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Rebel's Quest

F. M. BUSBY

BANTAM BOOKS TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND

REBEL'S QUEST

A Bantam Book

I January 1985

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by

mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.

ISBN 0-553-24727-1

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a

rooster is Registered in U. S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth

Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA H 0987654321

THE COST OF VENGEANCE

"Leanne, what's going on here?" he asked.

She gulped the last of her drink. "It's—Tregare, you do things I can't live with. So I won't. Not any

more. "

She stood, and he with her. "You need any help moving out?"

"I'll manage. You go upship and make sure of your sneaky course change, Tregare. You wouldn't

want to miss winning a trick. "

He came close, then, to striking her. But he didn't. He said, "Maybe you think this is some kind of

game, with UET. No such thing, and never has been. " She started to turn away; he grabbed her arm.

"No. You listen You realize what I did, here? I took us into Stronghold with a bum Drive and brought

us out, alive, with a good one. And with fuel, and supplies, and the Admiral's stamp on a set of orders

I can use to get us in and out of Earth, if I work it right. "

"You. yes. You, you, you!"

"Look, I give credit all around. You and everybody else did great, executing the plans, but peace

take you, they were my plans. This is my ship, and I have to be responsible for it. "

For all rebels who find themselves

Contents

1. Prologue:Bulletin on Tregare

2. Number One

3. Bases Loaded

4. Deuces Wild

5. Stronghold

6. Earth

7. South Forty

8. Fair Ball

9. The Islands

10. The Backslid

11. Tari Obrigo

12. Rissa Kerguelen

13. Epilogue:Return to Stronghold

1. Prologue:

Bulletin on Tregare

Testing—one, two—all right, the recorders working. Alden Bartlett dictating. Shelly, do this

one up and get it into Distribution right away. I'll just rough it; you fill in from the files and

streamline the chat. This hot number came down from Committee Chairman Minos Pangreen his

own brass- bound self.

"What it is, is an All-Worlds, All-Ships Bulletin on Tregare the Pirate, so use official headings:

United Energy and Transport, Presiding Committee, old Pangreen the Chairman, UET crest, all

that. Do it up pretty.

"All right; subject, Bran Tregare. Born Australia, New Year 9 or 10—look it up—to Sean

Tregare, citizen of North America, and Lisbeth Duggan. No surviving family on Earth or at any

legitimate colony, so we don't have that kind of handle on him.

"Entered the Slaughterhouse—oops, Space Academy—at age thirteen, graduated in normal

sequence at sixteen. Good scores but no outstanding cadet promotions. Two turns in the

Special Punishment cell, which should have told somebody something.

"On graduation, did his cadet cruise on the MacArthur,

Arger Korbeith commanding. I hear the Butchers still complaining he should have spaced that

kid while he had the chance. Put four or five others out the airlock, that trip, but missed the

kingsnake. Everybody guesses wrong now and then....

"Back here at Earth, Tregare was transferred to the Tamurlaine as Third Officer. The ship

went as directed to the Twin Worlds—Tweedle first—and then to Penfoyle Gate. Then lifted for

Terranova but never arrived there, so it's assumed that's when the ship Escaped. At next

contact it was renamed Inconnu and Tregare was captain. It's usual enough that the old captain

doesn't survive a mutiny but this guy seems to have wiped out all his superiors. Boil this all

down a lot, will you, Shelly?

"That next contact was with the Hannibal under Commodore Sherman. Tregare blew the ship

apart, but its scouts got away and reached Johnsons Walk safely, which is why we know the

story. And from then on...

"Some of these reports contradict each other. That is, unless someone invented a faster-

than-light Drive and Tregare has it, he couldn't have been to all the places and done all the

things listed in here. My guess is that when a ship or colony of ours gets creamed, they figure

they'll look better if they blame it on the Bogey Man. But leave my guesses off, Shelly; this

thing's going out over Pangreen's name.

"After the Hannibal incident, next contact was when he hit three ships off Shegler's Moon. He

got the armed ship Cortez with a missile and his turrets crippled the Goering, so that it spiraled

down onto Shegler's primary. That world is like Venus only a lot bigger, so there went the

Goering. The Charlemagne got away to tell us about it.

"There's a lot more, but I have an appointment coming up, so could you crib the rest from the

files? Don't bother trying to sort out what's relativistically possible and what's not; I can't figure

the Long View of space-time myself and won't ask you to try it.

"But here's some speculations that haven't been filed yet. That Tregare's allied himself with

some unknown species of aliens possessing FTL travel. That somewhere he's found or set up

ship-building facilities, and is building a fleet of ships—twenty, fifty, maybe a hundred. Well, to

say the least, these things are unlikely—but the guesses have official sanction, so put them in

anyway. Labeled as guesses, of course.

"Another is that he's the one who hijacked the ship with all the frozen sperm and ova and

conceived-zygotes, and the Zoomwombs to hatch them in, and is force-growing thousands of

Instant Troops to attack us with. If you put that one in, Shelly, look up the dates and add

those, too. I think that ship disappeared while Tregare was still on the MacArthur.

"But its not our business to tell our bosses they work too hard at scaring themselves. If

Tregare did even half the real items they say he did, he's the single biggest menace our

government faces. So just set down the facts and let our beloved readers, All-Worlds and All-

Ships, do their own editorializing. Right?

