Hellhole: Awakening (10 page)

Bolton sat between the two, watching the tension rise, but Firth was a professional diplomat and not easily offended. “Very good. To be better prepared, we should discuss what concessions you would like for yourself, Redcom. Perhaps a fief on planet Hallholme once we conquer it? It would seem an apt reward for your service. I am certain the Diadem would allow it.”

“I have no interest in that dreadful place. It may be named after my family, but I have no fondness for it. The Hallholmes have already taken the old Adolphus holdings on Qiorfu, and I don’t want to make a habit of scavenging the General’s leavings.”

After the dinner began, Gail Carrington appeared in her black, insignia-free uniform. She stopped beside the captain’s table, saw that all the chairs were full, and waited for someone to rectify the error. Bolton summoned a steward. “Please join us, Ms. Carrington.” He added uncomfortably, “I never know whether or not to salute you, ma’am.”

“Pay no attention to me at all, Major.”

“Beyond observing, what is your role, precisely, Ms. Carrington?” Escobar asked. “As the fleet commander, I need to know.”

“You already know what you need to know. I served the Black Lord for years as one of his most skilled special operatives. When I require you to listen, I will inform you.”

She took the seat brought by the steward and waited for him to set another place; within moments, the staff had adjusted to the additional person at the head table. She looked at the lead diplomat with blunt dislike. “Lord Riomini objected to your assignment aboard the fleet, Mr. Firth. He gave me instructions to watch you as well.”

Firth raised his eyebrows. “My team and I serve at the pleasure of the Diadem. Lord Riomini’s opinion matters little.”

“He is Supreme Commander of the Army of the Constellation.”

“And I believe he holds a grudge against me because I’ve voiced public support for Enva Tazaar to become the next Diadem. Lady Tazaar is the same age as Michella was when she took the Star Throne. Lord Riomini is too old with too much baggage.”

Bolton watched the exchange, remaining silent. He had heard, in hushed discussions when no one thought he was listening (an advantage to being underestimated), that Firth himself had forwarded embarrassing evidence against Selik Riomini to the Diadem, thinking it would ruin him.

“Your talk of politics and family squabbles gives me indigestion,” Escobar said, setting down his fork. “This is a military mission and we need to keep our attention on the operation, not on who might become the next Diadem.”

Bolton cut into his juicy prime rib. The slab of meat on his plate was twice the size he wanted, but he understood the need to flaunt the bounty of the Constellation, the sheer quantity available on even a military vessel. “I hope the main dish is to your liking,” he said, to reduce the tension. “While the ships were being prepared, I loaded enough of these beef roasts aboard that the whole crew can celebrate with a feast when we finish our operations.”

And when we see that Keana is safe.

“Prime beef for fifteen thousand soldiers? I hope it comes out of the Diadem’s budget,” Carrington said.

“We’ll take what the General has in his warehouses and feast on that,” Escobar grumbled. “That seems more fitting.”

“Hear, hear!” Firth raised his glass and took a long sip. His fellow diplomats followed suit.

The diplomats shared additional platters of creamed vegetables and baskets of steaming, buttery rolls. Bolton was already stuffed, but he forced himself to eat more. At last, he pushed the plate away with half of his beef remaining, just so he could pretend to enjoy the billowy dessert of jellied fruits and chocolate shavings, followed by liqueurs and cups of fresh kiafa.

In mess halls throughout the fleet, the crew received extra rations so they could be well fed and energetic for the upcoming military engagement. A fanfare of “Strike fast, strike hard!” rang out across the ship’s PA system.

Bolton remembered numerous formal dinners he and Keana had attended, making politically required appearances in the Diadem’s name but having few actual duties. Princess Keana had inaugurated new buildings, christened ships, welcomed minor diplomats to Sonjeera; she always looked beautiful and elegant, playing her role adequately, but she’d never been happy. Because the Constellation Charter precluded any member of the Diadem’s immediate family from becoming the next Diadem, Keana was destined for a life of comfortable mediocrity, and her own ambitions had never blossomed.

