Hellhole Inferno (14 page)

Shaken out of his reverie, Percival said, “Have them loaded aboard the stringline hauler.” He glanced at the chronometer. “I'm returning to my barracks quarters for the time being. I need to prepare my uniform.”

*   *   *

Commodore Hallholme could have had a palatial officer's residence, but he'd requested standard quarters, nothing spacious or fancy, because he didn't want to feel at home. He had to promise himself this assignment was only temporary.

When he'd transferred to Aeroc, he had brought his old uniform, despite its wear and tear. It was a proud reminder of his glory days, and when he donned it again now, the garment made him think of possibilities, but also of failures.

When Lord Riomini led his punitive operation to Theser, he'd been so proud to show off the destruction he'd caused, obliterating an entire rebel colony world just to make a point—and it was more than just a warning to the rest of the Deep Zone rebels. Unrest was growing in the Crown Jewels as well, and Riomini's ruthless attack on Theser served as a subtle warning to the Crown Jewel citizens, should they consider expressing their discontent.

And Percival was supposed to support such people? He sighed. He was honor-bound to defeat General Adolphus and reassert control, free the thousands of prisoners he held, and save his son. He knew Escobar had gotten in over his head, so Percival had to do everything he possibly could to bring the younger man home.
That
was his real incentive for defeating General Adolphus.

Percival pulled on his old uniform jacket, straightened it, and regarded himself in the mirror. The Constellation outfit didn't look as good as it once had, but he would wear it anyway.

 

18

Lord Riomini rode as a passenger in a military whirler piloted by one of his black-uniformed female guards. He heard the soft purr of the craft as it hovered over a private landing field behind the old Adolphus manor house. It wasn't the real reason he had come to this planet, but it certainly made an acceptable excuse. He was the strong and supportive uncle standing by his poor grieving grandniece whose husband had been captured by the enemy. Elaine believed his sincere words, the comforting promises. Riomini was good at that.

He'd come to Qiorfu to attend to business at the nearby Lubis Plain industrial zone, but first he would make a show of visiting Elaine, the wife—not yet widow, alas—of Redcom Escobar Hallholme, who had so badly messed up the retaliatory strike on planet Hellhole. It was a social obligation, but an important one. He had to console her about her fool husband, who remained one of General Adolphus's prisoners of war. No one would imagine the real, secret plans the Black Lord was developing on Qiorfu.

His grandniece and her two sons would not want to hear about Escobar's utter failure, but would instead keep viewing him as a hero. Riomini would protect them from the truth. When planet Hallholme was recaptured, he doubted the Redcom would survive the engagement.

Elaine met Riomini on the flagstone patio of the old mansion, part of which dated back more than two thousand years. Until the end of the last rebellion, Qiorfu had been the homeworld of the Adolphus family, but the planet had been awarded to Commodore Hallholme after the victory.

Tall and elegant, Elaine crossed the patio and greeted her granduncle. She had secured her black hair with a golden clasp shaped like the Hallholme family shield. She had been sitting underneath an umbrella, watching her two sons play a game with luminous balls rolled across an obstacle course on the groundcover. Behind her, a female servant stood by a hedge, watching the boys.

He noticed that Elaine's eyes were red. She appeared to have been crying as she sat alone, so he would have to console her. That was to be expected. “Now, my dear, you must hold out hope. We haven't yet been able to rescue your husband, but we have every reason to believe Escobar is still alive.”

She rubbed her eyes. “As a prisoner of war! He'll probably be used as a hostage, too.” She looked up at the boys scampering across the lawn after the glowing spheres. “I haven't told Emil or Coram the awful truth yet. They still expect their father to come back triumphant at the head of the fleet any day now.”

“That may still happen,” Riomini lied. “General Adolphus is holding thousands of our soldiers prisoner, but the Commodore insists that he can get them back.”

“If anybody can do it, my father-in-law can. I have faith in him.”

“We all do,” Riomini said.