"Hmmm—I see here that somebody wants Tregare boosted to the top Wanted slot: Escaped

Target Number One. Could be a reasonable priority, at that. I mean, how long has it been—

twenty years, maybe?—that anybody's heard anything about Cade Moaker and Cut Loose

Charlie? But Tregare, we hear a lot about—enough that Upstairs gets nervous and we catch it.

Actually, the way this Tregare operates—well, never mind that. Pangreen will either up the

Target rating or he won't.

"End Bulletin draft, subject Bran Tregare known as Tregare the Pirate. Alden Bartlett out.

"And Shelly—if you can get this out today, tomorrow I buy you a three-drink lunch and we

take the afternoon off. "

A long time later, so long that the readout paper had yellowed and gone brittle, Bran Tregare

read that Bulletin. Smiling a little, he shook his head. They had a few things right, UET did, but

not many. The fake ID had held up, he noticed—UET had no idea he was the son of Hawkman

Moray and Liesel Hulzein, and nephew to Erika Hulzein whose Establishment in Argentina was a

major thorn in UETs paw. Not that those connections did him any good: Erika had been after his

hide, and his parents had run off and left him to the nonexistent mercies of the Slaughterhouse.

And had gone to the world called Number One.

UET had some of the early stuff straight. Yeah, he'd blasted the Hannibal. He hadn't known

before that his second armed-ship kill was the Cortez, or that he'd also nailed one of the other

two; he'd been too busy trying to cope with a crippled Drive. He wondered how the Escaped

colony on Shegler's had fared after discovery by UET, but the Bulletin didn't say.

They couldn't know of his stops, once he was captain of Inconnu, at the Hidden Worlds of

New Hope and Freedoms Ring, and his visit in between, to UET's base on Hardnose, was

considered to be a hoax by someone else. On the other hand it had been Raoul Vanois in

Carcharodon, not Tregare, who raided the mining colony on Iron Hat.

UET's speculations about alien alliances and FTL Drives made him laugh out loud. Well, the

wilder their beliefs, the less apt they were to be set for what he was planning!

He did wish they were right about the shipbuilding part, but to his knowledge only one Hidden

World had built any kind of ship: Number One had a cargo shuttle that worked fine for in-

system work but lacked interstellar range.

He read more: yes, this escapade was his; the next wasn't. And so on. He wished to hell he

had been the one to wipe out the slavers on Dixie Belle, but that was the work of a man named

Dominguez, whom Tregare had never met but would like to, someday.

And of course the Zoomwomb-and-zygotes caper was long before his time. It had given the

planet Number One its rather surprising population in a hurry, but by none of his own doing.

"Bran? I thought you said something about a drink. I am certainly ready for one. " Still

dripping from the shower, Tregare's wife wrung water from her long, dark hair and put a towel

around it. To look at Rissa Kerguelen one would hardly guess that she and Bran had married in

a dueling ring, after she had fought—naked and unarmed—with a man twice her weight, and

killed him. It had been a long time since Stagon dal Nardo had any place in Tregares thoughts;

he didn't stay there long.

"Sure. A minute. " A quick scan covered the rest of the Bulletin; he set it down. "You want

some chuckles, look this over. " He stood, and went to make the promised drinks.

Thinking: UET didn't know about his alliances, either—

Limmer on Lefthand Thread, for instance. Hell, they didn't even know that Kickem Bernardez

had taken the Hoover.

And reminiscing: Number One, yeah. That's where it all really started.

2. Number One

Tregare was dozing. Jargy Hoad, his oldtime Slaughterhouse roomie and now his Third Hat,

had the watch as Inconnu neared the planet. Tregare had a lot of thinking to do, but right now

he was too tired to do it.

Second Hat Erdis Blaine, his sometime lover, was leaving the ship at Number One. The

trouble with Erdis was that she thought life should be played fair. She didn't realize, and

couldn't accept, that fighting the monolithic tyranny of UET a man had to use whatever worked.

In Tregares view, treachery was rewarded by death. Back at Shegler's Moon, Inconnu's most

recent stopover, Port Administration had tried to cover its ass with UET by selling Tregare out.

After he'd fought clear of the ambushing UET ships—all three of them—he went back and blew

Port Admin purely to hell. The word would spread, and the lesson needed to be made clear. But

Erdis couldn't see that, so she was getting off. Well, if he was a monster, as she said, he'd had

plenty of help....

Before the breakup, Erdis had for some reason decided to get pregnant. That wasn't Tregares

worry, since she hadn't asked his consent. His problem was figuring how to buy out her officers-

shares in the ship itself. Might be best to pay largely in cargo bought, back at Freedoms Ring,

especially for delivery here. But Freedoms Ring's contracts were with the Hulzein connection on

Number One, and that meant Liesel Hulzein, Tregares mother. And probably his father

Hawkman Moray and his sister Sparline. Long ago, appalled and heartbroken when he knew

they'd left him in UET's Slaughterhouse when they went off Earth, he'd vowed never to see or

speak with any of them again. Thirteen he was, then; even now, maybe close to ten subjective

bio-years later, that hurt was fierce.

But he'd figure something out, some way to handle things. ... Bran dozed.

