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  Jan, this is yet another book that I dedicate lovingly to you. In the years of our marriage you have blossomed in so many ways artistically, demonstrating a creative range that includes painting, sculpture, interior design, photography, and even great story ideas.

  —Brian Herbert

  To Louis and Louise Moesta, who supported their quirky son-in-law’s work unfailingly for more than twenty years, told their friends, and showed their pride in so many ways.

  —Kevin J. Anderson

  Acknowledgments

  Special appreciation from both of us to our agent, John Silbersack, Bess Cozby and Tom Doherty at Tor, editor Pat Lobrotto, narrator Scott Brick, Mary Thomson for transcribing all of Kevin’s audio files, and especially Rebecca Moesta.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  By Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  1

  Three Constellation warships descended through a sky that was spider-webbed with vapor trails. Pilots guided the bristling vessels to the staging field at the Aeroc military complex, where they joined the numerous other warships already landed in formation. By now, Commodore Percival Hallholme had lost count of the new arrivals, each one with new armor and reinforced shielding, loaded with all the armaments the Diadem’s government could muster.

  As he assessed the massive preparations, Percival nodded to himself and muttered, “Putting everything on the line this time.”

  After stinging defeats at the hands of rebellious Deep Zone planets, led by his nemesis General Tiber Adolphus, the Constellation was expanding the war. No hesitation, no reservations, no mercy.

  And not much of a plan, Percival thought, but he didn’t express such reservations out loud. It would not be appropriate for the ostensible commander of the operation.

  This influx of additional warships—all rounded up by Lord Selik Riomini—increased the confidence among the Diadem’s fighters, although Percival knew that the sheer quantity of ships would not guarantee a victory. He had faced General Adolphus before, numerous times, and in their last encounter at Hallholme—a planet named after the Commodore and not-so-affectionately nicknamed “Hellhole” by the colonists—Percival had suffered an embarrassing defeat, forced to retreat.

  Now it was time for a rematch.

  The Aeroc military yards were bustling. The upbeat victory tempo of “Strike Fast, Strike Hard!” rang out from widely distributed loudspeakers. The Commodore watched attack ships loaded with fresh, untrained recruits who had rushed to sign up after Diadem Michella saturated them with propaganda and fear. She painted Adolphus as a monster and a threat to human civilization itself, and worse, the rebel General had allied himself with a mysterious alien race that had the power to possess innocent victims, filling their minds with bizarre memory-lives.

  The crisis was enough to inflame the population—at least those who believed the Diadem’s words and concurred with her fears. Many people were not so easily swayed. And Percival knew full well that the old woman’s portrayal was not precisely accurate. Nevertheless, he was bound by his duty.

  As he crossed the parade ground to the towering military headquarters building, he wore a crisp new uniform from the Army of the Constellation. It was more modern and stylish than the old uniform he’d worn during the General’s first, failed rebellion fifteen years ago—back when Commodore Hallholme made his name as a hero. In historical images from those old battles, Percival had looked bright-eyed, optimistic … and gullible.

  Although he still sported the same distinctive muttonchop sideburns and steel-gray hair, he looked older and thinner now, carrying the weight of years and regrets. His degenerative limp was much more pronounced. He had retired at the end of the last rebellion and intended to stay out of the limelight, wanting nothing more than to tend his grapevines, play with his grandsons, and let his son Escobar be the next renowned military hero.

  But as the new rebellion went sour, Percival had been dragged out of retirement and pressed back into service at the Diadem’s command. His fresh uniform was adorned with colorful, even gaudy, medals—some of them earned, some merely for show.

  Forcing himself not to show weakness or hesitation despite his chronic limp, he strode at a brisk pace that exuded authority. With briefing documents tucked under one arm, he walked past fountains and military memorials, obelisks engraved with thousands of names of the fallen, but his thoughts were preoccupied. Diadem Michella and Lord Riomini had requested a special briefing, and Percival knew he would have to tell them what they wanted to hear.

  Five sleek fighters streaked across Aeroc’s sky, performing aerial maneuvers, which impressed those who were impressed by that sort of thing. A man like Commodore Hallholme knew that combat would require more than tricks this time.

  He mounted the marble steps of the pillared headquarters buildi
ng and glanced at the engraved quotes from past heroic commanders. One of his own pithy sayings was included somewhere, but he had never bothered to find it. Pennants of noble families hung outside the arched entrance, arranged according to their financial sacrifice. Inside the hall, red banners carried the names of lesser families who had lost sons and daughters during the bloody battles of the General’s first rebellion.

