Hellhole Inferno Read online

  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 spectac
le. 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.

  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
tsked. “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.”