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Bantam Science Fiction & Fantasy Books

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STAR REBEL

F. M. Busby

BANTAM BOOKS TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON • SYDNEY

To Robert and Ginny, with much gratitude

STAR REBEL A \iBantam Book I February 1984

\cAll rights reserved.

Cover art copyright \a169 1984 by Wayne Barlowe.

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O0987654321

\c\u1\u

\bThe Boy\b

\cNear to his thirteenth birthday, Bran Tregare lost his home, his family and his surname, which

had been Moray.

Some of the reasons he didn't know or understand, but a few he did. His family, headed by his

mother Liesel Hulzein, lived at an Australian outpost, in exile from the Hulzein Establishments

North American headquarters. An exile part disgrace and part sanctuary, caused by the fact that

Bran and his sister SparSine had a father, the tall young man Hawkman Moray. Whereas their mother

Liesel and her implacable older sister Erika, not to mention Bran's grandmother Renalle Hulzein,

had none.

They were not illegitimate, those women, but parthenogenetic. Heidele Hulzein had conceived and

birthed her daughter Renalle using micro-genetic techniques and no male whatsoever. "Not cloning,"

Brans mother once explained, "but the melding of two gametes from the same person." And Renalle's

daughters, Erika and Liesel, also carried the continuation of Heidele's original genes, and no

others.

And there, or so Bran's father said, lay the problem, The tall, dark man, so obviously junior in

age to his wife, told his children, "Renalle and Erika have faith only in their own genes. They

won't admit that without an inmixture from time to time, the pattern can deteriorate." Sparline

asked why it would, and Hawkman talked about cellular entropy, how a few genes or chromosomes

always went wrong. With simpler organisms it wasn't too serious. His white grin transformed his

dark face. "But humans are too complex to survive much of a defect rate. So that's why sexual

reproduction, with the most

\c\b2\b

\cvigorous gametes producing new mixes, works best for us. Your aunt and grandmother don't see it

that way."

Bran nodded. At twelve he knew a little about sex. He'd know more, he thought, except that

Sparline had caught him trying to learn some things with Sheylah, the cook's daughter, and ran and

told. He knew she'd do that, so he ran too. Sheylah yelled after him in anger, but he kept going

anyway.

Even so, his parents called him in, with Sparline as witness, for inquiry. He wasn't sure

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whether he was "before the mast" or only "on the carpet," but neither was much fun. Sparline

grinned with triumph, getting back at Bran for the bird nest thing the week before, but all that

happened was Bran being asked some questions about his own body. The answers were simple. Yes,

lately sometimes that part stood up and felt very good. And no, he hadn't actually done anything

about it, with Sheylah or with anyone else. His parents nodded to each other. Liesel said, "Before

you do, come talk with one of us."

Hawkman added, "And especially, don't mess with the help."

That was all there was to it. Sparline looked disappointed. Though usually they got along well,

on some levels there was a kind of running contest. This time, Bran thought, she hadn't won as big

as she'd expected to.

Later, with Hawkman telling family problems, she and Bran listened quietly. Aunt Erika, it

seemed, hadn't had great luck with gene-replicating herself. "Two miscarriages and a stillborn

monster, before she managed your cousin Frieda. And that one's flawed." Which, he said, was why

the children's own mother Liesel, after two self-fertilization misfires of her own, had defied

Hulzein custom. "Came out here to run this boondocks operation, and-"

"And you and Mama fell in love and got married!" Sparline, Bran noted, had to get in \iher\i two

cents' worth.

Hawkman laughed. "Not exactly. For genetic reasons, Liesel chose me; it's no secret. \iLater\i

she paid me the high compliment of keeping me around for my own sake." But ancient history or not,

their parents' genuine affection was apparent to both children. Suddenly, counting back, Bran

realized that when he'd been born his mother had been thirty-two, and his father only sixteen.

Hawkman was still talking. "To the Hulzein Establishment-Renalle and Erika-you kids are a slap

in the face. Their dynasty doesn't include two-parent children." He ruffled

\c\b3\b

\cBran's hair. "Let alone a male child. That's why we live here quietly, using my name, rather

than flaunting ourselves at local Hulzein HQ." His eyes slitted. "The fact is, you're safer here.

And yet-"

"And yet we mustn't disturb the balance." Bran turned to see that his mother had entered the

room. "Against UET's tyranny in North America there's only three forces still effective. And with

the New Mafia driven into hiding nearly as bad as the Underground itsel, the Hulzein Establishment

is the \ionly\i opposition that dares show its head."

Hawkman grinned. "So that's why we, here, keep ours down."

Bran knew his share of recent history. Both the official version \i("that\i pile of crap,"

Liesel called it), and some dissenting material from the family library and two parents who would

answer questions. The official stu.fif mostly began with New Year One, right after the United

Energy and Transport conglomerate won the governing bid from the Synthetic Foods Combine and took

control of North America. And immediately began building Total Welfare centers and filling them

with "clients." A more accurate term, said Liesel, would be government-owned slaves. '

It was also in NY One that star travel had begun. "But UET didn't invent it," said Hawkman, "no

matter what they claim now. Do you know about the Shrakken?"

