Rebel's Quest, page 8
part #6 of The Long View Series
The talk had wakened Leanne; she, too, sat up. "We're close now, aren't we? Pretty soon the danger begins. How soon?"
Begins? He thought about it, and said: "The day you were born. And for me, the day I was. "
Roughly thirty hours short of touchdown, Tregare decided he had all the info he could get from Stronghold's greeting-tape routine, and that he'd better start answering. As near as he could tell, Admiral Saldeen on Stronghold wasn't worried much about anything in the way of ships coming from human-controlled space, but he was getting a little impatient for an answer from this one. Not that the admiral came on the circuit himself, but whoever did the talking sounded more brusque and demanding as time passed.
At the comm-panel in Control, giving the comm-tech an extra break for snack or coffee or both, Tregare opened communication with groundside. First the standard chatter: "the armed ship Alexander, Bran Tregare commanding... "
In council they'd argued about using his own name. "But what if word's gotten there already, about you?"
Bran shook his head. "I've figured all that. The interval—"
"The what?" Frei Relligers brows were raised.
"You didn't learn that? It's Pythagoras and right triangles, applied to the way ships chew time. Distance is one leg, time's the other, and interval's the hypotenuse. "
Headshake. "If you say so, captain. "
"Not me. Einstein said it first. " The Third Hat nodded, and Tregare went on. "I checked the times UET learned anything about me after Escape, and figured time and distance from those places to when we get to Stronghold. And the odds have a lot of zeroes on them that the info won't be here yet. " Relliger still looked doubtful, but nobody argued.
Now, talking to Stronghold, Bran had covered all the standard stuff. The groundside spokesman said, after the wait for signals at lightspeed to reach Stronghold and return, "Then you'll be landing at about nineteen hundred hours. So let me give you the drill we have here. First you—"
Tregare quit listening, because that wasn't how it was going to be. When it was his turn, he said, "There'll have to be a few changes. Unless—is your garrison there, the entire personnel complement, inoculated against the Grey Plague from New Canada?"
The answer was a time coming. "Why, no. I don't think so. "
Tregare wasn't much surprised. Because both the Grey Plague and New Canada were his very own inventions.
"... quarantine procedures as worked out and applied by the medical departments... have proved effective and totally safe. " Tregare read out the quarantine rules. They sounded most official. Both Leanne Prestor and Hain Deverel were good at helping paraphrase Tregares ideas into officialese.
What it boiled down to was that only in spacesuits would ship's personnel leave the Alexander or groundsiders come aboard. And any time the airlocks outer hatch was opened, the lock would first be fumigated with a guaranteed disinfectant. Eda Ghormley had come up with an aerosol spray that smelled bad enough to be credible—it was normally used to kill moths, something like that. "Of course this means, " said Tregare, "that except for fuel and water which can be piped directly, all supplies must be loaded Onship by way of the main airlock, since we have no way of using the cargo hatch without fear of contamination. But then, nothings ever perfect, is it?"
Then groundsides Chief Medic had a lot of questions, and Bran was glad he'd worked out some answers ahead of time. "No, sir; we were never given the planet's coordinates. Out somewhere past Far Corner, is the impression I got. " And, "No, we had no deaths aboard ship. No cases, even. What happened, there'd been Grey Plague at Johnsons Walk and everybody had to be inoculated, including us. Because the problem is, the shots make you safe enough, but they also make you a carrier for a long time. So that's why the quarantine measures were imposed. " He ventured a short laugh. "Its going to make for lousy liberty, here, but this crew knows how to obey orders, right enough. "
"This Grey Plague. What are the symptoms?"
"Nobody seemed to want to talk about it, much. A grey color to the skin. Uncontrollable dehydration. Convulsions. Fever. Delirium. A lot of screaming, so probably it's very painful, but at that stage there's no ability to communicate. So—"
After transmission lag, groundside asked, "Can you provide us with samples of the inoculant?"
The what?"
