Hellhole: Awakening (58 page)

The programmers stepped back, shaking their heads. “It’s inaccessible, sir. We’ve got no way to get into the core programming.”

Adolphus gave a noncommittal nod. In his academy training, he had risen to an officer’s rank with a bright future ahead of him. He’d learned to fly battleships, with access to the control codes. He’d been the captain of a survey vessel in the Army of the Constellation, sent on a sabotaged mission that was designed to result in the death of him and his unwanted crew. In the intervening years, he was sure that Supreme Commander Riomini would have changed the codes, but maybe not all of them. At least it was a starting point in the options he had. “A lot of things have changed, but maybe I can override—”

The initial command string didn’t work, nor did he expect it to. He tried a higher-level access code, but still the screen remained dead. The rogue autopilot responded to the tampering by pushing the thrusters, causing the flagship to take a steeper plunge. Shouting, the engineers tried to get their own stations to respond, but even the course-adjustment thrusters did little to halt the ship’s death plunge, and then they, too, gave out.

Adolphus suddenly had another idea. “Dispatch our squadrons, get as many ships up here as possible, even small ones, anything with engines. Maybe we can shoulder some of the Constellation fleet back up into orbit by brute force.”

“That might damage our own ships, General!”

“Then we’ll have to be gentle. Do it—we could buy some more time.”

Within five minutes, fighter craft and troop haulers dropped out of the remaining DZ Defense Force ships, seeking to match courses with the descending Constellation vessels. It was touchy flying, requiring the best piloting skill as the ships matched course and speed, then applied thrust, nudging the rogue vessels higher. Five Constellation warships were successfully deflected, to much cheering over the communication channels. One pilot struck too hard and breached the hull of the descending ship while damaging his own; he barely extricated his craft in time, backing out to a safe orbit as the damaged ship tumbled into the atmosphere.

The
Diadem’s Glory
shuddered and rocked. The black starry sky now showed a faint haze as they skimmed the outer stratosphere. A bow shock of heat ripples surrounded the flagship as it carved its way down. Two bridge stations exploded in sparks, injuring one of the struggling programmers.

“We’ve got ten minutes left,” said the lead engineer. “Barely enough time to make it to the evac pods. We have to
jettison,
sir!”

“Not yet.” Adolphus keyed in the third code, one he barely remembered—and when that did nothing, he tried again and again, transposing digits, struggling to recall the exact sequence. And finally he was into the core programming, but still unable to override the virus.

The flagship rocked from side to side, the hull groaned with the strain. Another set of alarms began to sound.

“Heat loads are reaching maximum. The shields are going to give out in four minutes.”

On the screen, another Constellation ship exploded in the atmosphere not far below them.

“As least I have access now,” Adolphus said. “I broke in. Now, one last thing to do—a complete shutdown of all systems, including the main computer. That should drag down the peripheral nav-controls, killing power to the engines. Once we shut them off cold, then reset the computer, we should restore control.”

“We’re already dead in the sky, General,” said the lead engineer.

“So it can’t get any worse. Without downward thrust, this big ship might skip like a stone across the atmosphere.” His voice remained quiet, but hard and implacable. “We don’t have time to discuss this.”

One of the programmers dove to a panel beneath the main control station. She dug her hands deep into the circuit grid to find wires, and at last she threw the manual switch that completely shut down the flagship’s engines.

The bridge dropped into blackness for a second, and all the stations went dark, lit only by the eerie glow of plasma flares, sparks, and the sunlight scattered through Hellhole’s upper atmosphere.

“Wipe the computer!” Adolphus shouted. “Start from scratch. We only need enough control to turn the rudders and navigation flaps, get us pointed upward again.”

A large blast—some external tank rupturing from the heat—tilted them to one side. Another programmer restarted the power systems. “We have no computer control, General … but thanks to you at least the autopilot’s dead and not fighting against us anymore.”

As the power came back on, another station exploded in a spray of sparks. “That was the weapons system, sir.”

“I’m more interested in the navigation flaps.”