The intercom brought him awake. "Bran. Jargy here. "

Getting his face out of the pillow and throwing covers back, Tregare sat up and flipped the

talk-switch. "Yeah? Anything wrong?"

"Nothing at all. But come up to Control anyway. We're close to hitting air, and I don't think

the view is anything you'll want to miss. I mean, on tape it couldn't be quite the same. "

Tregare shook himself fully awake. "Sure. I'll be right up. "

The view from Control was something, all right. With the downscreen on hi-mag, Tregare saw

first an endless-seeming plain, just below the ship, now, was a huge water sink. He checked, as

planned. Inconnu was coming down headed toward the Hidden Worlds arbitrary West—traveling

with the terminator and expecting to land before crossing it from dawn into darkness.

Ahead lay several parallel ranges of hills. Jargy pointed. "Take a good look. I read about the

Big Hills, on the data sheets, but now I believe them. "

Still a bit sleepy, after all, Bran said, "They don't look so much. " Then he checked the

instruments. "We're still forty kilos up? I just changed my mind!" Because the slanting

afternoon sunlight now showed him something of the sheer size of those rounded masses—

foothills, they weren't.

"Aircars can't cross them, " Jargy said. "Even with oxy for the passengers, the cars simply

won't climb that high. And you notice how far they extend, north-south—not feasible to go

around. So this perfectly good plain, less than a hundred kilos from the main port, is hardly

explored at all. "

Flipping through the info, noting the average height of the Big Hills, Tregare could see why.

He said, "Gives me an idea.

Remember, I'm thinking of a base here? Well, how about on this side of the Hills? With the

ship and the two scouts we could move supplies over—and sure's hell the locals wouldn't bother

us!"

The locals! Who was he kidding? His family, here on this world, was what still worried him.

Too many nights he'd lain, shivering in fear of Slaughterhouse brutality, hating his parents for

leaving him there while they escaped to a safe world. But so what? He didn't have to see them,

did he? Maybe not—but why was his body giving him all the sensations of panic?

Grimly he shook his mind loose from the problem. Those people weren't his real enemy, UET

was. And this wasn't Airlock Drill on the MacArthur, standing naked in the line of cadets and

waiting for Butcher Korbeith to have one of them spaced. Bran had vowed to kill that man

someday; if he ever did, maybe these flashbacks of fear would vanish. But to do it, first he had

to get on with the job at hand: gather ships under his command, and attack. Not that the

Butcher was his only target, he was after any part of UET's cruel reign that he could bite off.

And here was where he planned to start it....

The Long View—the fact that up near light-speed ships might experience one year while

planets went through twenty—the Long View made things difficult. The trick, though, was to

learn how to use it. By passing info to every Escaped Ship met in space and to the Port

computer of every Hidden World he visited, Bran Tregare was building a longterm

communications net. He wasn't the man who'd first begun it, but he knew a good thing when he

saw one.

So someday, he hoped, there would be a rendezvous of ships to join him, here on Number

One. And he'd need a base to service them and arm them—as many as he could round up, but

six or eight at the very least, or it wouldn't work.

So for now, get his base set up. And when he'd prepared it the best he could, for the

gathering he hoped to bring about eventually, take off again on a two-purpose mission: to

make more contacts with Escaped Ships, and to bite UET's tail to the bone!

Jargy Hoad's voice broke Tregares fugue; for a moment he couldn't remember what he'd

been saying. Oh yes, about the locals not bothering them, east of the Hills. Jargy's grin

indicated that he agreed, and he said, "You know, that's not a bad idea. " So, approaching the

Big Hills the two men scanned the terrain in search of a good site. At first Bran liked a ledge

area to one side of a canyon, but a better look showed it slanting too much. Jargy picked a dry

lake, but as Tregare pointed out, nothing said it was dry all the time. Then Bran spotted, on the

long slope where the Big Hills themselves began, an ancient crater with a fairsized ringwall and

a floor more flat than not.

"It's closer and it's better, " he said. "I wouldn't risk landing the ship there yet, but a scout I

would. Hang a bulldozer outside the scout, and in four, five days—a week, maybe— we'd have

us a nice flat port. "

He realized he'd said the plan in shorthand, but Hoad knew what he meant. "Sure. Except, do

you know anyone who knows how to run a bulldozer?"

"Course not. That's what groundsiders are for. We hire some. "

Radar confirmed eye judgment that the flatlands on the west side of the Big Hills were nearly

a kilometer lower than the eastern plain. A little to the north of their path Bran spotted the

major settlement: "The capital city, or whatever. " One Point One, it was called, and it was

bigger than any town he had yet seen on a Hidden World. Well, with the Zoomwombs and all, it

would be. First Hat Gonnelson, doing pilot, swung course toward the place.

The port looked fairly large, too, and now held three ships, none of them armed. Earlier, at

hailing distance, Tregare had talked with the port's spokesman-on-duty, and had been

impressed by the way this place simply took incoming ships in stride. There was no hassle, no

apparent anxiety. Finally he'd asked: "You people don't seem nervous about new ships, the way

some places are. How come?"

A little bit. then, the voice flattened out. "Most places don't have our grade of missile defense.