"Vaccine, serum, whatever it was in the shots you received. "
This question. Tregare had been waiting for. He said, "No. We asked, but they wouldn't give us any. Said it was too dangerous to keep around, without someone special-trained to handle it. We thought our medic knew enough, but Johnsons Walk said no. "
"I see. Well. I hope you won't mind if, any time your airlock opens, we douse it with our own antiseptic spray, also. "
They were still too far out for the screen to show picture, but still Tregare repressed his grin. "Not at all. Sounds like a fine, sensible idea. "
The conversation ended; Bran cut the circuit. Relliger said, "All well and good. But still—what happens when they board and somebody exercises authority to snoop in our computer files?"
Tregare didn't laugh at his Third Hat. All he said was, "You ever try to punch a terminal keyboard, wearing space gloves?"
So it was all working, but some misgiving nagged Tregare. He couldn't figure what it was, until he decided he needed a shave and saw himself looking back from a mirror.
The damn tattoo, was what! The parts that didn't look right. Sure, he'd got by with the discrepancy at Hardnose, but that was a piddling little colony with no firepower to speak of if someone had got suspicious. And they hadn't been there long, and half the time he'd fixed himself some grease smears on clothes and cheek and forehead, ostensibly from double-checking maintenance work. Here on Stronghold, though, once the ship set down he'd be up against people who outranked him and forces that hopelessly outnumbered him. And he couldn't get away with being grease-smeared all the time.
He couldn't think of a good idea so he asked for some. Leanne tried touching the circle up with surface paints; the job looked fine, but the stuff smeared too easily. "Thanks, " said Tregare. "It'd work just fine on a viewscreen closeup, but—" And for that purpose, close now to Stronghold, it served admirably.
Frei Relliger suggested a faked injury, covered by a bandage. Bran shook his head. "Somebody'd want to look at it. A medic, maybe. " Damn! There had to be some kind of answer....
Gonnelson cleared his throat. "Shiner. "
For a moment, Tregare didn't understand. Then Prestor said, "Oh! Like a black eye, you mean. " And the First Hat nodded. "But that would smear, just like—"
"Real one. "
With admiration, Tregare looked at his First Hat. "That'll work. If there's time for it to bloom—" He shook doubts loose from his head. "We just won't entertain guests on here 'til it does. And offship, through my helmet nobody can make a really picky inspection. " He stood. "All right, Gonnelson. Get up and do the honors. "
"Me?" The man looked horrified. "No!"
"Sure, you. It's your idea, you get the privilege. Why, just - think—this is probably the only chance you'll ever have in your life to slug a captain and get away with it!" But the jollying didn't work at all, so Tregare went serious. With a hand to Gonnelson's shoulder, he said, "I've never seen you fight, but I heard about a thing that happened when somebody in a bar got to bullying you and wouldn't stop. You hit hard and you're accurate, is how I heard it. And I want this done right. "
Slowly Gonnelson stood, his face paler than usual. Bran said, "Wrap something around your hand. We don't want any busted knuckles. " When that was done, Tregare turned a little. "This about the correct angle?" Then, "I'd better shut my eyes. Otherwise I probably couldn't keep from ducking. " He saw Frei Relliger move off to one side, out of his line of vision. He closed his eyes, and waited.
The impact dazed him; he stumbled backward and found himself held and supported from behind. At first the voice there made no sense, then he understood. "... way he wound up, I didn't want you slamming back against the bulkhead, skipper. " Relliger...
The lights wore halos; so did everything and everybody else. He wanted to say something, but words wouldn't form. He waved a hand, meaning to signal that he was all right, but the people crowding around him and easing him into a chair didn't seem to pay much attention. Gonnelson—Gonnelson was crying,
Tregare couldn't have that. With great effort he put words together. "The hand—it's awright?" Massaging that one with the other, the man nodded. Now speech came better. "Good job, feels like, " as he winced from the movements talking made. "If that doesn't do it, we'll need a sledgehammer. Thanks, Gonnelson. "
First Tregare had himself a robust drink, then he ate. Chewing mostly on the right side—his jaw hadn't been struck, but the left side was sore, anyway. As much as possible, he ignored it; he was working on his cover story. "Small abortive mutiny. I think, " he said to Leanne Prestor. "A little coup group—maybe three—been planning Escape and got desperate as we came closer to Stronghold. " She started to interrupt but this was his story and he was still embroidering it. "— jumped me coming out of quarters, knocked me around some until I could get my gun out. Then, of course—"
Playing along with his scenario, she said, "What happened to them? And who were they? On the records, I mean. "
Spreading his hands wide, Bran said, "Spaced 'em; what else? One dead, one hurt bad, one plain scared spitless. Names I'll pick from those dead in this ship's real mutinies and teed em into the log summary all the way, up to now. And next move, I go down and scar that corridors bulkheads a little. Energy gun—that'll save me having to splotch blood around; they mostly cauterize. "
Leaning forward across the table, Leanne clasped his hand. "But what if they—UET, I mean, on Stronghold—interrogate the crew about all this? How many people can you rehearse on it?"
