The Parafaith War (29 page)

“Do you have your gear stowed?” James refocused on Trystin.

“Yes, ser. I had Tech Muralto introduce me to the rest of the crew, and I was starting to go over some of the system manuals.”

“Good. Do whatever you need for the next hour or so. Then come to my stateroom, and we’ll go over the ops plan, and after that we’ll go through a fam routine in the cockpit.” “Yes, ser.”

Major Sasaki turned to Liam. “As soon as we’re loaded, let me have the mass plan. See if we could squeeze a few more torps on board.” “Yes, ser.” Liam turned and headed aft. James Sasaki’s eyes flicked to Keiko Muralto. “Did you find the problem with sensor three?”

“There’s a flaw in the command module, and that’s a solid matrix. Tech support is trying to find us one.” “Who’s in charge of tech support?”

“That’s Commander Bulari, ser.” “Who’s his boss?” “Marshal Toboni, I think.”

“You’ll get your matrix, Keiko.” James Sasaki smiled and turned toward the cockpit.

Keiko raised her eyebrows, and Trystin felt a chill go down his back. He followed the captain as far as his own stateroom, where he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

He picked up the infonet manual and began to read, noting that, once again, a few paragraphs were highlighted. He stopped reading in sequence-he wouldn’t have time to get through all the manuals before he was supposed to meet with the captain-and scanned through the highlighted sections.

He swallowed and read through them again. He should have known, and in some ways it was predictable. A complete ship’s net worked both ways. Anything that could monitor all the occurrences within the ship could and did record everything. Everything. So why had Keiko Muralto subvocally insisted that he know that from the beginning?

He nodded slowly. James Sasaki was political-very political.

Trystin recalled the smile on James’s face when he had promised Keiko the replacement module for the scanner. Anything that Trystin said-had he said too much at dinner?-would be recorded, recalled, and used, if possible.

Andrya had managed, but she came from power and position. Trystin only had faster reflexes and better shiphandling ability-and the knowledge. Still, a junior Major Doniger had certainly been open about assessing Major Sasaki’s piloting abilities-or lack of abilities. So that wasn’t any secret, and part of Trystin’s unspoken duties was to ensure the Willis didn’t get into any embarrassing shiphandling situations.

Clearly, another part of the game was not to let on that he knew about James Sasaki’s political maneuverings, even within the ship-to appear even younger and more naďve than he was. But why had Keiko warned him about the infonet’s capabilities?

He nodded again. Because if James had trouble getting a handle on Trystin, he might be kept in check? Or was there something more?

Trystin took a deep breath and kept reading, feeling as though he had far too much to learn in far too little time, and far too many questions.

His eyes crossed the other small pile of paper, the handouts on the Revenants that Commander Folsom had suggested he study. When would he have time for that? He sighed. It didn’t help that he knew Folsom had been right, not when plodding through revvie theology was as attractive as digging his way out of a Maran dust pit.

Thud! Following translation, as the Willis settled into the

sub-Oort, dust-free zone, James Sasaki leaned back in the command couch. “You’ve got it. Lieutenant. Take us to Mara.”

Trystin understood. The run into Mara should be easy, and he needed greater familiarity with the ship and its systems.

He scanned all the screens, from the representational to the maintenance boards, then went back to the representational screen. At the system fringe was the faintest trace of an incoming ship-too far to locate accurately. It had to be a troid, because no Coalition ship would be in real space that far beyond Kali-the outer planet of the Parvati system. For future reference, he noted the sector-orange-and added the observation to the transit report to be filed with Mara operations when the Willis locked there.

“Keiko-send someone up with a couple of teas.” James shifted his weight and closed his eyes again.

Trystin let his consciousness drop into the power system, trying to trace the odd pulsation he’d noted from the beginning, almost as though the accumulators were hiccuping power.

For a moment, he split power from the fusactor, running one thruster off the fusactor and the other off the accumulator. Little peaks appeared in the thrust output from the accumulator-powered thruster, then the thrust dropped off as the accumulator load bled down. Trystin restored normal operations. He wanted to check the accumulators more, but not millions of kays from anywhere. “How much envelope distortion, ser?” “As much as you please. There’s no difference to Mara control, and we don’t get as tired.”