Bran did. "Sure. There's some old fax sheets in the library. Telling how they traveled more than

a hundred light-years to get here. Pictures too, but faded." He remembered the tall, hairless

aliens with their triangular eyes and inverted-V mouths. "And they walk on their toes, like a dog

on its hind legs."

"But what \iabout\i them?" Sparline asked.

Liesel snorted. "According to UET, the poor things fell prey to some Earthly disease or other.

What really happened was, as soon as UET's Committee Police were sure the Shrakken didn't have

faster-than-light communications, they pumped that ship full of cyanide gas one night-no more

Shrakken. So UET had the ship, and their labs could analyze and copy it."

"So now," said Hawkman, "UET has interstellar travel, and their Space Academy has a bigger job

than training pilots for asteroid mining."

Then he changed the subject, telling something of how

\b4\b

things used to be. Years before UET achieved power and proclaimed New Year One there had been a

time when elections involved voting by the citizenry rather than corporate bidding, and when North

America hadn't been all one political unit. But the continent's largest segment, the United States

of America, facing economic collapse, moved to the corporate system. "Otherwise," Hawkman said,

"we might have gone under. I've never been sure the country chose right." He shrugged. "But of

course 'perhaps' applies only to the future, never to the past."

He continued his story. The first two corporate elections, each closely fought, were won by

Communications, Inc., and some measure of stability was restored. Then the Synthetic Foods combine

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made a landslide win, and capitalized on it by annexing Canada, Mexico, and most of Central

America. In a new semblance of stability, SynFood held power for four elective terms. But United

Energy and Transport had other ideas. "In the sixth corporate election," Hawkman concluded, "the

deciding factor was UET's assassination section. We now know them as the Committee Police. And

more and more nowadays, their power seems to be permanent."

UET didn't have it all gravy, though. True, with starships as weapons, North America need no

longer accept forced immigration from freely breeding Third World countries. But at home, the

Underground, loosely descended from the previous century's Counterculture, sometimes made dire

examples of those who misused power too flagrantly. And the New Mafia, driven back from almost

respectability (in one corporate election the group had even entered a bid) to shadow-legal

status, now concentrated on blackmail and extortion from the powerful. "Oh, it's a right mess,"

Liesel said.

The third thorn in UET's side was quite different: the Hulzein Establishment's legal

superstructure carried a long tradition of spotless escutcheon and pristine standing. "The

underside of it, though," said Hawkman, "is trickier, and always has been. For every asset that

shows on paper, your grandmother Renalle keeps ten that \idon't\i show, working for her."

"If we're to confuse the children," Liesel put in, "add that Hulzeins seldom make a move that

serves only one purpose." As near as Bran could tell, his mother spoke in total sincerity.

What it boiled down to, the boy decided, was that his aunt and grandmother never gave an inch to

\ianybody,\i whether it

\r\b5\b

\rwas UET or a Hulzein defecting from the parthenogenetic ideal. No one knew if the marauders who

had tried to kill Bran and Sparline, and who did burn the house, ca"me from either Erika or UET.

The new house was better fortified, and fireproof. Hulzein money paid for it, and no argument on

the matter reached the children's ears.

Once only, Bran saw his aunt Erika in person. She invited Liesel to a conference in North

America, and Bran went along. That was Liesel's idea, but the deciding wasn't so simple. Renalle,

the matriarch, wouldn't be present. "She's in Israel," Liesel reported, "trying to wangle an

Establishment branch there. Not much chance, I'd think. I expect the Hulzeins have some Jewish

ancestry, but no political or religious ties to offer. And strict neutrality is the only safe way

to keep UET's hands off a country."

Lying on a sofa, stretched out at his great length, Hawkman asked, "Will you attend Erika's

conference alone?"

Liesel smiled. "I can't take \iyou;\i you'd be a red flag to Erika's bull. And Sparline's too

young to risk. Bran though-" Her eyes narrowed. "I think our son's cornered the family's devious

streak." She turned to the boy. "How'd you like to go see Hulzeins on their own home ground?"

Puzzled but interested, he nodded. "Then assuming we disguise you well, can you forget we're

mother and son, and be only my serving-boy? Every minute, day and night, for the next two weeks?"

For only a moment, he thought. "Yes, I can."

"Yes, \iwhat?"\i

"Yes, Madame Hulzein!" He suppressed the grin that would have come, because it didn't fit the

part he had to play.

His mother smiled. Hawkman nodded. Sparline still seemed dubious. And next day she looked at him-

with his curly black hair bleached and dyed red, plastered flat, and cut straight across in front-

and couldn't hold her laughter. "Old sad \ihorseface!"\i Well, the mirror told him she was right,

and the serving-boy's voluminous gold-trimmed costume, hardly cut for anyone of active ways,

didn't help much either. But Bran did want to go on this journey, so he put up with everything and

made no complaint.