  Percival lifted his chin and made his way down the oddly empty hall to the giant simulation chamber. With a glance at his chronometer, Commodore Hallholme saw that he was precisely on time, and he entered.

  The curved ceiling of the simulation chamber was embedded with high-res holographic projectors. During wartime the chamber had been used for combat scenarios and tactical planning, but in the decade of calm after Adolphus’s exile to Hellhole, it was primarily used for wealthy noble officers to experience immersive simulations of the Battle of Sonjeera or other famous engagements—particularly the ones in which Commodore Hallholme had defeated the rebel General. That way the participants could imagine being heroes themselves.

  The Diadem and the Black Lord sat in VIP participation chairs in the prime viewing area. They did not rise as Percival presented himself to them.

  Diadem Michella Duchenet was so ancient that she might have been a poorly preserved museum piece. Thin and wrinkled, she was not frail, but remained intimidating in her old age, with bird-bright eyes and quick movements. Defying her own mortality, Michella remained lean and healthy, keeping herself fanatically fit, as if she intended to rule for yet another century. Over her long reign, the old woman had survived many battles, and Percival knew not to underestimate her. Generally, Michella liked to present a sweet, maternal demeanor, convinced that her people loved and adored her, but she was as comforting as a bed of glass shards.

  Beside her, Lord Riomini sat dressed entirely in black, as usual. The Black Lord was two decades younger than Michella, his body soft, eyes hard. Though he was primarily a politician and businessman, he did not fear command and had seen battle firsthand. But unlike a commander who simply had a war to win, Riomini had something to prove: He wanted to be the next Diadem.

  Percival held out his briefing papers. “I have the report you requested, Eminence.”

  Upon his return to Sonjeera in defeat, the Commodore had offered his resignation, but Diadem Michella refused to accept it. Since then, he felt as if he were more of a military trophy than a useful participant.

  Now, instead of taking the report, Michella lifted a hand that was overburdened with jeweled rings. “We are not here to discuss inventory, Commodore, but to talk about your upcoming conquest of the Deep Zone. Fifty-four valuable worlds have broken away from the Constellation. We need them back.”

  Riomini added, “The lost wealth is incalculable. The political embarrassment is even more devastating.”

  Arguments and replies boiled up within him, but Percival kept silent. Better to say nothing than to point out that this current clash was an unnecessary crisis of the Diadem’s own making.

  “Present your overview, Commodore.” Riomini operated controls linked to his seat, and the vault filled with stars, showing the settled systems of the Constellation, the twenty central Crown Jewel planets and the fifty-four outlying Deep Zone worlds.

  Percival nudged the controls of the galactic model himself, calling up a standard template. Bright blue lines radiated outward from the center of the star map to each one of those worlds. Twenty established lines connected the Crown Jewels, and an additional fifty-four extended into the less-populated Deep Zone, connecting the dots. “With Sonjeera as the hub for all stringline travel, Eminence, you control all of the stringline paths, and thus all commerce throughout the original Crown Jewels as well as the new DZ worlds.”

  Another nudge of the controls, and a secondary webwork of red lines radiated from one of the distant unobtrusive points—planet Hellhole—in a network that linked every one of the Deep Zone planets. He was sure Michella understood the credible threat that Adolphus could wield—and had already wielded.

  “The General’s independent stringline network gives him a strategic advantage that we cannot overcome. Now that he has secretly laid down those alternate iperion paths, the DZ no longer needs the Constellation. And because his rebels are fanatically independent, they are willing to sever every one of the old lines binding them to Sonjeera if they feel threatened. We know the General will do it, cutting the entire Deep Zone loose from the Constellation. He’s already cut his own direct stringline to Hellhole.”

  That was how Adolphus had stranded the first Constellation retaliatory fleet—commanded by Percival’s son Escobar. The General had left the fleet adrift in empty space, and then he had seized all those ships, taking thousands of soldiers prisoner—including Escobar. “It’s an ancient tactic, an army blowing bridges to deny the enemy vital access across rivers or canyons. For General Adolphus, those canyons are many light-years wide. If we attack him directly, he will do it without hesitation, and then we’ll never be able to get him.”

  Both Riomini and the Diadem listened, but they appeared bored. “That is old news, Commodore,” the Black Lord said with a quirk of a smug smile. “You’re not aware of what has changed. That is why we summoned you.”

