Hellhole Inferno (15 page)

She patted him with her gnarled hands, which reminded him of reptiles. “My way of keeping you satisfied, dear Ishop … and keeping you close.” She watched him closely, and he schooled his expression, keeping it blank. But what did she mean by that?

With cheering crowds lining the way, the state carriage left Heart Square and made its way along a circuitous route. Michella waved, while Ishop tried to melt back into the seat. He had once saved this woman from an assassin's bomb during a similar carriage ride. She had thanked him then, too, patting him on the head, granting him a few baubles to show her appreciation. Like a puppy that had done a trick.

If Michella had an inkling of his deep hatred, how much he wished he could kill her, her heart might simply shrivel up and stop beating. She glanced at him now, saw the hard smile on his face, and undoubtedly took it as a good sign before turning to wave at the crowds who didn't even know exactly what they were celebrating.

Soon, Ishop knew that he and Laderna would hold their own celebration, finishing their list at last. He knew the resourceful girl would figure out a spectacular death for Haveeda Duchenet, and he couldn't wait to hear the details. He wished he could have been there at her side, but that would have caused far too many logistical problems, and Ishop had to keep himself studiously separate. Even so, he managed a small smile to himself.

No, Ishop had not acquired the expected noble title and properties that were his due, but at least he had the satisfaction of revenge against all those who had harmed his family long ago. And in the process, he'd grown quite close to Laderna. Yes, she was a most worthy assistant, a good partner, a team member in his most exclusive team. When she returned from her last mission, he decided he had to find some way to show Laderna how much he valued her … unlike the way Michella treated him.

When the formal procession reached the Sonjeera spaceport for departure to the stringline hub, Ishop saw even more people crowded in cordoned-off areas. He knew the old hag intended to go up and board the Commodore's flagship so she could give the fleet an appropriate sendoff. Ishop also thought she would insist that he accompany her up to orbit. She probably thought he would appreciate basking in her reflected glory.

But Michella seemed … off, as if she expected something from him. Furtive glances, flickers of anger, a questioning lift of an eyebrow. What scheme did she have up her sleeve now?

Thanks to massive round-the-clock work, the giant stringline hub had been repaired after the alien attack that had resounded along the iperion line from Candela. Seventy percent of the facilities were back online now, and the gathered “additional defense” ships filled most of the available spots.

Michella stepped down from the ornate carriage and called, “Come, Ishop. People are watching. Stay in line.” As he followed her toward the waiting shuttle, he knew the audience was looking at him, and he felt embarrassed and angry in his gaudy uniform. In his work, he preferred to remain unnoticed. He didn't like people paying attention to him.

When they finally boarded the shuttle and Diadem Michella ordered the access sealed behind them, a protected silence settled down on them. Ishop finally began to relax. He sat across the aisle from Michella and had to keep pretending that this was important to him, that he felt honored to be with her. She would want to chat with him during the flight up to orbit. He drew a deep breath, summoned his energy, and played his role.

Michella reached over to pat his arm with a clawlike hand. “You are a fine aide, Ishop. I doubt there has ever been another so loyal or so competent. I know you would never betray me.”

He suppressed a shudder. “Thank you, Eminence. I always do my very best for you.”

Her vulturelike eyes flashed. “A pity that you can't have a similarly reliable assistant. But that's too much to be expected.” Suspicions and alarms immediately surfaced in his mind, but before he could ask what she meant, Michella handed him a film note. “I received this at breakfast. It's quite disturbing, but nothing for you to worry about. I'm certain you had nothing to do with it. The matter has already been taken care of.”

Struggling to mask his reaction, forming a carefully sculpted look of surprise, he took the note from her. “My assistant, Eminence? I'm sure I don't know what you mean. She has taken some personal leave and I haven't seen her in several days.”

Michella gave him a look that seemed to show that she didn't believe him for a moment. She kept chattering without letting him read the note. “Ishop, I don't hold it against you, but really you must choose your help more wisely in the future. You yourself saw how I dealt with Lord Riomini's guards who defied my absolute quarantine on the sealed spaceport hangar—I had to incinerate them alive, poor things. But a necessary lesson. The Black Lord knows the painful consequences of defying me.”