He stared beyond an olive grove to an expanse of flat land in the distance. The Lubis Plain shipyards had once held a mothballed military fleet from the first rebellion, but recently Riomini had expanded the industrial facilities. Now he was using them for something very different.

Noticing him, the boys discarded the spheres and came running over. “Uncle Selik!” cried eleven-year-old Emil.

His brother, two years younger, was just as tall. “Did you bring our Daddy home with you?” Coram looked around, disappointed not to see Escobar.

Selik and Elaine exchanged glances. He said, “Your father is still far away, at war. But don't worry, we'll bring him home safely.”

“He'll win.” Coram sounded certain.

Emil flushed. “That General Adolphus is a monster.”

Riomini couldn't stop himself from smiling. “Yes, he is. Your father has been captured, but he'll be taken care of until we can rescue him.”

Elaine glared at him for telling the boys even that much.

The Black Lord wasn't worried about what she thought, or about her husband's welfare. He was far more concerned about Escobar letting all those Constellation warships fall into enemy hands than about the loss of one blundering officer. He was also angry that his special operative, Gail Carrington, had not completed
her
mission of eliminating Redcom Hallholme if he should fail. Riomini had never known Carrington to let him down.

He smiled at the boys, belying his inner thoughts. “I want you both to be brave and help take care of your mother until we can bring your father home. Will you do that for me?”

Emil nodded, but Coram looked confused and lost. Riomini decided he had stayed just long enough to convince his grandniece that he was concerned for her well-being, then he made his excuses to go.

His pilot was waiting for him in the whirler, and they rose into the air, spiraling away from the manor house, heading toward the Lubis Plain industrial zone.

The landing fields there were entirely under his control, and they now served as part of a huge secret operation he ran concurrently with the official expansion of the Army of the Constellation. Years ago, the Riomini family had funded the creation of the military force, and as soon as he succeeded Michella Duchenet as the next Diadem—a foregone conclusion, he knew—all the military operations in the Constellation would be his to use as he saw fit. In the meantime, Riomini had made his own plans, as insurance.

When the whirler set down on one of the secure paved fields in the industrial complex, Riomini stepped out to meet ten of his black-garbed guards, all female and all deadly. A short, lean woman saluted. “My Lord, the facilities are ready for your inspection.” With a narrow face and auburn hair tied back in a tight bun, Rota Vindahl was only in her mid-twenties, but her loyalty and fighting skills were so significant that he'd made her the guard commander.

Riomini followed the group toward the squat, windowless factory buildings and the handful of military and commercial aircraft parked on the landing field. As far as an outsider could see, this was a maintenance facility for spacefaring ships, but the Lubis Plain operations had a far greater purpose than that. Over the past year, Riomini had covertly bankrolled the construction of many more warships in vast underground hangars, where they were hidden from Michella's nosy inspectors. The clandestine fleet was
his
to control.

A wide platform lowered the entire group down into the ground. The lift took him past level after level of stored military vessels in subterranean hangars. Uniformed Riomini workers bustled about on every level, servicing ships, testing engines, installing weapon charges. There were small fighter craft, armed security ships, patrol vessels, shuttles, stringline drones, and remote-operated launchers. High bays held transports, destroyers, cruisers, frigates, and sweepers; even deeper underground were heavily armored cargo ships, weapons platforms, and battleships. This clandestine fleet was his private military force, far more powerful than anything he needed to defend his holdings.

He spent hours now absorbing the immensity of his military force, walking past ship after ship. Finally he instructed his escort to take him to see the fast-attack fighter ships closer up, even asking to be an observer in a test flight, so that he could fly in one during a practice run. Pleased and satisfied with the progress he was seeing so far, Riomini couldn't stop smiling.

But he still felt a deep resentment for being forced to create this fleet in the first place. Diadem Michella should have retired years ago, should have allowed him to take the Star Throne while she faded into graceful obscurity. But the old crone refused to admit her own mortality and would not name him her heir apparent, and that had fostered dangerous, widespread doubts about succession. If he was forced to reveal this powerful fleet, though, then all doubts would be erased.