He grinned. "No need. Nobody was there to see. All there are is rumors. And besides, UET never asks about anybody but officers. So we'll have the story straight, and that does it. "
* * *
He went on viewscreen to Stronghold, next, with no bandage but a smear of colorful antiseptic over his swelling bruise. To the groundsiders question he said, "A little problem on here, yes. It's taken care of, and you get a full report when we're down. "
Inconnu disguised as the Alexander was closing fast on Stronghold. Twice that worlds rotation showed Tregare the main fortress and its spaceport. The first time he couldn't distinguish much, even on high-mag, but next exposure showed him that the Port held fourteen ships; nearly half of these would be armed. Well, this caper wasn't depending on muscle, anyway. Because if it did, Tregare was in deeper than he could handle.
It was about time to see how Frei Relliger could land a ship, so Tregare assigned him the job and rode sidebar for him. The new Third Hat seemed a little twitchy when the ship began plowing air, but he brought it down steadily and met the landing circle with only the slightest of jars. Seeing the man's apprehensive look, Tregare said, "Good sitdown, Frei. It buys you a drink. " And as soon as he saw the log brought up to date, he took Relliger to captains digs and paid off
When he went groundside, Tregare took along Hain Deverel and two other ratings, all briefed on the "mutiny" story and all, of course, in suits. In the airlock they waited while nozzles installed by Junior Lees people fogged the chamber with aerosol mist. Then the outer hatch opened, and using a hose running up the ramp from a tanker car, spacesuited UET personnel gave men and airlock another spraying. It was all going to be a big nuisance, Tregare thought—but the inconvenience and its supposed cause should distract UETs attention from other matters.
So the four of them left the ship. The suited groundside squad returned to their vehicle, leaving the hose in place. Tregares group was beckoned to a large open groundcar. Its driver and its one passenger who wore captains insignia were not spacesuited. Tregare thought they looked a little nervous. Well, that wasn't such a bad idea....
Looking a little sheepish, too, the other captain reached to shake Tregare's gauntleted hand with his own bare one. "Welcome to Stronghold, captain. I'm Jase Hogarth, adjutant to Admiral Saldeen. " He didn't introduce the driver, a youngish woman who wore Chief ratings stripes and a sandpaper haircut, but Bran did name his own people. Then they got into the car, moved off toward the nearest buildings, and Hogarth began pointing out the sights of the place.
To the left, "That big grey pillbox, it's the powerhouse. Most of the installation underground, of course, to save on shielding for the fusion cycle. Only fourteen years old, the plant is. Probably obsolete on Earth, though, by now. " Bran mumbled something noncommittal; what he knew about power research on Earth he could stick in one ear.
They skirted the rest of the landing area, passing through shadows cast by the tall ships. Strongholds sun, a fierce actinic dot so distant that Strongholds year made fifteen of Earth's, had risen less than halfway from horizon to zenith. To one side Hogarth noted the communications complex; its growth of antennae, in all shapes from spidery to disclike, made his identification redundant. Bran made approving comment anyway—it didn't cost him.
Up ahead, then, minimally sheltered by foothills beyond, stood the Headquarters complex, officer and civilian quarters, troop barracks—the one with the flagrant display of defense weaponry had to be the Committee Police contingent, but Tregare didn't state his deduction out loud. Instead he paid attention while Hogarth indicated the locations of other facilities: the warehouses and related supply functions, the fuel refinery sited well away from the main area, the storage tanks, main reservoir, crop lands off to the far side where Tregare couldn't really see them from here. All very interesting— because riding in this groundcar, not yet twenty minutes on this world, Tregare was getting himself one hell of an idea for future reference!
Peace take me, it can be done!