"A hard line to top, so Bran said, "Well, now I know. " Certainly he appreciated the logic. Now

as Gonnelson brought Inconnu down, drifting expertly toward One Point Ones port Tregare saw

something odd. off to the north—across the Big Hills ran a zigzag mark. There wasn't time to do

more than swing an aux screens camera over thai way, and put it on hi-mag and hi-speed,

both, so he did that much. Later he'd have a look...

* * *

On the landing circle the port had designated, Gonnelson brought Inconnu to rest without a

jar. "Good job, " said Tregare, and clapped a hand to the mans shoulder-—briefly, because he

knew that Gonnelson was no more comfortable with touching than with talking: a little went a

long way. But a little couldn't hurt, either.

Bran watched Gonnelson run down through the grounding checklist; halfway through,

realizing he didn't need to monitor, he turned to Jargy Hoad. "On the commercial stuff, you deal

for the ship. The talking part, I mean. Anybody asks for me, I'm busy. And—"

"Wait a minute. " Hoad waved a hand. "I don't know prices, any of that stuff. Bran, how can

I—?"

"We have folks who do. Groden, down in Stores, for one. "

"Ol' Gripin' Groden?"

"Not any more. Held back too long on promotion, was all. He's a lot different now. And

anyway, you can punch most of the info out of Tinhead. "

Jargy frowned. "Still, though—Third Hat, dealing for the ship?"

"Second. Didn't I tell you? Erdis; she's getting off. And rules or no rules—compared to you, Al

Druffel just doesn't hack it. " Before Hoad could ask anything, Tregare said, "The thing is, most

of our cargo for here is consigned to Hulzein Lodge. I have my own reasons—tell you sometime,

or maybe not—I'll deal with those people but I won't talk with them. So you handle that part. "

After a pause, Jargy nodded. "If you say so. "

To the port Tregare gave the correct protocol, both from upstairs and after landing. Such as

"Bran Tregare, captain, speaking for the armed ship Inconnu. " They wanted the ship's history

and he gave it straight: nothing to hide, here. But when it came to commerce he said, "Our

Second Hat, Jargy Hoad, is authorized to handle all that. Don't bother me with it." And mostly,

nobody did.

He had one bad moment, going into Control while Jargy was on a direct circuit to Hulzein

Lodge and dickering on delivery charges, to the Lodge rather than directly to the port. On the

screen Bran Tregare saw his mother Liesel Hulzein, and noticed that now her crown of braided

hair carried a lot more

grey in it. Behind her stood the tall man, Hawkman Moray— he hadn't changed much. For

seconds Bran looked to see if maybe his sister Sparline might be in the group, then he shook

his head and moved to make sure that he himself wouldn't be seen from the far end.

He was moving to leave Control entirely when Liesel's voice cut through, saying, "I've had

enough of this! Liesel Hulzein speaking, and I know damned well that the captain of Inconnu,

the armed Escaped ship, is Bran Tregare. I want to talk to him! I have the right—after all, he—"

Hawkman gripped her shoulder. "No, Liesel. He may not want it known. " Tregare gave a

thankful sigh.

Voice disguise is easy: with one hand Bran pinched his nostrils closed; with the other he

grabbed a talkset. "Captain's orders are that Inconnu deals with Hulzein Lodge through the

Second Hat. He says you'll know why. "

He saw Hawkman frown before saying, "Yes. It's an old grudge. Something we did, or didn't

do, a long time ago. We'd hoped—but apparently he still believes we had a choice. "

Oh, hell! But he wouldn't open that can of worms again. Tregare cut the circuit. He left

Control. In fact, he ran.

After a cup of coffee to calm down with, he went back up to take care of the business he'd

had in mind. Immediately on landing he'd fed all the news he had to the port's computer and

milked it of word from other ships. And had called the three currently in port, asking to meet

with their captains and giving a guarded version of his own plans: "... and to our mutual

advantage I'd like to make agreements with any ship that's willing. Call me back when you have

time. "

For none of the three captains had been available to talk with him on the comm. One was

Cade Moaker on Cut Loose Charlie; to him Tregare added, "We had a close pass once, when I

was a cadet on the MacArthur; I was in Control at the time and heard you tell Korbeith's hyena

off. Loved it. And I was lucky enough to survive riding with the Butcher. Just barely, though. "

The other two, Bran hadn't heard of: Rasmussen on NonStop, who was down with some

exotic brand of the flu, or Krieg Elman who commanded a ship now known as Stump Farm. That

ones spokeswoman didn't seem to want to give

Tregare the time of day, much less any commitment for her captain to meet with him.

Now, though, Moaker was willing to talk. On the screen the man looked old but vigorous. He

said, "What you say of your plans, I like. But can't join in. " He shook his head. "Old Charlie's

past it, pretty much. Not just the Nielson Cube, which isn't all that close to crapping, but

throughout. We're good for two more hops, I'd say—but I'll settle for one. I take the

conservative approach. From here, where I'm loading up on what I expect to need, we head for

a colony that can use our technical help, and set up in business there. "

Bran scratched his head. "What's wrong with right here?"

