Hellhole: Awakening (47 page)

Turning pale, Ishop blurted out, “We don’t dare take that risk. The slightest error, and all of Sonjeera could succumb to alien contamination! We might all be infected!”

Riomini ignored him and spoke to the Diadem with patient logic. “Eminence, we have no other leads! That alien stringline blast caused incredible damage to our hub
from light-years away.
” Now his voice became excited. “We need to know what the Xayans can do to us, and we can’t make good decisions without information.”

The Diadem was too deeply disturbed by her one close experience with the sluglike alien. She was sickened at the thought of the insidious contamination spread by those disgusting creatures—and all the deluded humans like her own daughter who allowed themselves to be taken over by it!

Ishop’s voice cracked. “Eminence, I urge you
not
to take such a risk! We could all be—”

She didn’t need to be further convinced. “I won’t hear of it, Selik. I refuse to breach the quarantine and allow dangerous organisms to escape.”

Puffing as if from great exertion, Mayak continued to explain his plan, even though he had already lost his case. “Eminence, I brought diagrams of the network of tunnels beneath the sealed hangar. We can drill an access from underground, with several layers of interlocks. I assure you, there will be no chance of contamination escaping.”

Her stomach roiled as she thought of an alien intrusion into her own mind. “I won’t allow it!”

Mayak and Riomini exchanged uneasy glances.

Angrily, Michella sent the scientists away, after which the Black Lord stood up and said, “With all due respect, Eminence, we must not ignore this opportunity—for the good of the Constellation. It is imperative that we understand our enemy. Otherwise how can we fight back?”

“I’ve made my decision, Selik. Now leave.” She barely moved, maintaining her icy demeanor, but she knew it could crack at any moment. He probably considered her irrational, but he hadn’t seen the things she had firsthand. He had not felt the insidious mental presence trying to get to her and her people.

Riomini paused as if to continue arguing, then left with a haughty, disrespectful air, which only angered her more.

*   *   *

When they were alone in the conference room, Ishop Heer nearly hyperventilated in an effort to control his panic. He poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher in the center of the conference table. “You made the wisest possible decision, Eminence. No one else understands the real threat, as we do.”

Unsettled, Michella paced the room, burning off nervous energy. “At least you realize the dangers, dear Ishop. You are able to see what others cannot. What would I do without you?”

He gave a somber nod. “It is my duty to protect you, Eminence—to see the dangers and intercept them.” He knew it was time to tell her his other revelation, a more comprehensible one, at least. “And there is another danger, closer to home.”

She sat, looking pale and old, obviously fearing what he would say. “What is it now?”

“As you asked, I found those responsible for the assassination attempt. My interrogations produced very disturbing information.” Taking care to conceal his glee, Ishop handed her his report on the information extracted from Burum Elakis. Without giving Michella time to read it, he told her that the operation had been instigated and bankrolled by Enva Tazaar herself. “Lady Tazaar planned to murder you and set herself up as the next Diadem while cooperating with General Adolphus to form an alliance with the Deep Zone.”

Michella’s expression transformed into disbelief. “One of my own nobles in league with the General?” It was just the two of them in the conference room, and she remained greatly agitated by Lord Riomini’s proposal. She stared up at the twisted aerogel sculpture. “Enva Tazaar?”

“Yes, Eminence. The evidence is incontrovertible.”

Michella picked up the water pitcher and hurled it at the dangling sculpture, shattering the art piece and causing fragments to fall onto the table and the floor, leaving only a chunk hanging from a wire. “Time to extinguish any hint of unrest,” she said. “The Constellation has to be absolutely united behind my rule in this time of crisis. We will arrest Enva Tazaar, present the evidence to the Council, and strip her of her noble titles and fortune. That should snuff out any other plots.”

Ishop hid his satisfaction. “I am your eyes and ears, Eminence.” It pleased him that Riomini had been tarnished, and now Enva Tazaar would also be removed from the equation. Ishop’s earlier ambitions had been simply to regain his noble title—which he could triumphantly do in only a few more days—but perhaps he should be thinking even bigger. “It seems the choice of who will be the next Diadem is no longer clear,” he said.