One of the engineer pilots wiped sweat from his face. “We’ve adjusted our altitude—at least we’re no longer descending out of control.”

“Transmit to all the other ships! Give them the code and tell them to shut down power, wipe the computers. Do what they can to save as many vessels as they can.”

“There’s not much left of this flagship, sir.” The female programmer climbed back to her feet from the control access on the deck.

“It’s one little victory,” the General said. “I’ll take it.”

88

After traveling three days along the captured stringline from Buktu, Commodore Percival Hallholme’s battle group arrived at the planet bearing his own name.

During the relatively quiet trip, Percival had interrogated the uncooperative Erik Anderlos, as well as the Buktu factory workers, ice miners, and ship refitters. Before he faced his nemesis again, he wanted to develop a clear understanding of how many frontline military vessels the rebels might have in their defenses—and if General Adolphus had truly captured his son.

The inhabitants of the frozen planetoid had no chance to plan ahead or coordinate their stories, but they all lied to him nevertheless. Some gave him ridiculously inflated numbers, while others claimed that the five half-assembled ships in spacedock were all they had ever worked on.

“Useless information,” he told Adkins an hour before arrival. “We don’t have any better intelligence on the General’s defenses than we did before.”

His old aide leaned against the bulkhead in the Commodore’s ready room. “You didn’t really expect them to spill every detail, did you? These are rebels, hardened to their cause, but you’d think
someone
would cooperate to gain better terms for himself or his family.”

“That would certainly be the case if we weren’t dealing with General Tiber Adolphus. We know from past experience that when people join his fight, their loyalty is extraordinary.” Even his own crews did not bond with such tremendous allegiance.

Percival finished his sweet kiafa, straightened his uniform, and then glanced in the mirror to make sure his whiskers and hair were neatly combed. He gathered his formal cap. “Shall we go to the bridge? We’re about to arrive.”

Adkins had a jaunty step as they entered the lift. “Ready for your rematch, sir?”

Percival frowned; he had never viewed this as a game. “I defeated Adolphus the first time. I’ll do it again.”

His deepest worry was that Adolphus was holding Escobar as a hostage and would threaten to kill him. During the first rebellion, the honorable Tiber Adolphus would never have stooped to such tactics, but now … Percival wasn’t so certain. He himself had redefined the rules of acceptable behavior in the Battle of Sonjeera. How far would General Adolphus go now?

When the Commodore and Adkins arrived on the bridge, every officer and enlisted soldier snapped to sharp attention, looking at the aged commander with great respect. He could tell they were on the verge of applauding him, but he didn’t want that. “To your stations,” he said gruffly and slid into the command chair.

“We begin decelerating in ten minutes, sir,” the chief pilot said, sitting beside him.

“Very good.” He laced his fingers together and looked at the viewscreen, which, as yet, showed nothing. “Mr. Adkins, separate Erik Anderlos from the other prisoners, in case we need to use him as an intermediary.”

Both men knew that by “intermediary” he actually meant
hostage.
The Buktu deputy administrator had been tight-lipped and uncooperative throughout the entire journey. “Yes, sir.”

“Sound battle stations.”

Alarms reverberated through all thirty vessels hanging from the stringline hauler. “Pilots to your fighter craft, ready to launch as soon as we reach the hub. Every second will count.” They had drilled for this, counted down the hours as they sped in from distant Buktu. During the last day, he had even allowed the intercoms to play the loud and optimistic “Strike fast, strike hard!” fanfare, though he found it annoying. If there was ever a time to leverage their feelings of patriotism, it was now.

Percival had considered reviewing historical records of the final confrontation over Sonjeera years ago in order to gain more insight into the General’s previous tactics, but that would be a waste of time. He already knew how Adolphus had outmaneuvered him before finally losing.

But in the following years Percival himself had changed. During that legendary final battle, when the Diadem forced him to use despicable means to win at all costs, Percival had seen the rot at the core of the Constellation. He had withdrawn into retirement, wanting none of the glory he could have attained based on his famous victory. All that bravado now felt hollow to him—but he would be a less formidable opponent if he doubted his own beliefs, and he could not allow that.