Moaker grinned; he looked younger that way. "Too much competition. I'm thinking of Fair

Ball; ever heard of it?" Tregare hadn't, and so indicated; Moaker fed him the coordinates. And

then said, "Not all my people are ready to settle down with the old man. And for this jaunt I

don't need a full crew. So if you can use any additional help? I won't send you anyone I can't

recommend fully. "

"Why—thanks, captain. Happens I can use several. And if you'll be in port a few days more,

I'd be pleased to host you on here, you and your officers. "

"Thank you; we'll see. Pleasure talking with you, Tregare. " Moaker cut the circuit, leaving

Bran with the thought: I wish that man could stay around for the big fight.

He checked the other ships. Rasmussen was slightly up and around but not very, and Krieg

Elman was still unavailable.

So much for that. Tregare was hungry, and went downship to fix that problem.

Commerce ran more smoothly than not. The Hulzein contracts gave Jargy no problems; other

cargo sold well, and exchange rates were favorable. Not buying for future trade just now,

Tregare began loading up on materials for his base, across the Hills. Alsen Bleeker, a thin

hollow-cheeked man crowding middle age, tried to push a little price-gouging, over and above

agreed terms—on pain of holding up the ship's refueling. But Tregare had seen his tanks filled—

ship's and scouts' both—first of all his dealings. So he told Bleeker to trundle his goods back to

the warehouse. "You're not the only source, and maybe you can use the exercise. You come

here again, figure to deal square. " Not even a quick offer of extra discount changed his mind.

To Jargy he muttered, "A little rough on him, maybe. But I want the word to get around. " And

thought, If my own side wants to gouge me, isolating the base is a damn good idea.

Done with trade, for now, Tregare went offship. It was late morning, warm and slightly

breezy; from his first exposure to local air and sky he'd liked this planet. As he neared the edge

of the landing area a woman stepped out of a groundcar rental office. "You need some wheels?"

She was skinny, with short, shaggy red hair and a freckled complexion that could have used

more care. Thirtyish, maybe. "No. An aircar, later. This time I'm walking. "

Her grin was missing some bicuspids. "Aircars, I can get. "Where is it you have in mind to

walk?"

None of her business, but maybe she could help. "I want a bulldozer, including the operator.

Stuff for a job where we have to Hit the gear there, to do it. "

"Lift? No aircars going to lift a bulldozer, mister. "

"Once I find the dozer, I'll take care of that part. "

So she gave directions, then said, "You're off that ship there. " Right. "How's your captain? A

real sumbidge, like most?"

So she didn't know about officers' cheek tattoos. "You could say that. "

Her directions worked, though. Following them he found a ramshackle setup with

miscellaneous equipment sitting all around; the sign read "J. MacDougall & Assoc, Gen'l

Contractors. " MacDougall was scowling Black Irish but talked amiably enough. Assoc was Pete

Aguinaldo who smiled as if he hadn't been unstoned in recent memory, but his answers made

sense. Tregare hired them, and a dozer, and a portable "walking" hoist the scoutship could

power, and some things he took MacDougall's word were necessary. "Day after tomorrow, then,

" said Tregare. "Midmorning?" Agreed; everyone shook hands, and Tregare left.

Heading back to Inconnu, the smells from a streetside food booth attracted him; he bought

and ate, with considerable relish, two spicy concoctions of ground meat wrapped in some kind

of leaves and served on a stick. Not bad at all!

When he passed the rental office the redhead wasn't outside, so he went in. "I got the

equipment lined up; thanks for your help. Now—you said you could get me an aircar?" She

could. He explained that he wouldn't need a driver; she agreed to provide a map and come

along as guide. Tregare nodded. "Fifteen, twenty minutes, you said? Fine, I should be back

from the ship by then. "

Aboard, he brought Gonnelson and Jargy up to date. Erdis Blaine wanted to talk but now

wasn't the time. "Tonight. Okay?" He ran and then reran the brief flash of tape, the zigzag line

on the Big Hills. Either it was important or it wasn't—now he intended to find out.

Groundside again, Bran saw the aircar waiting. He walked over, climbed inside, and said to

the redhead, "We okay to go? You got the map, and all?" He activated the propulsors.

"Right here. " Pause. "My name's Keri Freling. What's yours?"

"Tregare. " He began to taxi. "Point me north, will you?"

Looking startled, finally accepting that he wanted business, not chatter, she answered, "Sure.

Sure, Tregare. "

Neither reckless nor cautious, he took the car up. Pointing north, as he'd asked, she

explained that here they were outside the city's jurisdiction, "... but don't fly over One Point

One, below six hundred meters, without learning the altitude lanes. " She gave him a pamphlet

covering those; he tucked it into a pocket.

Turning east toward the Hills, Bran topped the first range and headed north again. Freling

asked, "Where are we going?"

On the massive upslope to his right Tregare saw a complex of buildings dominated by a large,

timbered structure. "What's all that?"

"It's Hulzein Lodge. Don't go much closer; those people don't take to uninvited visitors. "

"I wasn't planning to. " Not hardly! He looked from his unfolded map to the view ahead.

Yeah—not too much farther now...

"What are you looking for?"

"Show you in a minute. " A west-reaching headland blocked his view. "Freling? You know how

to use the oxy gear? I'd like to go up over this. " He got his mask from under the seat. "Why,

yes. But—" Then she put hers on and shut up. And as Tregare lifted over the mass ahead,

before him was one end of the Big Hills' zigzag scar that his screens had shown him from

above. This end looked as if a giant axe had made it.

