The Parafaith War (21 page)

“Right. Maybe Yamidori can help me with the engineering stuff.”

Trystin didn’t rise to the bait, although he felt vaguely sorry for Schicchi. Supposedly, Jonnie had great instincts, at least in the simulator, but equally great difficulties with more abstract exercises.

Trystin began to unfasten the shipsuit even before he was fully inside his cubicle.

“Before we approach the tactical aspects of translation, such as the virtual impossibility of synchroneity, that is, the synchronization of translations and emergence from translation by separate spacecraft, we need to discuss translation error. We talk about ‘translation error,’ but is it really an error? Of course not.” Commander Kurbiachi nodded at his own answer to his question. “We call it an error because we cannot determine in advance exactly how much apparent elapsed time passes in our space-time universe while a ship is in the process of translating between the congruencies created by a translation engine. Two identical ships with precisely, or as precise as we can make it, the same cargo and personnel can routinely emerge at the same point inspace with differences in translation time as great as two months. The problem is that each ship, each point of translation, each time of translation is unique. Thus, even attempting to determine the impact of literally hundreds of subtly different variables upon a translation through what can be roughly called chaos, though it is not, becomes a mathematical problem beyond the capabilities of any equipment yet developed. Oh, our estimations have gotten relatively precise, but they are only estimations, and they are really only even halfway precise for a single ship… most references do not account for the impact of the so-called translation error upon multiple ship movements …”

Sitting in the second row of the dozen-plus would-be pilots, comprised of officers at three slightly different practical training levels, Trystin stifled a yawn.

“As established by the noted academician Ryota more than a century ago, because so-called translation error is a function of the unique properties linked to each translation, the result approximates a random distribution within a range limited by the gross variables of the situation.” The commander paused as a major in the third row raised her hand. “Yes, Major?”

“I might be getting ahead, but theoretically,” asked Ulteena Freyer, “theoretically, if you had a large enough group of ships, and you attempted simultaneous translations, effectively wouldn’t you end up with groups of ships emerging at roughly coincident times?”

“That is certainly theoretically possible, and it was one of Ryota’s theorems that such would be the case-the Distribution Theorem. However…”-Kurbiachi paused before continuing-“the number of variables involved would have required, according to Ryota’s calculations, based on the translation engines of that time, a fleet in the neighborhood of ten thousand ships. Today, my modest adaptations of the Distribution Theorem suggest that to achieve a barely acceptable distribution, that is, twenty groups of ten ships emerging from translation chaos with the ships in each group translating into real space within a day of each other, would still require almost a thousand ships.” Kurbiachi bowed slightly, his short jet-black hair unmoving.

“Thank you. Commander.”

“Your question illustrates the problem of achieving synchroneity, which is obviously the basis of tactics on any level above that of the individual ship. Theoretically and practically, synchronizing multiple ship movements through interstellar distances remains impossible, even using advanced chaos-perturbation modifications.”

“What about the Harmony raid?” asked someone behind Trystin.

“Ah, yes. That is a good question.” Kurbiachi smiled. With the smile, Trystin saw why he didn’t want Kurbiachi as a check pilot.

“A good question, indeed. You are familiar with the Harmony raid?” Kurbiachi paused. “For those of you who are unfamiliar with the details, I will elaborate slightly. In Septem of 720, the Coalition effectively attacked the Harmony system with a fleet of nearly one hundred translation ships and destroyed all the feasible military targets within the system, then the main staging base for the Prophet’s missionaries. That success has never been repeated, nor is it likely to be. The Coalition began to translate ships into the sub-Oort region of the Harmony system nearly four months before the attack. To obtain one hundred and eight ships-the precise number that began the attack-required attempted translations of over two hundred ships. Eighty ships missed the attack window through wide variations in translation and returned unharmed, although the last did not return to Chevel Beta until nearly three years after the attack. Twelve ships attempted the translation and did not return. The assumption is that those twelve missed the sub-Oort free dust zone and translated into nontranslatable zones….”