  Michella couldn’t contain her excitement. “We have a route into the Deep Zone—one the General will not suspect.”

  Riomini reached out to touch the hovering image of an insignificant Deep Zone speck at the edge of the frontier network. It glowed when he selected it. “This is how you will achieve victory. Tehila.”

  Percival was familiar with the names of all Deep Zone worlds, but knew little about this one.

  Michella explained. “When the General declared independence for all the frontier worlds, by fiat, he did so without the knowledge, cooperation—or desire—of many Deep Zone worlds. When he embroiled them in this unnecessary war, not every planet was pleased to be part of it. In fact, most of them were shocked.”

  Riomini’s mouth twisted in a cruel grin. “Theser was certainly shocked when I demonstrated the consequences of their unwise choice.” The Black Lord had led a punitive assault that turned Theser into a smoldering, uninhabited rock.

  Percival still didn’t understand. “How does Tehila factor into this? What is its significance?”

  The Diadem said, “Tehila’s planetary administrator, Karlo Reming, never had any desire to leave the Constellation, and now he wishes to come back into our protective embrace. He and his people want our forgiveness.”

  Percival raised his eyebrows, was unconvinced. “All of his people want that?”

  “Enough of them,” said Riomini. “Administrator Reming is about to stage a purge to get rid of any Adolphus loyalists. Then he will seize and secure the stringlines, both the path to Sonjeera as well as their connection into the Deep Zone network. Through him, we will have a back door right to the General’s doorstep.”

  Michella’s papery lips formed a terse smile. “The way will be wide open for you, Commodore. Your fleet is almost ready. Take those ships to Tehila, secure the planet, and establish a beachhead from which to swoop down on the General. Crush planet Hallholme just like the asteroid that struck centuries ago.”

  Upon hearing the new option, Percival felt an unfamiliar hope. “That will give me a chance to rescue my son, along with the other prisoners the General is holding.” He suddenly remembered. “And your daughter, too, Eminence. I will do everything in my power to see that Keana is returned safely to you.”

  Michella gave an unconcerned wave. “Defeating General Adolphus and restoring order throughout the Deep Zone is your primary goal, Commodore. Naturally, I love my daughter, but she is an adult and she went to that awful planet of her own free will. Now she’s been possessed by one of those hideous aliens.” The old woman shuddered visibly. “I doubt there is a cure for it, so I have to consider her already lost. They are casualties of war—my daughter, your son. A price we have to pay.”

  Ri
omini spoke up, as if wanting to make certain he was included. He shook his head. “And my poor grandniece with her two boys, left fatherless when we lost Escobar.”

  “Escobar is still alive,” Percival said pointedly, “as far as I know.”

  “Yes, let us hope he is,” Michella added without any apparent sincerity. “For now, begin planning your military operation. Move your ships from Aeroc and stage them at the Sonjeera hub. Be ready to move as soon as Administrator Reming has taken over Tehila and opened the door for us.”

  2

  In the empty conference room, General Tiber Adolphus paced in front of a reinforced window, gazing out at the rugged landscape. His dark eyes were perpetually serious, his black hair neatly trimmed out of military fastidiousness. The square-jawed man had accepted a new uniform, deep-blue with golden general’s stars on the collar—a garment copied from the one he’d worn during the first rebellion. His beloved Sophie Vence had tracked down the original jacket from a collector, but that one was a historical artifact. This facsimile fit him well and suited his purposes, reinforcing his role.

  After the previous night’s smoke storm, fragments of trees and alien shrubs lay strewn around the grounds of his headquarters estate, which he had fondly—and ironically—named Elba, after ancient Napoleon’s home in exile. Even with the political turmoil across the Deep Zone, the smoke storm reminded him that local crises could still cause significant damage, and this planet was neither a kind nor a gentle place.

  Two men in coveralls worked hard to restore the area around the General’s mansion, loading debris into a motorized garbage bin. The sky remained a greenish yellow, still unsettled from the storm. After more than a decade on Hellhole, Adolphus had learned to recognize the various sky colors and conditions. Though his extensive network of weather satellites monitored the storm fronts, he could often tell on his own when and how the capricious weather would change. The General never took anything for granted. He was always learning, always alert.

  Behind him, Adolphus heard a familiar stirring, shuffling noise, and he turned as two of the planet’s original inhabitants—Encix and Lodo—entered the conference room. They remained beside the long table, since none of his chairs could accommodate the aliens’ bulky sluglike abdomens, though they had humanoid upper bodies.