Michella had slapped him down, showing her cruelty by forcing him to watch as she immolated an earlier team of his female commandos. He had defied her orders by trying to break into the quarantined hangar so his experts could study the preserved alien corpses. It was a vital step in developing defenses against further exotic attacks, but Michella had been too terrified to take the risk. She was irrational. She was no longer fit to lead the Constellation.

Lord Riomini could not allow that woman to keep making such serious mistakes. He had to take decisive action of his own, for the good of the Constellation—and now he had the fleet to accomplish anything he wanted.

 

19

It was a huge celebration in Council City, though arranged so hastily that all the customary banners and gala decorations looked haphazard. Michella had called for the sudden festival, a wild and patriotic commemoration, and the people accepted her whims. The old Diadem loved her shows, Ishop knew, but this one seemed more capricious than usual—an extravagant, even outlandish celebration of an old obscure victory by Commodore Hallholme at planet Indos. The engagement had been a relatively minor one in the old rebellion, and the people were somewhat baffled by the need for an unexpected commemoration. Still, no one would argue when Michella Duchenet commanded a new worldwide holiday and an outpouring of patriotism.

To Ishop, it seemed a poor excuse. Michella had to have her pomp, but at least she was careful not to reveal the true reason for the spectacle. General Adolphus and his hidden supporters here on Sonjeera could not be allowed to suspect this was a de facto sendoff for the Commodore's latest attack.

Just ten hours ago, in the middle of the night, a secret courier drone had arrived bearing the announcement that the purge of Tehila was successful. The Deep Zone planetary administrator had secured both terminus rings and now controlled both stringlines—the one from Sonjeera, and the other that ran to Hellhole. An immediate announcement had also been sent to Aeroc, where the Commodore's fleet was gathered, just waiting for their instructions.

Percival Hallholme would already be on his way. At the Sonjeera hub, he would load up all the other military vessels assembled there under the excuse of “added security,” then without delay his fleet would launch out to Tehila, where he would set up a forward base of military operations.

The Diadem could not restrain her excitement, but at least she restrained herself from making an ill-advised public announcement about Tehila. Even so, Michella would not deny her people a morale-boosting (and distracting, Ishop thought) celebration, even if the public didn't know the real reason for it. All around him, the mood was joyous, patriotic. Bands played the exuberant “Strike Fast, Strike Hard!” march incessantly. Ishop didn't think he could stand to hear any more of it.

In contrast to the high spirits around him, Ishop remained in a dark, edgy mood. He had no patience for the gaiety, preoccupied because he hadn't received any word from Laderna. Ishop would much rather be celebrating the death of the Diadem's sister! But Laderna had been on Sandusky for days, sending him no message whatsoever. She was normally more efficient than that, and she had never previously failed any assignment he'd given her.

Now, in the midst of the loud, garish, and colorful parade, Ishop was forced to ride beside the old Diadem. They sat together in an ornate carriage as they passed through the cheering throngs. At another time, he would have considered it an honor that Michella chose him to accompany her, for all to see, but now he saw it as a burden. Any honors she bestowed on him were mere crumbs compared to the lavish rewards that he truly deserved.

With misplaced, and unappreciated, generosity, Michella had given him a white-and-blue uniform decorated with phony military medals. “I am officially appointing you my Aide-in-Chief, Ishop. It is a well-respected position. Congratulations.”

He had scrutinized the uniform. “Is this a position reserved for a nobleman?” He had been serving as her top aide for years, although he'd never been given a formal designation for what he did.

“It is a new position,” she said with a sniff. “The details are still being defined.”

In a way, this foppish uniform and meaningless bric-a-brac served the opposite purpose of what she intended; Ishop feared it would only subject him to ridicule from his fellow nobles.

Why was she giving him another apartment, an absurdly ostentatious uniform, and a new title? Were those signs that she felt a twinge of guilt at how she'd been treating him? And if so, did those meaningless rewards make up for denying him his noble heritage? Of course not.