Neither did he protest the crash course, administered by his mother's chief-of-maids. Bran had

seen Alexa Duggan's stern ways with the lesser help, of course, but without really noticing. All

his ten years he had been one of Alexa's

\b6\b

employers, not a menial. The change jolted him. At first he couldn't take it seriously when she

threatened him with a caning if his work did not improve (calling him "Jerrin," the name assumed

for this role). His weak smile drew a harsher frown; he decided not to test the matter. The third

day, after he'd slept two nights in the cubby off Alexa's room, she said, "If you mind your ways,

Jerrin, and pay heed, perhaps you won't disgrace us after all."

Only Alexa on the journey would know who Bran really was. Except for his mother, of course. The

other servants and the four guards came from Liesel's official headquarters. Even if they had seen

Bran as himself, they'd hardly recognize him as Jerrin.

The hard part was his parents ignoring everything about him except "Jerrin"-but he knew they had

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to. He didn't see Sparline at all, and decided that she couldn't be expected to keep his role

straight.

Early one morning the party left. Loading a small mountain of gear, the dozen or so boarded four

pogiecopters and flew for several hours across bare, reddish land to the nearest commercial port.

Then a suborbital SST across the Pacific to North America. Nobody said exactly where, and Bran

knew better than to ask. They were met by squat groundcars, two armed guards to each car, the cars

and guards all wearing Erika Hulzein's monogram crest. Bran had seen it on letterheads in his

mothers study.

He didn't know how long they rode. He slept most of the way. When Alexa shook him awake their

car was stopped. Getting out, he met chill air. A dark, overcast night was lit by floodlights that

showed the front of a large timber-beamed lodge. Shivering as he walked, he was glad to reach the

warmth inside.

Sheer luxury overwhelmed him. Later he recalled few details, only that this place made his own

well-appointed home look like an Outback trail cabin.

He did notice that the lodge was a weaponed fortress. A platoon of tanks might have cracked it,

but nothing less. Of course UET's bombs could breach even the underground sanctuaries he saw next

day. But as Hawkman explained later, back home, Erika's installation sat at the outskirts of a

fair-sized city. "They'd have to be pretty desperate," he said, "to blow half the town."

Four days, the conference lasted. Mostly, young Bran was

\b7\b

stuck with servants' quarters and company; he cared not greatly for either. Jimmy Kazich, an

older youth in Erika's

retinue, liked to mimic Bran's slight accent. "Sye soomthin' fer us in Orstreyelian,

won'tcher?"

Somehow shamed, and no longer willing to be, Bran faced the other. "Orl right. Oop yoors!"

Exaggerating Jimmy's own parody, and waiting. Not for long; Kazich slapped him. Shock brought

tears, but no sound. Hand cupped to his slapped cheek, Bran shuffled forward, and as the larger

boy leaned to grin at closer range, slammed the heel of his hand to Jimmy's nose. As hard as he

could, bringing blood and yells, and suddenly the room full of adults. \i"What happened?"\i

If an older girl, sixteen maybe, hadn't kept insisting that Jimmy struck first, Bran would have

had the caning Alexa once threatened. Not from her, but from her counterpart on Erika's staff. As

it went, though, he escaped with a scolding.

One thing about it: Jimmy Kazich didn't bother him again.

he conference dealt with strengthening the Hulzein branch in Argentina: whether, how much, and

\ihow.\i "Erika wants an ace in the hole," Liesel told Bran when the two were alone briefly, "a

backup hideout. Our mother resists the idea, so while she's away, Erika wants to push it through."

Pleased to be confided in, Bran nodded as though he understood.

He kept hoping to get a look at Erika Hulzein's gene-replicated daughter, his cousin Frieda,

who was a year his senior, but no opportunity occurred. With no chance to question his mother,

finally Bran asked Alexa Duggan where Frieda was.

The woman shook her head. "She's sickly, poor child. Had a horrible fever a few weeks ago, and

the treatments, what I've heard, even worse. She's out of intensive care now, but still

bedridden." Then Duggan realized that Bran had broken his Jerrin role, and scowled at him. "Get on

with you, young Jerrin. Haven't you chores to do, besides pestering me about your betters?"

So Bran scuttled off with an armful of clothes for the launderers. Duggan wasn't so bad, after

all!

The visit ended with a banquet, and on this occasion Liesel's servants were themselves served,

at a smaller table to one side. Before that, in the vacant end of the large room a series of

unarmed combat bouts occurred. Erika Hulzein stood to

\b8\b

announce them and Bran got his first good look at her. She looked like his mother and yet she

didn't; Liesel's features were rounded, Erika's cut more sharply. Liesel's grey-flecked brown

braids formed a crown; Erika's iron-grey hair hung straight, to chin-length. Erika stood half a

decimeter the taller-but blade-thin, she probably weighed a few kilos less. And the edge to

Erika's voice was one that Liesel used only rarely. All in all, Bran's aunt impressed him more

than was comfortable.

Now, paired in combat, her trained athletes showed their skills. Graceful, and at first

harmless-looking, but in the third match a young woman came up pale, cradling a broken arm. And

after that, more injuries occurred. Neither Erika nor the contestants seemed to be surprised.

Eight bouts, then a pause for appetizers and wine-which Erika did not sample. Then in four

contests the eight winners reduced their number by half; all losers not in need of medical aid

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went to a table at the far side and got a belated start on the banquet. Another rest period,

another elimination series, leaving only two persons undefeated. And one of the losers had to be

carried off.