Freling grabbed his shoulder. "No! Don't go in there. "

He eased his power back. "Why not?"

"It's a trap. Five aircars—six, maybe—have tried it. Not one came back. "

"Maybe they didn't know enough. "

Her grip jerked at him. "These were experts here; you've just arrived. What makes you

think—?" Her hand shuddered. "If you want to try it, take me back to the port first. And post a

deposit to cover the cost of the aircar!"

"Fair enough. " He turned back, and dropped altitude until they could stow the oxy masks.

Her silence gave him time to think. Was the place a trap? A blind alley, the end of it too narrow

for turning back? Or maybe these "experts" hadn't seen it from topside, didn't know how

sharply it zagged, and which way.

Tregare did, though. And with the scout, I'll check it.

He took them back in a moderate hurry, not really fast. Over the city he circled, well above

the traffic limit, until the pamphlet and rooftop lane markers gave him a good idea how the

system worked. He landed in front of Frelings office and paid her off. "Thanks for the guided

tour. "

"If you'd like more of them, we're here. There's a lot to see: the Slab Jumbles, for instance....

""If I do want more, you're first in line. " But if he did need an aircar, it was simpler to buy

one. Or better, two.

Walking back to the Port, at its edge he detoured for a closer look at something he'd heard

about. Having bought a deteriorated spare Nielson Cube from a visiting ship, a consortium of

oligarchs had set out to build a ship of its own. Not for interstellar use, or anywhere near full-

sized. But for a hull with only a few times the bulk of a scoutship, and the short hauls of in-

system freight runs, a hall-power Nielson Cube should give safe service indefinitely.

Tregare looked up at the partially-completed structure. The frame girders were all in place;

hull plates covered them, starting from the bottom, about halfway.

It all looked workable; too bad Bran couldn't be here to see the packets first lift.

One more look, while he wondered what kind of share Hulzein Lodge might have in this

enterprise. Then he turned away and walked to his ship.

Aboard Inconnu he found things going smoothly. He stopped by the galley, intending to ask

for a tray to be sent to his quarters, but was told, "It's already been ordered, captain. I'll send it

along in about twenty minutes. " He acknowledged with thanks, and when he got to quarters he

knew what to expect. Erdis Blaine, dolled up fit to kill and smelling great.

Arms outstretched, face turned up for his kiss. The big farewell scene; right? So she wouldn't

have to feel any guilt or remorse, but rather, could feel generous and righteous, both.

Tregare wasn't having any. Firmly, though without violence, he moved her away and to one

side. "That horse is dead. You shot it. "

"But, Bran—"

"Dinner, we can share. But not bed. " And by the time the tray arrived, and the wine, she saw

he wasn't really listening, and dropped the subject.

Later, as she stood to leave, she said, "Bran, if you hate me so much, why are you being so

fair in buying me out?"

The woman, peace take her, didn't understand anything. "I don't hate you. " He suppressed

the pang of bitterness. And wondered why good-hearted, decent people like Erdis here, couldn't

get it through their heads that dealing with the monstrous indecency of UET, you had to take all

the edge you could get. Inwardly, Bran sighed. As things were, it wasn't exactly that he was

going to miss Erdis Blaine. What he missed already, and had for some time, was the real

affection they'd had together.

His child that she was carrying did not—could not—concern him. All he had to do with it was a

cell he'd given her with no such aim, without even his consent for its use in this fashion.

And with Blames ship-shares as Second Hat, the lad sure wouldn't be hurting for child support

money.

Shaking his head, Tregare got back to now. "Hate you? Hell, even if I did—Blaine, on an

Escaped Ship a captain is fair, or he doesn't stay captain very long. "

Maybe she got the point, maybe not. Next morning, after he'd arranged her transportation to

the hotel Maison Renalle, he did give her a goodbye kiss. But his mind was more than halfway

stuck in what he needed to do next, across the Big Hills. '

As she left, another worry hit him. Al Druffel, ever since he broke his leg skiing, back on New

Hope, had been out of business as Third Hat. Now it turned out the ligaments needed extensive

surgery, so Druffel was selling off, going groundside. And where was Bran going to find himself

a new Third?

When MacDougall called, ahead of midmorning on the scheduled day. Tregare was well-

breakfasted and ready to move. "An hour? Fine. See you. " In finding Mac, Bran decided he'd

been lucky. The man didn't dawdle.

Arrangements set with Gonnelson, Tregare went up to the starboard scoutship. The hatch

opened; he took the small craft up and out. He had time for a short jaunt north; running higher

than any aircar could, he headed for the zigzag gash through the Big Hills. And got his first

good look at it.

He had no idea what forces produced the original cut, but later there had been lateral

slippage along a fault line, to make the Z-turn near the top of the western slope. Going from

the port it would be first a quick left and then almost as abrupt a right rum. To try this, without

knowing the layout ahead of time—no wonder nobody came back!

But why hadn't anyone known the terrain? After a moment, Tregare had the answer: only

ships' people could have seen the thing from upstairs, and they weren't the ones who would be

interested, or mention it.

How about altitude? Checking his radar altimeter against the one calibrated with the Port as

zero, he overflew the pass. And nodded: in this atmosphere, an aircar could take a medium

load through, with a hundred meters to spare.