“But … what does that have to do with Laderna Nell?” He felt a cold stone in his chest.

She
tsk
ed. “Your assistant was caught trespassing in a very sensitive area on Sandusky, carrying forged identity documents. If she told you she was taking personal time, it's a good thing we caught her. Apparently, you were duped. I never imagined you to be so easily fooled, Ishop.”

Ishop stared down at the film note. Michella knew damned well she was no patsy. “I … had no idea, Eminence.” His mind spun. Did Michella know?

“Of course you didn't.”

And what about Haveeda? He had to protect himself. What kind of cat-and-mouse game was the old woman playing? “I will get to the bottom of this matter. Where is my assistant now? I wish to speak with her. I'll get the answers out of her—you know I will.” Because it was expected, he forced himself to add, “I take full responsibility for her actions.”

In a matter-of-fact tone, Michella said, “Oh, no need for you to do anything, Ishop. The woman has already been interrogated by Sandusky authorities.”

As the shuttle lifted off with a roar, making them lurch in their seats, thoughts screamed inside his head. What should he say? What should he do? Had Laderna revealed anything? Looking at Michella, he thought he saw the cruel edge to her demeanor again, as if she knew full well how Ishop had been involved, and what Laderna had attempted to do to Haveeda. She was pushing him, testing him … torturing him.

He maintained perfect, precise control over his expression, but he could not keep his body from perspiring. He hoped she didn't notice.

Michella continued in a dismissive tone, “Alas, we'll never know. The foolish girl died during questioning. The Sandusky researchers used some very harsh biological agents in an attempt to pry information from her, and they weakened her so much that she had to be placed in quarantine, awaiting further interrogation. Before that could take place, she was exposed to a flesh-eating virus. Accidentally, of course. I'm afraid there isn't much left of her body, but I signed it over for their research purposes, so that she can be of some use.”

She watched him, her eyes like scalpels. He felt a prickle of sweat on his brow. “I suppose that's for the best,” he said. He was screaming inside.

“Yes, I suppose so. I'm certainly glad I didn't have to take measures against you. What happened to Lord Riomini's guards should be a lesson to you, too.” Michella leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, humming to herself. “Before you hire a new assistant, I will have my chief of staff make suggestions.”

Ishop sat frozen in panic. For the first time in years, he felt utterly helpless. And alone.

Michella settled into her own seat. “We'll worry about that after the Commodore launches his fleet to Tehila. It'll be glorious.”

 

20

For his entire adult life, Bolton Crais had been an officer in the Army of the Constellation, and by virtue of his noble birth he had always felt imbued with a sense of honor, a duty to be moral and trustworthy. Unfortunately, not all nobles held themselves to such a high standard.

After the initial defeat of General Adolphus, the Army of the Constellation had been nothing more than a place for gala military parades and routine patrols. Promotions were purchased with bribes or awarded on the basis of bloodlines. As a mere logistics officer, Bolton had never expected to shoulder the onerous responsibility of making life-or-death combat decisions.

Now, in the Hellhole prisoner-of-war camp, Bolton felt duty-bound to protect his fellow soldiers, including Redcom Escobar Hallholme. On several occasions during their abortive retaliatory mission, Bolton had seen the Redcom make unwise decisions. He'd given his advice, but if the Redcom chose to ignore the suggestions, he had to accept the will of his commanding officer.

For two days, Bolton had tried to convince the Redcom and the two other junior officers not to go through with their impulsive escape scheme, insisting that they had insufficient information to plan properly, no sense of the local geography or natural hazards, no equipment or weapons. But they would not be convinced, so he was forced to accept the idea. Since Redcom Hallholme intended to go, his logistics officer volunteered to do whatever he could to help. By observation and careful accounting, Bolton had quietly saved the man before.