Bolton didn’t have the fire in his belly either, which greatly disappointed other members of the Crais family. He held a respected position in the Army of the Constellation, and was satisfied with his career. Until Keana ran off to Hellhole on a naïve errand to rescue Cristoph de Carre and to assuage her guilt for her role in ruining the de Carre family, Bolton had even been somewhat satisfied with his marriage. He’d had few expectations. He knew why Keana married him. She was certainly beautiful enough, and he found her sexually exciting—more so than she found him, apparently—but he had never longed for a passionate relationship. Keana was the one who had those romantic dreams, hence her foolish affair with Lord Louis de Carre.

Bolton had learned to live with her flings, and he had no archaic notions of “possessing” her. She probably assumed that he took lovers of his own; they’d never discussed what she’d thought was an open marriage. He didn’t care what other people thought. But they talked alas, and Diadem Michella had responded by destroying the de Carre family, driving Keana’s disgraced lover to suicide, humiliating his son Cristoph, and handing over Vielinger to the Riominis.

Jackson Firth raised his wineglass again and exclaimed, “To the Diadem!”

The others echoed the toast and drank.

On impulse, Bolton said, “For Princess Keana. May she return to us safely.”

The response to his toast sounded just as enthusiastic as the other one; Bolton realized that the diplomats were only interested in continuing to drink. They lost count of the bottles of wine.

*   *   *

After the tedious dinner, Escobar Hallholme returned to his command quarters, the largest cabin aboard the flagship. He needed to get away from the yammering diplomats. Upon reflection, he respected Bolton Crais for turning down a chance to grandstand at the Sonjeera hub. The Major was right—this was a military operation, not a pageant. They should be focused on the mission, not on premature celebrations.

This very flagship was the one that Commodore Percival Hallholme had flown in the Battle of Sonjeera, in which he had roundly defeated General Adolphus. Now upgraded, the
Diadem’s Glory
would once again lead the Constellation forces to a decisive victory.

He looked at the ceremonial sword mounted on its stand, a reminder of the faith his father had placed in him. Escobar intended to make a fine accounting of himself. Though he didn’t yet understand what level of authority Gail Carrington wielded, he knew she reported directly to the Black Lord. It was possible that she even had the power to boost, or destroy, Escobar’s military career.

Though he had endured years of having his superior officers and training instructors compare him to Percival Hallholme, Escobar had worked hard to succeed in his own right. But no matter what he did, regardless of the skill with which he commanded his troops, some believed Escobar had no real talent and that his promotions were due only to nepotism.

In public, he was cool when people rhapsodized about the old Commodore’s exploits, but here in private, Escobar reviewed his father’s memoirs and studied the battles Percival had fought. He learned from the tricks the old man had used when he won, as well as the mistakes he had made when he lost.

Early in his career Percival had bungled two high-profile assignments, including an uprising on the Crown Jewel worlds and one out in the Deep Zone. But because he became General Adolphus’s primary nemesis during the rebellion, Percival’s history had been whitewashed. A legend could do no wrong. To his credit, the old man seemed embarrassed by his legendary status and preferred to live in obscurity on Qiorfu.

Using the library screen on the bulkhead wall, Escobar called up images he had watched countless times of the General’s formal surrender aboard this flagship. A battered-looking Adolphus with reddened eyes and sunken cheeks had presented himself to Commodore Hallholme after a tense standoff in orbit. Even though the rebel ships far outnumbered the Diadem’s forces, a wily (and desperate) Percival Hallholme had pulled out his last trump card—numerous rebel family members held hostage aboard the Constellation ships, who would become victims if the rebels opened fire. The General hesitated at the crucial last instant, but Percival did not. The Diadem’s ships fired at point-blank range, dealing a crushing blow to Adolphus’s fleet. General Adolphus had called the act dishonorable; the Diadem had called it a stroke of genius.

Either way, the war was won for the Constellation.

Escobar stared at his father’s image on the video record. The stoic Commodore showed no smugness at his victory. Some staff officers made catcalls as Adolphus walked forward to surrender, but the Commodore commanded them to respectful silence. The defeated rebel leader came alone in his disgrace, although he’d been allowed to bring ten staff members as an honor guard. Adolphus chose to face the brunt of shame and failure by himself. He stood stony and silent as the Commodore plucked the symbols of rank from his uniform. The General’s own followers had fashioned the pins and insignia for him.