Unless there was something else he didn't know yet....

* * *

Back to the Port. From upstairs Tregare saw a tractor nearing Inconnu, towing two cargo

flats. Among the gear he recognized only the bulldozer and a hoist. MacDougall was prompt—

good enough. Bran landed, and went aboard ship, where he rounded up some people to help

with the heavy Ming. Hain Deverel was senior, so Tregare put him in charge. "We're going

across the Hills. Pick two more to stay with you, working with the contractor. About two weeks,

I'd guess; then I come get all of you, and the gear. Okay?"

"Two weeks?" Deverel didn't sound happy, and—oh, hell. Now Bran realized: the man didn't

want to be away, that long, from his longtime lover Anse Kenekke. Tregare had never

understood that kind of thing, but these two men he liked and trusted.

He said, "I'm sorry, Hain, but you are the best for this job. And for quarters, now, there'll be

only a couple of pre-fabs. "

Deverel shrugged. "Two weeks. All right. "

Deploying the "walking hoist, " by degrees Mac and Pete walked it up the scout's flank. In the

open cargo hatch they planted it for best leverage to raise the dozer. That mass would have to

ride sidesaddle, outside—but besides the hoists own cables, lashings were made around the

scout's hull. Bran nodded. "You've got it solid, Mac. It's not going any place except where we

do. "

Inside the scoutship, all stowage checked, Tregare said, "With the dozer hanging out there,

this buckets going to ride weird. I don't want anybody hurt. So—Deverel, you ride sidebar for

me, and everybody else go down one deck and strap into the accel couches. Okay?"

With the others gone, the two men strapped in. Deverel said, "What am I here for? I've done

no piloting. "

"Time you learned, maybe. " The Drives hum built to stability; from below came word the

passengers were secured. "You look like officer material to me, when the chance comes. "

He hit the power switch; the scout lifted.

Lift took a bad slant; Tregare pulled a hard bias to get straightened up. That done, he looked

over to Deverel. "This off-balance thing, with the dozer, pay it no mind. The rest of it, running

this crate, watch me and ask questions. " But the man seemed to find no questions to ask.

Up crowding black sky with stars in it, Tregare drifted his unbalanced load across the Hills,

then southeast toward his crater. Short of it by maybe twenty kilos he spotted an east-slope

plateau that gave him an idea. An aux base, a home-office retreat apart from the jangle of

activity when other ships arrived. Base One, with the crater as Base Two. It could work....

To the north, a glimpse of the zigzag pass reminded him of something. "Hain, why I wanted

you up here and nobody else, is I don't want the rest seeing some things from upstairs. "

Slowly, the man said, "But you don't mind if I see. "

"Why should I? You trusted me, didn't you?"

The crater floor wasn't all that level, but at the southeast part Bran found a flattish spot and

set down. When the tilt subsided, he could exhale without making noise.

With everybody up, then, they moved the dozer and other gear groundside. Once the talus

slope was dozed down and leveled, the prefab huts were erected near the craters west wall.

Shouting over the dozers roar, Tregare told Mac, "Give the site as much clear space as you can

manage, level, and stomped down hard with the treads. Get the middle really firm; the edges

aren't so critical. " Because ships, landing, needed more solidity than buildings did. And to move

things faster, he had to cut every corner he could find.

Near the scout was a gap in the crater wall; the floor sloped off into a gully. Ideal place for

fuel tanks; next time he'd bring explosives to blast the shape of hole he needed, and cross-

filament synthetics for his tank liners.

So far, so good. On a portable talkset he twiddled frequencies until he hit the right skip to

bounce above the Big Hills and connect him with Inconnu, where Gonnelson reported all was

well. To Mac, Bran said, "This HF stuff may take some fiddling. Up freqs daytimes, down 'em at

night is the rule. " He shrugged. "Pretty soon I'll bring in stuff that uses scatter, and can ignore

skip. But this week, here's what we've got. "

Then, making sure his instructions were clear, Tregare left his three ratings and two

employees, and took the two extras back aboard the scout, heading for Inconnu.

Without the dozers lopside weight, lift-off went better.

* * *

Back aboard ship, after scrubbing up, Bran checked tapes of incoming calls. He found an

invitation from Rasmussen, captain of NonStop, to bring a colleague or two "... and join me for

dinner here. I don't quite understand your proposal but we can discuss it. Answer at your

convenience. "

On screen the man was wedge-faced, dark-haired, pleasant of voice, and sounded

reasonable. So, checking his chrono, Tregare called in an acceptance and rounded up Jargy

Hoad to go with him. They arrived in good time.

Rasmussen was a good host and NonStops galley had at least one superb chef, but no deal

was closed. "... like your plan, Tregare. Getting a fleet together, looking to take the fight to

UET. But just now I have other commitments. "

Bran shook his head. "Later, I'm talking about. " And explained the loose data network

operating on the Long View, to set the rendezvous of allies here on Number One. Hoping his

arsenal setup on New Hope was in gear by now, he said, "For your help on the mission, I arm

your ship for free. " He leaned forward. "On that mission, though, I don't share command. So

what do you say?"