Michella blinked at him, as if wondering where that comment had come from. “Given the current state of affairs, I don’t see anyone on the horizon who can competently assume my duties. I’ll just have to live forever.”

“Oh, I’m sure someone will emerge.”

The Diadem let out a long sigh. “It’s not like you to be so optimistic, Ishop. Usually, you are a pragmatist and realist.”

He bowed, so she wouldn’t be able to read his expression. “I’ve always been your most faithful supporter, your loyal expediter, and I hope you will remember that … and reward me appropriately.”

Michella laughed. “You have certainly proved yourself in recent days, Ishop. And over the years you’ve been indispensable, more valuable than any ten nobles. No one deserves my generosity more than you do!”

“I am glad to know I have your complete support, if ever I need to ask.”

74

After more than two interminable months of deprivation, the last step of the fleet’s journey would take only a day. Ironically, after so much waiting, Escobar knew his troops weren’t ready, but he didn’t dare wait any longer. Strike fast, strike hard!

It was a balancing act to get the four remaining stringline haulers in place as thousands of groggy crewmembers returned to consciousness. Though the revived soldiers were weak to the point of starvation, gaunt and jittery, the supply of stimulants kept them functioning, as did their own adrenaline. They were heading for planet Hallholme at last!

What had once been a well-organized military operation, however, devolved into confusion and disbelief as word spread about what had occurred while they slept in blissful unconsciousness—the suicides, the brawls and killings, the disappearance of one full stringline hauler containing twenty battleships. Escobar managed to keep secret the source of the remaining rations—for the time being.

Another 157 crewmembers died of medical complications while being revived from their comas. Though distraught by the deaths, Dr. Hambliss was not surprised. “This was an experimental procedure in the first place, Redcom. We didn’t have the proper monitoring equipment or nutrients, or the beds to keep so many in induced comas. The Sandusky stasis drug was never meant to be used for such a prolonged time. That many casualties out of almost ten thousand sedated people is an acceptable loss by any measure.”

“We already have a long list of casualties, Doctor,” Escobar said. “So long as we still have enough fighters and firepower to defeat General Adolphus.”

Invigorating military music played over the intercom to keep the fighters inspired and moving for just one more day. They were like scarecrows returning to their posts; many were ill, nauseated and dizzy. Nevertheless, the Redcom did his best to whip them into shape. Escobar would have preferred to spend days drilling everyone and going over a concise battle plan, but there wasn’t enough time. They would face the enemy soon, and he needed to focus them on their imminent goal.

Many fighter pilots had perished in the random cutbacks, and he had fewer to join the attack than he would have liked. With the twenty warships lost on the vanished stringline hauler, four more ships that were still loaded with frozen bodies, and six that had been damaged in mutinous uprisings, he was left with seventy capable warships. Despite the diminished force, Escobar hoped that his arrival would be such a shock to the rebels that he would overwhelm them and cause the General to surrender.

Seven hours after the return of Sergeants Zabriskie and Caron, the stringline haulers lined up on the new iperion path and launched for planet Hallholme. Escobar counted on making the rest of the preparations during the last day of flight. It was all the time they had.

Medical teams, assisted by growing ranks of revived volunteers, continued to awaken the sedated soldiers. As the four haulers hurtled down the stringline toward the target, Escobar walked the corridors of the
Diadem’s Glory.
Bolton gave him quiet reports of conversations overheard. “The crew is only beginning to grasp the magnitude of what’s gone wrong on this mission. They’re growing angry, sir, and they blame it on you.”

“I knew they’d blame it on me, Major. As you told me before, a commander’s decisions aren’t always easy, but if we can achieve this victory, I’ll keep the rest of them alive. We’ll feast on the General’s stockpiles, and all will be forgiven.”

“A true commander doesn’t need to ask forgiveness from his men,” Bolton said, “if the decisions he makes are warranted.”

Escobar was annoyed. “Thank you for dispensing your command wisdom, Major Crais.”

“It’s not mine, Redcom. It’s a direct quote from your father.”