Momentarily distracted by his salad-those crinkly chartreuse tendrils \ihad\i to be from off

Earth-Bran looked up to see the two finalists ready for combat. Both were male: one brawny and

built thick like a bear, the other slim and moving catlike. Their styles differed. The bear lunged

and smote, while the cat evaded and flicked punishing blows that seemed effortless. At the end the

bear lay prone, panting, bleeding slightly but not dangerously, and the cat stalked out in no

hurry at all.

Liesel cleared her throat. "Very impressive, Erika. You train your people well." She gestured,

and a servitor refilled her wine glass. "And is that all of it?"

With a quick headshake, Erika said, "One more stint. Soon now." And when the last victor

returned, Erika stood and threw off her ornate gown. Under it she wore only brief, skintight

fighting togs. "Now," she said, "we'll see." And she rounded the table to meet the man who moved

like a cat.

He bowed to her. "Madame." Her answer was too quiet for others' hearing. Then, as in some

strange dance, their movements joined. Fascinated, young Bran watched.

Some of the earlier bouts had been highly skilled, but this was like magic! Strikes and

evasions, swift grace of attack and

\r\b9\b

\rreprisal-sharp crack of a savage blow finding its mark, thump when defensive move sapped most of

the force.

Suddenly, at the arenas marked-off edge, the cat had Erika trapped-and made his ultimate

assault. Brans eyes almost shut, but not quite, because he \icouldn't\i miss an instant of this,

no matter what. The mans foot like a dagger, his arm slashing-but then, her leap perfectly timed,

Erika seemed to \ifloat\i over the thrusts. Missing, he sprawled. She came down astraddle, fingers

at his throat. He gasped, "Madame! I yield."

Erika Hulzein laughed, and patted her opponent gently. "You came close, Felipe, to making \ime\i

yield." She stood, and gave him a hand up. "Well, it will come; I'm fifty-one and getting no

younger." He tried to speak but she overrode him. "But when it does, my prize pupil, rest assured

it won't be easy!" Bowing once more, the catlike man went to sit at the athletes' table. Calmly,

Erika resumed her gown and her own seat. "And now, colleagues, let us dine." As near as Bran could

see, she hadn't even worked up a sweat.

Not until the homeward suborbital flight did Bran find a chance to talk with his mother. "The

way Aunt Erika fought . . . can I learn it?"

"Sure. You're a little young for combat work, though. What's your rush?"

He thought. "If anyone else can do it, maybe I need to."

Liesel nodded. "All right. We don't have the grade of instructors Erika has, let alone anyone

like \iher.\i But what we do have, you're welcome to."

So once home he began training. He was small and skinny, and his coordination had a way to go

yet, but he'd always had fast reflexes, and more strength than his slight build indicated. The

Hulzein combat methods borrowed from several schools: The misdirection of the "gentle way" blended

well with karate's emphasis on putting all ones \imind\i into a blow or kick. And there was more,

not the least being an overall conditioning program. He ran until he couldn't run any more, and

then he kept going anyway. He climbed, he jumped, he swam- staying under water longer than he'd

have believed possible at the start.

After a time, the boy began to run up against some of his natural limitations. He realized that

although he could become very good at these skills he would never achieve the absolute

\b10\b

top rankings. But by then he was more than capable of dealing with the likes of Jimmy Kazich.

Since the type is not rare, especially in that age groups schoolyards, he sometimes proved it.

At twelve Bran was small for his age. Sparline, a year younger, had two centimeters on him and

probably three kilos, none of it excess bulk. Maybe girls did get their growth earlier, but Bran

didn't have to like it. And if she picked on him he had to let her win. She hadn't done any combat

training so if he used his with her, he'd hurt her for sure. It got pretty tiresome.

So one day he up and told her. Wide-eyed, she said, "You \ilet\i me win?" He nodded. She

reached, but only to hug him. "All right, Bran. I won't pick fights any more." And she didn't.

What she did was start lessons herself. Bran's instructor supervised several sessions before

putting the siblings on their own. "And stay with practice rules, nothing all-out," the woman

said. Bran knew what she meant. Against an adult instructor he could go full force because he

simply wasn't strong enough to injure anyone both grown and trained. But with anyone near his own

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size and age, "practice rules" meant doing a move hard enough to prove it, but not to injure.

All right, Bran knew how to follow instructions. The worst Sparline suffered was a few bruises;

at her age they healed quickly.

Nearing thirteen, Bran felt on the verge of something. He was still short-less than sixteen

decimeters, to his fathers twenty. But Hawkman said, "We Morays bloom late." So Bran waited. It

wasn't as though he had any choice.

Besides being larger, the other boys in combat training showed signs of body hair where Bran had

only fuzz. He supposed the difference shouldn't bother him, but it did anyway. Maybe that was why,

when he threw a competitor in practice, he put extra effort into the throw. It didn't help his

feelings much.

Still, he told himself, his mother stood honcho over this part of the Hulzein Establishment-and

whether aunt Erika or grandma Renalle liked it or not, he was Liesel's co-heir.

