency Council session this afternoon.”

That was enough to make her pause in her exercise. He provided details about the bomb plot and the network of Adolphus sympathizers he had uncovered.