“Tiber Adolphus, I strip you of a rank that means nothing. Your rebellion is over. May peace forever reign across the—”

Adolphus interrupted him. “I gave you my word that I would surrender, and I have done so, but I did not promise to help you make speeches. I request clemency for my men and women. They followed me in good faith to the best of their abilities. My failure here is no reflection on the quality of their service.”

“I accept your surrender,” the Commodore said, “and I grant your soldiers clemency and shelter. All those who foreswear violence against the Diadem will be taken into custody temporarily, for eventual safe release.”

Escobar’s father had gotten into trouble for that particular promise, because Diadem Michella had wanted to execute many more of Adolphus’s followers as an example. But the great war hero, riding high on public acclaim from his victory, had neutralized her vindictive plans.

Now, having reviewed the historical record, Escobar vowed not to make any such foolish, open-ended promises.

A signal at the door interrupted him, and Escobar allowed the visitor to enter. “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” Bolton Crais said.

Realizing he had left his father’s biography and the General’s surrender on his screen, Escobar quickly shut them off. “How can I help you, Major?”

Bolton nodded toward the screen. “Studying your father’s exploits?”

“Preparing for our imminent ceremony of accepting Adolphus’s surrender.” He realized his voice sounded terse. “It will be a historic event. I want it to be worthy.”

Bolton stood looking uncomfortable. Escobar doubted he had any inkling of how to fight if it ever came down to personal combat; the nobleman had not been bred for such things, did not belong aboard a battleship. To a certain extent, Escobar respected him for insisting on participating in this mission for his wife’s sake, though the man must feel terribly out of his depth. As a man who was in a political marriage himself, Escobar wasn’t sure he would have tried to save Elaine if she’d cuckolded him and run away to join an alien religious cult.…

Looking uneasy, Bolton said what he had come to say. “After our dinner conversation, sir, I felt the need to reassure you. While I may not have the same combat skills you possess, I swear to do my best to make this operation a success. I have reviewed the complement of officers aboard the fleet. You have a valid concern that we carry a great deal of—how shall I put this?—
deadweight
in the command structure. I can help you streamline that, should it become necessary. We could quietly assign important operational duties to the most competent staff, regardless of rank or family ties, while we give showy but irrelevant jobs to lackluster personnel. We can do it subtly enough that they will never realize what’s happening.”

Escobar found the suggestion amusing. “I always considered
you
to be one of these lackluster officers, Major Crais.”

“Then I hope to convince you otherwise, sir.”

13

Five substations marked and stabilized the iperion path from Sonjeera to Hellhole, and Turlo Urvancik knew them all. Over the course of their career as linerunners, he and Sunitha had stopped at each station many times for regular servicing operations. The substations collimated the quantum “breadcrumb” path through space, defining the route so that the ultrafast stringline ships did not go astray.

Now he and Sunitha had to blow up two substations, with precise timing. Destroying the target was easy, but doing it with enough finesse to snare the hundred Constellation warships—that was more complicated, and a lot more exciting.

Thanks to the intelligence data from the Constellation spy, General Adolphus knew exactly where and when to strike, and the Urvanciks had taken position well ahead of the oncoming attack fleet. The success of the General’s vast scheme to create a secret stringline network across fifty-four DZ worlds already proved his grasp of tactics and timing. Compared to that masterstroke, this mission was far simpler—but still the Urvanciks needed to do it right.

The five substations were evenly spaced across the vastness of space between the Crown Jewels and Hellhole, with Substation 1 nearest to Sonjeera and Substation 5 closest to the opposite end. With Sunitha piloting, the
Kerris
arrived at Substation 3, in the middle of the iperion line.

After setting up the proximity charges, Turlo climbed back inside the airlock of the
Kerris,
fidgeted through the decontamination procedure, and removed his spacesuit, wiping sweat from his forehead. The proximity fuse here at Substation 3 would be triggered by the passage of Escobar Hallholme’s attack fleet. Moments after the warship-laden haulers hurtled past, the explosives would destroy the substation and sever the stringline from behind. Traveling at many times the speed of light, the Constellation fleet wouldn’t even realize what had happened in their wake.