But in a few brief moves, even that comfort vanished.

\b11\b

There was a morning of early sudden wakings and much confusion. Liesel was in the comm room,

beating fist into palm: "They did it; UET's killed my mother!" Bran found the group-his parents, a

few top aides, and Sparline-by following the sounds of commotion. Liesel paced, raging, while

Hawkman talked at the overseas console. Pausing, he turned to say, "Long-term sabotage, Liesel.

Ringers infiltrated. If Renalle could have laid hands on one of those experimental truth-field

installations, UET couldn't have wormed in." Low-voiced, he talked again with the console, then

reported, "They slagged the citadels power plant, put all the central-powered weapons out of

action. Only portables left, in the way of energy guns, to fight the sappers blasting in." Taut-

faced, he shrugged. "You once said, Liesel, it'd take a regiment of tanks to invade that place.

Well, that's what they used."

Hours later (and still no breakfast), the comm console went dead. Hawkmans far-end informant

had escaped UET's holocaust in an aircar and reached a hidden ground-to-satellite terminal.

Apparently UET had caught up to that person.

Gripping each of her children by a shoulder, Liesel sighed. "Well, you heard. UET's Committee

Police jackals didn't take your grandmother easily. She was eighty-six, and nowhere near to

wearing out." Incredibly, Liesel smiled. "Their own self-glorifying newscasters say she died

firing a Mark-XVII two-hander, with a full squad of dead Police to mark the spot. And they only

got her by coming down through stone shielding with a laser!"

In his mothers grasp, Bran stood taller. "I can't even aim a Mark-XVII yet, without resting it

on something. But someday ..."

Suddenly, she hugged him.

Three uneasy days later, Liesel called family council. "I needed to know what's left of the

Establishment and what's gone. Now I do know." She spread her hands. "In North America we're wiped

out. But Renalle didn't keep all her nest eggs in the one citadel, and UET didn't catch Erika.

She's managed to shift a great proportion of the assets, and many key personnel, to her Argentine

branch. Totally outside UET's grasp."

Liesel didn't look as relieved as her words might indicate. Hawkman said, "So, then-the recent

terrible reverses aside, Liesel-what's bothering you?"

\b12\b

She shook her head. "Erika isn't answering or returning my calls. And the message her aide

relays to me is a very old one." She shrugged. "Don't call us; we'll call you."

Bran knew how time zones affect calling schedules, and the Argentine problem worried him so he

tried to monitor it. Still, one day he reached the comm room to find his mother and her sister

already involved in a long-distance yelling match. Viewscreen circuit this time, and except for

gaunter face and whiter hair, aunt Erika hadn't changed much. The yelling, though: "-your mongrel

brats, Liesel, will \inever\i come to power among Hulzeins. Oh, I'll see to that! And-"

"Erika!" If Liesel wanted to talk, Bran knew no one could stop her. "I'm not \iasking\i for

power. Surely we can discuss these matters and settle them to our mutual satisfaction. I don't-"

Erika Hulzeins voice was high and harsh. "You don't tell me what to do, Liesel. You never did

and you never will! What you'll do is come here in ... oh, three days from now . . . and I'll

offer you a settlement and you'll take it!" The screen blanked.

In the sudden quiet Hawkman spoke softly. "You'll go?" Fuming, breathing fast and deeply, Liesel

nodded.

Obviously trying to relax, she began pacing. "How did it get this bad between us? When we were

little children ... so close and loving, Erika and me . . . and mother too! Erika always looked

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after me, protected me. And later we stayed close. How-"

Still quiet, Hawkmans voice. "You heard what she said."

"Sure. Of course. It's the children. Like mother, Erika's still totally devoted to the

parthenogenetic principle; she still thinks it's workable indefinitely. Well, I decided it wasn't,

and I have two healthy kids. And Erika has poor, sickly Frieda."

She paused in her motion and stood still. "Peace take us, that's it! After Erika the partho

dynasty depends all on Frieda. Who likely isn't up to it. Leaving me, and then Bran and Sparline."

She snorted. "No wonder Erika's birthing porcupines. I-"

"And you still intend to go there?"

"Yes, Hawkman. Erika won't hurt me."

"She's not entirely sane just now, you realize. Keep that in mind and try not to provoke her."

"And you keep in mind that you're talking to a Hulzein!" But

\b13\b

her tone and expression showed no ill humor. "Which is the devil of it. I'm up against another

one." She frowned. "I \ithink\i Erika could share power with me if I had a one-parent daughter.

I'm not certain but I think so. In this case, though, sharing would be an attack on her dynastic

principles . . . which come all the way from our grandmother Heidele who started the whole thing."

Liesel shrugged. "Well, I'll just have to convince her that I'm no threat to either one. And

believe me, Hawkman, I won't lose track of that need. Or of my temper, either."

"You'll go with only a nominal retinue then?" When she nodded, Hawkman said, "All right. But one

other thing needs to be done. Until we have assurance that Erika isn't going to strike out at us-

on behalf of her dynastic principles, I mean- we must put Bran into hiding, out of her reach,

because he's the one she sees as a threat.

"And I think I know how to do it."