Rasmussen liked it but couldn't promise anything. "If I can make your rendezvous, I'm with

you. " So as Bran and Jargy left NonStop, everybody shook hands, and Tregare had to settle for

that. Better than nothing, he supposed....

Up in Control on Inconnu, Bran found messages waiting. The first of any importance was from

Cade Moaker on Cut Loose Charlie. "You said you could use some people. If you have a Hat

berth open, my Seconds looking for one. Decided she's not ready, just yet, to settle down

groundside on Fair Ball. "

Since he needed a replacement for Druffel, Tregare called back, and soon Moaker was

onscreen. Beside him stood a young woman. "Ola Stannert, " Moaker said. "Captain Tregare. "

Nodding greetings, Bran looked at her: medium height, slim, bio-age in the twenties. Good

cheekbones, generous mouth, eye-color probably distorted by the circuit. Straight blond hair

that fell behind her shoulders, so he couldn't tell the length of it. She said, in a low-pitched

voice that still carried well, "I think I'd like being on an armed ship. "

Within five minutes the deal was made: given Moakers recommendation, Tregare felt no need

to ask a lot of questions. Her shares in Charlie bought her in as Third Hat and left her a surplus:

she didn't seem to mind having to drop one grade. Her cheek bore no tattoo, so she wasn't a

Slaughterhouse graduate—not in officer grade, anyway. These things ascertained, Tregare said,

"Move in when you're cleared with Charlie. And in advance, welcome aboard. "

"Thank you, captain. A day or two, I expect. " He cut the circuit.

"I'm glad you filled that Third slot. I'd been wondering. "

Tregare looked around. "Hi, Jargy. Didn't hear you come in. Hang on a sec, while I check the

rest of the input backlog, and I'll buy you a drink. "

When the screen lit again, the pictured woman looked familiar but he couldn't place her.

Fairly tall, he thought, if she'd been standing. Strong features, highlighted by dark eyes under

challenging brows. Midnight hair, bulked out with the waviness that indicated frequent braiding.

Age? Not too far off his own, likely.

The voice resonated. "This is Sparline Moray and I want to talk with Captain Bran Tregare. I

have good reason; there are things to be said, and we are, after all—um, somewhat related. I'll

accept a return call, any hour, at Hulzein Lodge. "

Tregares face went hot. To his comm-tech he said, "Tell Hulzein Lodge there'll be no return

call. " So they'd sicced his sister on him, had they? He stood; the rest of the incomings could

wait. "Come on, Jargy. The drink. My digs. " Damn, though—with the puppy fat gone, Sparline

was one striking woman.

Down in quarters, drinks poured, Jargy said, "Tregare, you never mentioned being Hulzein-

related. I know a little about those people, and—"

Tregare used sipping-time to think how to put it. "You heard what she said: somewhat

related. But not closely. " Not now, anyway. "And that's how I intend to keep it. " Satisfied or

not, Hoad pushed the matter no more.

Al Druffel, his ship-shares paid off fairly, left the ship on crutches, Tregare noted that the

young ex-officer made sure to tip the unrated crew members who carried his gear. Maybe

Number One's medics could fix the leg; Bran hoped so.

Back in quarters he found the intercom chiming. "Somebody here to see you, captain, from

Stump Farm. It's not their skipper. "

"Yeah?" He yawned. "Show'm up here, in five minutes. Whoever does that, bring me a snack,

too. The galley knows what I want. If our visitors hungry, double it. "

The crewman escorting Stump Farm's envoy brought a single-sized snack but double coffee,

so Bran poured for two but ate for one. "Talk in a few minutes. Okay?" As he ate, he looked at

the woman.

Average height, a little sturdy, with a pleasant face under short curly dark hair. Age youngish,

but grown-up, not a kid. Done eating, he poured them both more coffee. "Krieg Elman send

you? About time our two ships talked some. "

She shook her head. "He doesn't know I'm here. He's crazy. I want off that ship! I can't get

my First Hat shares out of Elman, but if I have to, I'll ride unrated. Because I don't want to be

on Stump Farm when that maniac blows the Drive. "

Changing his mind about four times in five seconds, Tregare said, "You know who I am. Now

what's your name?"

Leanne Prestor. First Hat since Escape, which no officers had survived; Elman had held Chief's

rating. "Oh, he can handle the ship all right, but he thinks everybody's out to get him. " A shaky

laugh. "Not just UET, which is, of course. Any other Escaped ship, anyone groundside—even

here, on a Hidden World. Everybody wants his ship; that's his obsession. He doesn't trust any of

us, his own people. And his standard reaction is, seeing threats that aren't there, is to start

yelling that he's going to blow the Drive. " She shuddered. "And one of these days he'll forget

he's bluffing, and really do it. "

Tregare thought. No Brooks Marrigan here, so wedded to Spiral Nebula that he'd take it out in

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Rebel'sQuestF.M.BUSBYBANTAMBOOKSTORONTO•NEWYORK•LONDON•SYDNEY•AUCKLANDREBEL'SQUESTABantamBookIJanuary1985Allrightsreserved.Copyright©1984byF.M.Busby.Coverartcopyright©1985byWayneBarlowe.Thisbookmaynotbereproducedinwholeorinpart,bymimeographoranyothermeans,withoutpermission.Forinformationaddress:Bant...

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