Gail Carrington returned to the bridge, looking wan and weak but with a fire in her eyes. She paused to give Escobar an accusatory glare, then nodded to him and to Bolton. “Although I expressed my doubts, Commodore Hallholme, it appears that your harsh plan did work. I accept the necessity of what you did, but the victory is not won yet.”

“Thank you, Ms. Carrington. Include that in your report to Lord Riomini when we come home victorious.” Despite his professed confidence, Escobar remained concerned. Each time he glanced at Lieutenant Cristaine’s empty station, he was reminded of all they had lost.

His task force was not exactly the well-oiled machine it had been when it departed from Sonjeera. Power reserves were low, and they had barely enough energy to activate their primary weapons—not the impressive punitive force that Diadem Michella had wanted to throw against General Adolphus—and they were arriving two months later than expected … but they should have the element of surprise on their side—even more so than before.

Escobar ground his teeth together. If they were victorious, the Diadem and the Black Lord would be satisfied enough.

He delivered an impromptu speech over the fleet-wide channel, telling his crew he knew they were upset over the horrific losses they had endured, but General Adolphus was the real enemy, not their commanding officer—not him.
Adolphus
had cut the stringline and stranded them all;
Adolphus
had caused their misery.

He knew he was pushing the troops hard, and realized they were weak, reeling and disoriented from the aftereffects of long sedation, and the shock of the deaths. Some struggled to find their focus, but most were good enough soldiers that they fell back into their routine.

They had been drilled and trained before leaving the Crown Jewels, and they understood the simple and swift initial plan to overwhelm the enemy, striking fast and striking hard. They had never dreamed they might lose; failure was not part of any plan.

Escobar had painted himself into a corner and he had only one chance to redeem himself, but he feared this crew was not ready. “It feels like a disaster waiting to happen,” he whispered to himself.

Carrington overheard him and responded in a brittle voice, reminding him of his place. “I disagree, Redcom. It feels like a
victory
waiting to happen.”

A signal came from the stringline hauler’s replacement pilot. “Approaching the Hallholme system, sir. Arrival at the terminus ring is imminent.” Her voice carried an undertone of disbelief.

Escobar sat in the command chair, drew a deep breath, and prepared himself. “It’s about damned time.”

He ordered everyone to battle stations, and the surviving pilots rushed to their fighter craft, ready to engage the rebel forces. The four stringline haulers decelerated and appeared, one after another, at the discreet terminus ring that Zabriskie and Caron had deposited at the edge of the Hallholme system. As soon as the haulers were in position, Escobar ordered all warships to disengage from their docking clamps and prepare to move forward in a full aerial assault. He would leave the hauler frameworks at the terminus ring.

“It won’t be long before the General’s sensors spot our four haulers,” he said. “We have to be on the move before he can take action.”

A shudder ran through the
Diadem’s Glory
as the docking clamp released them from its months-long grasp. The flagship’s in-system engines guided it forward to join the other ships. They would swoop down upon planet Hallholme and open fire, disrupt whatever defenses the rebels had in place, and secure a swift victory. He had to overwhelm General Adolphus before the man could see just how weak the Constellation fleet truly was.

The familiar, rousing theme played. If everything went right, the Redcom was creating a stirring tale to tell his sons—if he survived long enough to return home and see them again.

Leaving the new terminus ring behind, the Constellation task force began its final approach toward the hellish world. Seventy warships flew in, an impressive force, but the formation was too loose for Escobar’s liking; the crews lacked discipline. He had hoped for precision, a model operation, but it was all he could do to get the attack ships to engage the same target. It would have to do.

He broadcast a final rallying cry across the secure fleet codecall channel. “Our first priority is to disarm the General and destroy his defenses. After that, we send immediate recovery teams down to the colony cities to secure their food stockpiles. We’ll take what they have and make ourselves whole again. I promise you, we’ll have all we can eat tonight!”

He heard a ragged cheer from his bridge crew, and it was echoed throughout the fleet. It pleased him how readily they believed his promise. It meant they still had faith in him. According to Constellation propaganda, Hellhole was a squalid and miserable place where the people could barely survive, but now, somehow, the warship crews imagined a wealth of supplies, stockpiles of food.