"Its simple enough," Hawkman explained, "with a little computer-tap fiddling. We give him a

slightly different identity and slip him into the entrance quota for the Space Academy."

Liesel frowned. "Safe from Erika's hands, but in UET's?"

"As a trainee, a cadet. And-"

"Do I have to use a phony name \iagain?"\i

Hawkman shook his head. "Not entirely. You'll be simply Bran Tregare, not Moray, and that's the

beauty of it, because your middle name comes from an old friend of mine, Sean Tregare. His wife

was Alexa Duggans sister Lisbeth. Sean and Lis both died in the Artificial Plague, when you were a

baby." For a moment, old pain tightened his mouth. "But now-"

"Sure," said Liesel. "Feed into the computer net that Bran's their son; run that datum through

all his records-schools, all of it. Perfectly natural that he'd be taken in by his aunt. And-" Now

she smiled. "If I remember right, Sean Tregare held North American citizenship, so Bran can claim

the same thing."

At first puzzled, even frightened by his father's proposal, now the boy began to feel

excitement. "What you're saying-I could train to captain a \istarship?"\i

Liesel gave a laugh. "By contagion, Hawkman, you're assimilating Hulzein ways! Every move to

serve more than one purpose." She turned to Bran. "We don't know it'll come to that. For now, the

point is hiding you from, Erika's inflamed

\b14\b

temper, and it might be you won't find the Academy all that pleasant. If its a bad situation, then

when it's safe to do so, we'll pull you out." She paused. "Alexa, of course, should be our

communications link. But if all goes well with you there, Bran, it would not be a bad idea at all

for the Hulzein Establishment to have a hook into UET's space fleet."

Hawkman's grin crinkled his face. "For one thing, it would show Erika that mongrel brats might

be damned useful allies."

Sometimes, Bran thought, being a Hulzein was a lot of \iwork.\i

Liesel and a moderate entourage left one morning to visit Erikas Argentine base. Before boarding

the copter she found brief time to hug and kiss her children. To Bran she said, "I know this is a

drastic change for you to handle so fast. But we've established credentials for Alexa ... to

exchange messages with you at the Academy. Just be careful what you put in yours."

"Keep my cover, yes. And with aunt Erika, \iyou\i be careful."

"I always do." Then she climbed aboard and the craft lifted.

Later that day, Bran left his home. Waiting to enter the same kind of air vehicle his mother had

used, he traded handshakes and then a surprisingly fierce hug with his father, and an embrace and

kiss with Sparline. His sister was crying-and suddenly so was he. Well, nothing wrong with that,

except that somehow he thought such things wouldn't be approved at the Academy.

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The trip wasn't much different from the one he'd had to Erikas headquarters. Pogiecopter,

suborbital SST over the ocean, then from the port a groundcar-this time driven by a uniformed

cadet, a large, older youth with a livid scar down his right cheek. Still sleepy from his dozing

on the SST, Bran hardly noticed the winding road the car took, through dark stretches punctuated

by occasional bursts of glaring light. Then the sky at one side began to lighten. Unable to

determine the time difference from his point of departure, Bran realized he was seeing dawn begin.

The car pulled up before a gate, the only break in heavy wire fencing that reached three meters

above ground. The gate opened; the car went in. Now Bran saw the great grey slab of concrete. A

building with no windows, like pictures he'd seen of Total Welfare Centers except those had a bit

\b15\b

blue to their coloring. The car stopped beside a door to the slab. The driver jumped out and

motioned Bran out also. The door opened. Bran walked inside and he heard the door close.

Another young man met him. "You're who?" Bran told him. "Oh, a snotty, huh? New, \iand\i late.

By an hour, \iMister\i Tregare."

"I-the suborbital plane-hey, I just \irode\i it, is all."

\i"Smart\i snotty, too! You first-timers are all alike." The bigger youth stepped forward. "You

have to \ilearn,\i don't you?"

Bran avoided the first blow, shucking his gear to give him mobility, but the second numbed his

face and sent him sprawling.

"Welcome to the Slaughterhouse, snotty!"

\cThe Slaughterhouse

\cScrambling up into a crouch, one hand braced against the floor, Bran paused. The big stubble-

headed bully was shuffling forward, and Bran recognized the move. "Don't kick me!" But the words

came out a barked order, not a plea. This one was too big for him to fight, and somehow he knew

that even if he won, he'd lose here. But still . . .

The other stopped moving, then laughed. "All right . . . You're new, so I'll tell you. In here,

don't fight unless you're told to. But you take a punch pretty well." He held out a hand. "Come

on, get up. I'll show you to your cadre section. You'll have time for breakfast and a haircut,

after you draw your issue . . . before the commandant interviews you." As Bran picked up his

things and turned to follow, the large youth said, "I'm curious. Just what did you think you'd do

if I \idid\i kick you?"

\iPut your foot on backwards!\i "Oh, I dunno," Bran said. He was Hulzein enough to realize that

it's foolish to tell \ieverything\i you know.

And already he knew something about UET's Space Academy.