Percival was also certain that General Adolphus had grown stronger during his years of exile. This would not be an easy victory.

He gave his obligatory speech before engaging in battle. “We must use our element of surprise to its fullest advantage. The rebels will not know we are coming, but Tiber Adolphus isn’t a man to let down his guard. We must strike quickly and shock them. Our battle group
will
seize this planet and its stringline network in the name of the Diadem!”

The hauler pilot’s codecall transmission interrupted his broadcast. “Arriving in the system, Commodore.”

“Very well,” Percival said. “This is our moment in history.”

As the impact-scarred planet appeared before them, growing larger by the second, Commodore Hallholme ordered the thirty warships to disengage. In a coordinated effort, like opening hands, docking clamps released the ships, all of which dropped down, engines igniting in the airless vacuum. They spread out in a deadly swarm, arrowing straight toward planet Hallholme.

Duff Adkins reacted as soon as the images and data poured across the viewscreen. “A lot of ships around the planet, Commodore! More than fifty.”

“Zoom in, high magnification.”

The ships appeared, many of them streaming along in orbit, others down in the atmosphere. “Those are
our
ships—the Constellation fleet!” The bridge crew let out a gasp as they watched a vessel burn up in the atmosphere. “It’s total chaos, it seems to be some kind of battle.”

Escobar’s ships.
So, his son had arrived here after all!

Then, as Percival watched, he realized that the Constellation ships were in a flurry; many seemed to be diving in suicide plunges. He counted ten of the General’s warships, but they drifted along as if empty, not part of the engagement.

“What the hell?” He leaned forward in the command chair. “What could possibly be going on here?”

“They haven’t even reacted to our arrival,” Adkins said. “I can’t believe the General would be so lax.”

“He seems preoccupied at the moment. This is fortuitous timing.” Percival flicked his gaze from side to side as he tried to discern flight formations or strategic patterns among the chaotic movement of the Constellation ships or even among the General’s old refurbished vessels. “Everything is in disarray. Adolphus would never allow such a lack of discipline.”

“Now they’ve spotted us, Commodore! Here they come!”

Five of the seemingly dormant DZ Defense Force ships shifted course and rose into higher orbit, activating their weapons; the other five still hung motionless.

“Dispatch fighter craft and tell them to fire at will. We’ve caught the rebels snoozing. Let’s take advantage of it.”

His attack fighters came in with weapons blazing, shooting projectiles at the nearest DZ ships.

One of the pilots reported: “We’ve identified the Constellation flagship, sir. The
Diadem’s Glory
is just above the atmosphere, severely damaged.”

“Contact their commander,” Percival ordered. “Tell him help is on the way.” He prayed that Escobar was still aboard, still in command. If this was the aftermath of a battle, then his own ships could rescue the remnants of the Constellation fleet. When his son departed from the Sonjeera hub, he’d led five full stringline haulers loaded with a hundred fully equipped vessels. Now, at a glance, Percival saw only a few dozen warships.

“Calling
Diadem’s Glory.
This is Commodore Hallholme—I’ve brought a full battle group from Sonjeera. I thought you might need some help.” He looked at the screen, raised his eyebrows, and waited. “Please respond. My vessels and weapons are at your disposal.”

But when the codecall screen shifted and resolved into a man’s image, the last person Percival ever expected to see at the helm was General Adolphus himself.

89

Keana hurried along the dusty paths between the prison camp structures and tents, watching the sky as Constellation warships destroyed themselves overhead, tumbling unpiloted down through the atmosphere.

From his assigned tent, Bolton Crais saw her and rose to his feet, stepping out to meet her. He wore one of his confused, disarming expressions.

“Bolton, what’s happening up there? Why are those ships out of control?” As she faced him in the camp, she noted his dirty, torn uniform, his unshaven, gaunt face. She hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with him after the bloody debacle aboard the
Jacob.
He eyed her warily, but she wanted him to see it was
Keana herself
speaking to him, not some alien-possessed puppet. “Yes, it’s really
me.
Did you do something to the fleet controls? Tell me!”