Admiral Saldeen was the far side of middle age, but his voice and movements showed vigor. Coming around from behind his desk, to shake hands, he grinned. "Glad to have you here, captain. Tregare, is it? Seems a shame, your having to wear that suit, but plagues nothing to fool with. Now—your report, sir?"
Deverel and the other two ratings were cooling heels in an outer room. They, and Tregare also, had been checked for weapons; no one entered the admirals presence armed, except his personal bodyguard. Naturally Tregare and his group had brought no overt handweapons. Unarmed, though, they were not. Some of their suits' "air" tanks contained other substances, such as cough smoke and puke gas. Not that Tregare expected to need any of that stuff, but having it at hand made him feel a little more confident.
Now, handshake done with and both men seated, Bran answered, "My summary log is already sent into your computer files, sir. And that's about all the report I have. Actually, Admiral Saldeen, I'm here to get your report. " Before the admiral could interrupt, Bran said, "Overall estimate of probabilities of Shrakken activity, for one thing. Morale situation: improving or deteriorating, here where we—" We. That's important to say. "—where we can only wait and watch. And that's another thing. " He paused.
Saldeen frowned, then said, "What is? Explain, captain. " "As you'll see by our log, my mission has an option. In any case I receive your full report and return it to Earth as soon as possible. " He tried to look apologetic. "I'm not being pushy, sir, but my orders came from the Presiding Committee itself. " The admiral seemed to relax, so Bran continued, "The option is that if you think it's a good idea, then on leaving here I first take a loop out toward Shrakken space and scout for alien ships there. Now whether—"
The admiral shook his head. "We've done that. No sign. " Tregare leaned forward. "Of course, sir. But how far?" Saldeen told him. Bran pretended to consider the datum, then said, "It's the Long View, sir. When these orders were sent out, the Committee didn't know you had explored so extensively. " He nodded. "Then I guess all we need to do, if, as I expect, you have my fuel and supplies replenished in short order, plus the Drive repairs I've listed, is for you to countersign the original orders and add your recommendation. " Seeing the man's brows rise, he added, "Simply have it punched in by comm channel; no need to handle possibly contaminated readouts. " He smiled. "And then we can get this damned Grey Plague worry well away from you. "
"Yes. Hmm—not much of a rest stop for you, is it, captain?" "No, it isn't. But already a few of our people are testing negative as carriers. By the time we reach Earth again, we should all be safe for normal folks to associate with. "
"Umph. I certainly hope so. Now which level of report are you expected to receive and return? Total, redundant-reduced, edited by selective importance, or summary?"
Run that one past me again! How long since Stronghold had been established here? And on Inconnu, how much of Tinheads memory space could be spared for this stuff, without cramping normal functions? Tregare made a guess: "Make it redundant-reduced for the first and latest decade of Strongholds existence, summary for everything in between. " What UETs Presiding Committee might want to see, Tregare had no idea. But the early days might have some clues for him personally, and the latest data he had to have.
A little more talk before leaving. "Sorry, captain, that those suits don't have facilities for me to feed you a drink. It's been a pleasure, though I must admit I'll be glad to see you take that damned Plague away safely. " Then, after another mismatched handshake, Tregare collected his people and they got a ride back to the ship.
On the way, between reminding himself of the basics of Strongholds layout, Tregare found himself thinking. Not even body in UET was rotten. Admiral Saldeen, for instance. Too bad they were on different sides. Because Tregare liked that old rooster.
What made Tregare antsy was his Drive problem, but that work got underway immediately. The only tough part was not being able to use the cargo hatch, so that the exciter had to be broken down into components in order to get through the airlock.
The Nielson Cube made another problem. The thing itself was only about a meter each way, but its cryogenic crate measured twice that. Junior Lee Beauregard solved the difficulty—his crew pulled the old Cube and wrapped it in a blanket of thick, efficient insulation while at the same time at the foot of the ship's ramp a UET gang did the same for the new replacement unit, tapping it into flow from a portable tank of liquid helium to make sure it wouldn't warm enough to go sour between uncrating and installation. "Purely fast, we done gotta move, skipper, " he said, and Tregare saw to it that extraneous personnel were kept the hell out of the way during those moves, until the new Cube was safely in place and the old one snugged into UET's crate groundside.