“Boom…” came a muted whisper from the front row. “Exactly,” agreed Kurbiachi. “Then, of the one hundred eight ships that commenced the attack, twenty-seven survived and returned.” He bowed to the lieutenant who had asked the question. “After the Harmony attack, the Revenant military authorities widened their patrols to include the outer fringes of their systems. That tactic, while somewhat costly, precluded any Coalition attempt to evade the synchroneity limits through a phased buildup of forces within a system. . - .”

Trystin pursed his lips and took a deep breath through his nose, trying to avoid a yawn. History and more history! The conclusion was simple enough: No one had yet figured out how to have two ships translate at the same time and emerge close to each other, either in time or space, although time seemed to be the bigger problem.

“… As a result of the synchroneity limitations, pitched interstellar battles between fleets are highly unlikely, and the system defense provides, with the development of EDI technology, certain advantages to the defender… .”

Trystin stifled another yawn. While Kurbiachi was a brilliant tactician in his own way, his lectures were boring. Out of the old parashinto mold, he was polite and refused to adopt more interesting classroom techniques because they might cause his students to lose face publicly.

Rumor said he was far more taxing in private. Trystin hoped never to find out.

“… likewise the Tompkins’ Limit restricts the capacity of translation engines to masses of less than roughly two thousand metric tonnes … and translations involving masses exceeding one thousand tonnes have certain… difficulties …”

In the engineering class, Trystin reflected. Subcommander Eschbech had begun on the mathematics of the Tompkins’ Limit, and Eschbech was far more interesting.

“… in combating both the synchroneity restrictions and the Tompkins’ Limit, the Revenants of the Prophet have returned to what might appear to be an anachronistic approach-the use of fusactor mass conversion-boosted asteroid ships, with modified translation-effect acceleration and deceleration, based on …”

Trystin doodled out what looked like a chunk of iron asteroid, then added his conceptualization of the so-called deceleration module. Sooner or later, Kurbiachi had to get into tactics, rather than why there weren’t tactics. At least, Trystin hoped so.

“That’s all, ser. Your implant will feel strange for a while with the wider band receptivity, but everything checks, and your neural system’s in better shape than when you checked in.” The tech folded the equipment away from Trystin’s face. “We’ll give you another check before you leave on your assignment, but everything should be all right. If anything hurts or burns, get back here immediately. That shouldn’t happen, but it does sometimes.” She coughed. “You ought to feel better, at least until you give it a workout.”

“First rest it’s had in a while.” Trystin stood and stretched. In fact, it had been eight standard months since he had used his implant. “Glad it’s you and not me.” “Why?” asked Trystin.

“You ever see someone with a burned neural system? Those who don’t die? They shake and shiver all over, and every time they move, their faces twist, like each movement sends needles through their brains. No thanks. Lieutenant. You can have it.” The tech shook her head.

The first sensation he was aware of was that the silence in his skull was gone. The trickling signals even from the medical equipment registered, like a background hum, and he could sense the main Chevel Beta net, though he didn’t have the protocol to tap into the signals. “Thank you.” He turned to the tech before leaving. “You’re welcome, ser.”

Did he hear a note of sadness in her voice? Resignation? He checked the time through the implant-1320, more than enough time before his simulator session for him to stop by the library and work out the references he needed to complete the problems that Commander Eschbech had dumped on the engineering class.

Why weren’t there hookups in their rooms? All it took was cabling and inexpensive, or relatively inexpensive, hardware. Trystin rubbed his forehead. In a way, it didn’t make sense. Yet, so far, everything that the Service did had a reason, not always a reason Trystin accepted, but a reason. Was it too expensive? Or old habit? He pursed his lips. That question would wait for later. He still had to figure out a series of problems on superconductivity lines and translation engines.

The workstations at the South end of the library were all vacant except for two-one in each corner. Trystin did not recognize either officer in the room. He took the console in the middle, easing his gear bag as far under the shelf that held the console as it would go, and toggling the screen controls before realizing that he could again use his implant.