Vingh and Yimidi were excited as they implemented their plan with Redcom Hallholme, although Bolton doubted they could ever make their way across the unforgiving landscape to distant Michella Town, then seize a ship at the spaceport, and make their way via a roundabout stringline path back to Sonjeera. Bolton did not want to destroy their hope; instead, he needed to do everything possible to make the attempt succeed.

He only wished he could see Keana one more time. Maybe he could even talk her into helping him.

After breaking out of the camp and slipping past the sparse guards—the first obstacle they had to overcome—the four escapees planned to head overland, seeking a patch of wilderness where they hoped no one would follow. The other POWs had agreed to hide the absence of the escapees for as long as possible to give them a chance. Assuming that Hellhole itself provided a sufficient deterrent against foolish escape attempts, the General's guards did not take roll call but simply let the prisoners live in the camp until such time as they could either be returned home or assimilated into the Hellhole colony.

Escobar assumed they could make good time and be far from the camp before their absence was noted. The escapees would journey overland, keeping away from any established travel paths. Along the way, they might find a mining settlement or some other industrial oasis. As a man who liked to plan down to the last detail, Bolton felt uneasy about such a seat-of-the-pants scheme, especially on a hostile world, but Escobar's insistence replaced all other answers.

As they pooled their plans and assessed their skills, BluCap Agok Yimidi reminded everyone that he was an experienced technology officer. Previously, he had worked with Bolton to install the self-destruct virus in the captured retaliation fleet, which had destroyed many impounded Constellation vessels rather than let them fall into enemy hands. Yimidi had a special interest in stealth technology, and he managed to improvise some makeshift camouflage generators from available materials in the camp. Although Bolton was skeptical, Yimidi insisted that he could cobble together a crude stealth shield that would temporarily veil a Trakmaster, one of the colony's common overland vehicles. That would hide them from most searches unless trackers stumbled right on top of the stolen vehicle. Escobar convinced them that they had to take the chance.

It had been well past midnight when the four got under way. Slipping through the perimeter fencing proved relatively easy, after other prisoners kept the patrolling guards busy with a diversion. As the group sneaked off into the night, Escobar mocked the gullibility of the General's security; Bolton worried that the laxness signaled that the guards believed escaping into the wilderness was so obviously dangerous as to be completely absurd. He had a bad feeling about this venture.

The four men kept low to the ground, carrying supplies toward a parking compound where Trakmaster vehicles for Slickwater Springs were kept. The vehicles operated on reactive fuel pellets, and each one was already loaded with a month's supply, certainly enough to get them to Michella Town. Slipping through the shadows and selecting a vehicle at random, the four men loaded the stolen supplies, climbed aboard, and waited while Yimidi set up his makeshift camouflage system.

“It's not perfect, but the best I can do,” Yimidi whispered to Bolton, as he connected a compact apparatus to the cab ceiling of the Trakmaster. “This should keep us from being detected by long-range scans.”

“It might give us the advantage we need,” Bolton said. He swung into the driver's seat, and Escobar climbed in beside him, activating the navigation system. Yimidi and Vingh scrambled into the back compartment. A devout man, Lt. Seyn Vingh took a few minutes to pray each day but joked that as a military officer in wartime, he was often forced to do it with one eye open. As Bolton started up the humming engine, he heard Vingh murmuring one of his prayers. Bolton prayed, too, that they could get far enough away from the camp before anyone came to investigate. He suspected someone would notice the missing Trakmaster sooner than any missing prisoners.

The heavy vehicle rolled forward slowly, crossed the boundary of the parking compound, and headed onto a paved road that connected the camp with Slickwater Springs. But Bolton swung off the well-traveled path and rolled out onto the open landscape, away from customary traffic patterns.

Inside the cab, Escobar called up options on the nav-screen and gave Bolton a heading, taking them farther from the road and the low lights of the camp and the much larger Slickwater Springs compound. Though the burly vehicle was designed for rugged terrain, the four passengers were jostled about as the Trakmaster crawled up a grade.