The older boy took him to a ten-bed squad room, where seven cadets of about Bran's own age were

dressing or using the room's adjacent sanitary facilities. "Three bunks vacant," his guide said,

"so take your pick," then left. Bran did so, and chose a vacant locker also, to stow his gear.

Then he stood, waiting, expecting some sign of acknowledgment from the room's incumbent residents.

But no such thing happened, and soon the seven, ignoring Bran entirely, moved to leave the

\c\b16

\c17\b

room. Bewildered, he lunged to the doorway and stood barring it. "What \iis\i this? My name is

Bran Tregare and I'm assigned here. Don't you give your new people decent help or greeting?"

The skinny, freckle-splotched boy at the front of the group made a placating gesture. "Sure we

do. But you have to speak up first. Come on. Breakfast may not be good, but it's hot."

In the large, crowded mess hall, Bran found the prediction correct.

Now he knew that to learn anything he had to ask. After breakfast he learned that he also

had to know \iwho\i to ask, for when he put a question to a uniformed adult, the woman whipped a

backhand slap across his mouth and told him "Don't try to jump levels, snotty!"

So it took him longer than he expected to find where to draw his grey-green jumpsuit and

uniform, and where to get the haircut that left only stubble on his knobby skull. So naturally he

was late for his interview with the commandant.

As he waited in the outer office, Bran tried to run through the altered "facts" he needed to

remember. Parentage, sure. Age, upped one year because otherwise he'd be about three months too

young. Surname, he'd practiced and wouldn't fluff it. Anything else?

Too late to think more; he was summoned. And walked in to face fat, scarred, cigar-chewing

Colonel Harold Arbogast. He expected the man to look up from the papers on his desk. When it

didn't happen, Bran cleared his throat and said, "Cadet Bran Tregare reporting, sir."

Now Arbogast looked at him, pouched bloodshot eyes under bushy, straggling eyebrows. Around the

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wet cigar the heavy mouth twisted. "Reporting late, you mean."

"Yes, sir." \iExcuses don't work here.\i

"You know how to salute, don't you?"

"Not yet, sir."

Right answer, for now the cigar came out. With it, the colonel pointed at Bran, and the mouth

formed something that was probably meant to be a smile. "Let's check your credentials," and rapid-

fire he asked questions. Just as fast, Bran gave the answers. Finally Arbogast nodded. "I see

you're in Cadre D, Squad 8. Too late for you to make morning drills, even if you'd been here on

time. Well, that'll give you time to get your

\b18\b

\cshots this morning, and read the Regs. Ask for a copy on your way out."

"Yes, sir." Arbogast was looking down again, so Bran turned to leave.

"Just a minute, cadet." Bran swung back. "With the Academy Regulations, I can save you a little

time. The main thing is that everything your superiors tell you to do, you do. And nothing else.

Got that?"

Sure, whatever is not compulsory, is forbidden. Bran hadj read about that, somewhere. He didn't

say it out loud, though.

And now it seemed he was truly free to go. In the outer office he asked for and was given a copy

of the Academy Regs, and directions to the infirmary, where he received various inoculations. Some

hurt more than others, and by the time he got back to his empty squad room he was feeling a little

lightheaded. He figured he'd better read the Regs though, anyway.

It was pretty much the way Arbogast had said. There were separate buildings for each of the four

cadres that made up the Southwest Quadrangle, and off-duty you stayed with your own. There was a

definite hierarchy of seniority among cadets. One's superior was automatically right, and there

was no appeal. Insubordination was a dire offense, and severity of punishment was pretty much up

to the discretion of the higher-ranking offendee.

After reading carefully about halfway through, Bran skimmed the rest of the pamphlet. Already he

thought he had the idea. \iFor a while, I can stand this place. But I hope they get me out soon.\i

If one of his squadmates, looking harassed as well as bushed, hadn't stopped by the room on his

way to lunch, Bran would have missed that meal; the shots had made him doze a little. Lunch was

better than breakfast but not by much. Then Bran went with his squad out to the large central

drill area, where each cadre trained in its own quadrant. The afternoons subject was a series of

marching maneuvers in formation, an art form as old as armies, and at first Bran thought it a

harmless enough pastime. But then an instructor shouted someone's name and ran to intercept that

person, giving the young man a slashing blow across the ribs with what appeared to be some kind of

riding crop. More incidents of the same kind began to happen. Bewildered, Bran lost step on a

Squads Right, heard his name called, and felt the quirt's burn across his right shoulder.

\r\b19\b

\rInstinct made him crouch and start to turn-to see last night's bully hefting the short whip,

grinning, ready to strike again.

So he turned back, sprang to regain place and step in the group. Counting cadence under his

breath, he left the whip behind.

If the marching drill was bad, the calisthenics were worse. Bran was wiry and strong for his

size, but never before had he been worked to exhaustion and then kicked or struck to force him to

continue. Through a haze of fatigue he realized they weren't picking on \ihim.\i Everyone got the

same treatment. He saw one boy collapse and fail to rise no matter what was done to him. An

instructor grabbed a foot and dragged the cadet off, out of the way. Gasping for breath, pausing a

moment while no one seemed to notice him, Bran gathered strength for the next ordeal. And

eventually the session came to an end. The squads marched back into the cadre building-with ten

minutes to shower and change before dinner.