The implant link-connect was soft, almost flat, but faster than he recalled as he called up the engineering index and began to race through the superconductivity entries.

As usual, none were exactly what he needed, and he wondered if Commander Eschbech designed his assignments just that way so that they always required four different references, interpolations, calculations, and sometimes just plain guesswork.

How was he supposed to come up with the specifications of a ceramic-carbon-helix design for a supercon line designed to handle a translation engine with a thousand-light-year limit on optimality? And why? Trystin took a deep breath.

After completing three of the problems, Trystin rubbed his forehead. The noise of the implant still bothered him, enough that he had a slight headache. “Good luck this afternoon,” said a soft voice. Trystin looked up at the round face of Constanzia Aloysia, who had cut her hair so short that the frizziness almost did not show.

“Thank you.” He looked at her again. “Why?” “I saw the assignments board.” “Not Commander Mitchelson?” “Not that bad.” She smiled. “Commander Kurbiachi.” “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She looked at the few notes he had scrawled on his pad and at the screen that showed his engineering work to date. “You do those problems? He said that they were optional.” “If I don’t do it all, I get in trouble.” Lieutenant Aloysia shook her head, then brushed something off the sleeve of her shipsuit. “I thought you wouldn’t want to be surprised.”

“Thank you.” Trystin tried to put more warmth into his voice.

“That’s all right, lit see you in Engineering.” As Constanzia left the study area, Trystin checked the time. Although he hadn’t Finished the last problem and couldn’t figure out how to set it up, he was out of time. He gathered his gear and downlinked from the library system. He hurried out, but no one looked up.

After bounding down the ramps at a speed less than dignified, Trystin stepped up to the assignments board in the square foyer off the south end of the simulator bay. A name in glowing letters appeared next to his-that of Commander Kurbiachi. He moistened his lips. So far he had been lucky enough to avoid the commander, although the rumor was that he was fine in class, all right in the simulator, and murder in actual corvette trainers. Trystin headed down the corridor toward briefing room three B, the heels of his boots whispering across the textured plastic floor sealant.

Although his steps had always been heavy—Salya had claimed the Academy knew when Trystin left the house-the half-gee field in the station kept even Trystin from sounding like a reclamation tractor.

In the briefing room. Commander Kurbiachi was waiting, his informal greens crisp, his face smooth and unlined.

“Lieutenant Desoll, ser.”

“Sit down. Lieutenant.” The commander handed Trystin the worn briefing packet, but did not sit as Trystin eased into the scratched gray plastic chair. “You have just had your implant reactivated-is that not correct?” “Yes, ser.”

Kurbiachi nodded. “In this session, you will be doing a standard recon run, through the Jerush system, looking for a rev drone or scout. The parameters are as accurate and as up-to-date as we can make them. In fact, this session is modeled after such a run. Yes, we do infiltrate rev systems, and they occasionally infiltrate ours. Space is quite large, remember.”

In turn, Trystin nodded, trying to look alert, despite the distractions provided by the increased noise of his “improved” implant.

“This session is a review. Lieutenant, for very good reasons. First, you are going to have difficulty in adjusting to the greater data flow from your implant. You will be confused and trying to use both manual and implant input to control the corvette, and you may have difficulty learning how to tone back on your increased sensitivity. You can do that, you know, but it takes work and practice, and we haven’t given you enough of that yet. Finally, the readouts and data flows will all be speeded up so that you experience the full impact of operating under dilation effect.”

The commander half turned and took several steps toward the door, hands behind his back, before turning and walking back toward Trystin. “This simulator session is usually the most difficult for all pilots. Lieutenant,” said Commander Kurbiachi. “That will not be because there is anything new, however.” “Yes, ser.” Trystin nodded.

“As I said, most pilots have great difficulty handling the volume of the data flows through the implant. I must remind you that for the next several sessions, you will only be receiving the tactical and basic-maintenance data. The actual mission is merely a flight from the Jerush Oort area on a recon runby. You will probably encounter rev patrollers, since they do investigate any EDI tracks within their system, as do we.