In the mess line, some were stopped and sent to another serving station at the room's far side.

Facing Bran, the arbiter looked at a list and said, "Out there today, you stunk! But it's your

first day, so I'll give you a break and not send you over to the bread-and-water line, this time.

You get a real meal; enjoy it."

Maybe dinner was better than lunch, maybe not. Bran was too tired to know, and feverish, semi-

nauseous. He concentrated on getting the food down and keeping it there, because he knew he was

going to need it.

The following days didn't get any better, but somehow Bran managed to cope. He didn't exactly

get used to the Academy's deliberate cruelty, but increasingly he learned to take the unremitting

parts for granted; it was the new stuff that got to him, and always there \iwere\i new outrages.

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One evening after dinner he was unexpectedly penalized for some infraction he hadn't noticed at

the time. "Tregare! Five laps around the drill field. Right now." On a full stomach, naturally,

but no point in arguing; Bran went outside in the evening chill and did the five laps. He didn't

hurry them a lot, though, and returned to his squad room at a leisurely pace. Only when he opened

the room's door did he realize something was wrong there. "What the \ihell?"\i

The newest boy, who had come in only two days earlier, was spread eagled face down and naked,

with a larger cadet holding

\b20\b

him there, raping him. Screwing him. Boogering him. As he yelled, and the others in the room stood

back, white-faced, watching.

Bran shook his head. "What you think you're \idoing?\i You can't-" Two boys held him back. Then

the rapist was done, and that one, an upperclassman from two floors up, came over to Bran.

Bran's arms were held and he couldn't stop that bigger youth from cupping a palm around his jaw.

"I can't \iwhat,\i snotty? Tell me, huh? Can't come back here tomorrow maybe, and do \iyou?"\i

Nothing in Bran's whole life had scared him this badly. He knew that in the room or in the

entire Academy he would find no help. \iAll right, damn it!\i He jerked his head back from the

hand's grip, then lunged to bite its reaching edge. He drew blood, and took a backhand across the

face for his trouble. But now he was pretty sure his voice wouldn't tremble. So he said, keeping

it slow, "You could, yes. But unless you killed me, you'd never be safe again." Sheer bluff and he

knew it, so he held the other's gaze until that gaze turned away. Good thing, too-Bran's eyes were

starting to water with the strain.

The big one shrugged. "Oh, turn him loose. You know better'n to jump me, don't you? I was

kidding, anyway. You're not the type." And pulling his clothes together, he walked out.

The others tried to talk to Bran then but he wouldn't answer. Nor would he look at the naked one

crying on the floor. He took his shoes off and climbed into bed without undressing further. He lay

a long time, tensed, until the rest of the squad also went to bed and turned the light out. Much

later, hearing -their sleeping breaths, he found himself crying. He kept it quiet.

Every day he checked the comm room for messages from Alexa. For eleven days the visits were

fruitless, but on the twelfth the orderly said, "Tregare, Bran, you say?" Bran nodded. "You know

anybody in Australia?"

"Sure. I lived there." The sour-faced man seemed to want something more, so Bran added, "I was

expecting word from my aunt. Ms. Alexa Duggan." And he gave the address.

The way the man looked at the flimsy he held, he might have been trying to memorize it. Finally

he handed it over. "I guess it's for you, all right."

The orderly's grade of courtesy rated no thanks, but Bran

\b21\b

gave him some, anyway. After all, he'd be dealing with the slob again. He took the message and

walked the long corridor to the building's "inside" exit. Late afternoon sun warmed him as he sat

on a bench facing the now vacant drill field.

Then he read the message. What it said on the face of it was idle chatter, nothing important.

Just in case, though, he read it that way first. Then he counted the letters in the first three

words, which gave him the three digits of the code sequence Alexa had used. And then he read the

real message.

It didn't say much either. Liesel was still in Argentina, and her own reports, telefaxed or

direct on viewscreen circuits, were largely noncommital.

Well, sometimes things did take a while. ...

The next few days, not much new happened. In a tentative way, Bran became friends with the

skinny, freckled boy who had first spoken to him. Jargy Hoad, his name was, and Jargy carried an

air of irreverent independence that appealed to Bran. The other six in the room-the raped boy had

simply vanished, transferred to another cadre without notice to his squad mates-the other six

didn't impress Bran Tregare much, though four of them were second-year, not snotties. He could

keep them straight in his mind because Ellsworth was fat, Donegan had buck teeth, Ahmad was black

and said he was Muslim, Dale talked a lot and never said much, Pringle was just the opposite, and

Hastings could do one-arm pushups. Jargy, though, was fun to be around, to talk to. To conspire

with.

At first, all the two did was sneak extras out of mess at dinner, deciding who should swipe what

in order to put together a late-night snack. They hid the stuff in shrubbery near their closest

building exit, and went outside for the snacking: first, because they couldn't steal enough to

feed the whole room; second, if they didn't share, someone would probably snitch; and third, share

or not, Jargy said Dale would snitch anyway. "Reason he talks so much," said young Hoad, "is to

cover what he's thinking."

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