Trystin cranked up the thrusters-slowly, in order not to put additional strain on the accumulators.

“Your teas. Captain, Lieutenant.” Albertini stood in the hatchway, a cup in each hand. James took his cup silently.

“Thank you.” Trystin sipped the tea slowly. The heat seemed to help a throat that seemed slightly raw, but for a moment his senses scrambled, and the scent of tea, the feeling of its heat, and the flow of data from the net twisted together. He shook his head, and concentrated on the screens, especially the representative screen.

He had to be more tired than he thought. That was when sensory scrambling occurred. Then he checked the comparators.

“Translation error was one standard day, seven hours and thirty-one minutes. Captain. Estimate another three-hour loss from envelope effect.”

“Not too bad.” James sipped his tea, his eyes slightly glazed.

Trystin rechecked their progress. “Estimate seven hours to Mara orbit control.” The captain nodded. For the next four hours, Trystin guided the Willis, spending as much time investigating infonet readouts and maintenance records as he did navigating, noting that the captain apparently did not care that the distortion envelope reached fifty percent. Maybe that was why he looked so young.

Two hours out from Mara, Trystin began deceleration. James said nothing, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

When the Willis dropped out of the time-distortion envelope, Trystin pulsed the orbit station.

“Mara Orbit Control, this is Iron Mace two, approaching zone this time.” “Iron Mace two, squawk four.” “Squawking.”

“Mace two, we have you. Proceed to gamma three for docking. I say again gamma three. Cleared for low-thrust approach to gamma three.” “Control, cutting to low thrust this time.” The station appeared on both the representational screen and the unadjusted optical presentation. Trystin checked his closure and flicked in another set of deceleration pulses.

“Control, Iron Mace two approaching gamma three this time.”

The captain opened his eyes and stretched, watching as Trystin eased the Willis toward the docking portal.

Once the cruiser was within a half kay, James nodded. “I’ll take the con.” “You have the con, ser.”

Trystin kept his face impassive as James corrected and overcorrected and finally humped-gently-the ship into place.

“Whew!” The captain wiped his damp forehead. Trystin magnetized the holdtights, and signaled Keiko to extend the mechanical holdtights for the station crew.

“Stand by for power changeover. Stand by for power changeover.”

Trystin welcomed the full grav, tired as he was. Once the standby checklist was complete, he looked at James. “Now what?”

Liam Akibono appeared in the hatchway as Trystin finished speaking.

“We’ll be here for just a few days, until we can get resupplied. Then we’ll be spending the next year, maybe longer, chasing revs from Parvati outer orbit station.” “That’s a long way from anywhere,” pointed out Liam. “It’s where things are happening.” “Yes, ser.”

“As Hantariki wrote, ‘the sky is brighter for the storm.’ Remember that.” “About the dispatches …” began Liam. “I’ll take the dispatches,” James announced. “I need to stop by and see Commander Maldonado anyway, and Liam’s going to try to get us some of the newer high-drive torps.”

“So I’ve got the ship?” Trystin asked. “You’ll do fine.” James flashed his boyish grin and picked up the dispatch cases. “I’ll be a while.” “Ser?” “Yes?”

“Is there a good restaurant here?” Liam raised his eyebrows, but James laughed. “Not yet. Not yet.”

After the captain and the weapons officer left, Trystin accessed the maintenance records through his implant. From what he could tell, the accumulators had not been replaced or had major maintenance at any time in the last three years, although they had been inspected in detail at the five-year (ship objective) overhaul. He wanted to discuss them with Keiko first. Trystin stood and walked back to the quarterdeck where Tech Muriami stood, wearing the watch stunner. Mara orbit control smelled the same-even to the faint odor of plastic and weedgrass, though Trystin couldn’t imagine how weedgrass ended up in an orbit station.

“How you doing, ser?” The woman continued to watch the lock tube.

“Fine, Muriami. How about you?” Trystin inspected the tracks for the emergency seals.

“They’re clear. I always check them first thing.” Trystin sniffed. It hadn’t been his imagination. The station atmosphere still smelled like weedgrass. “Smells funny, doesn’t it?”

“It’s weedgrass. Used to get into everything. Always made my nose run.”

“You were a perimeter officer, weren’t you?” Trystin nodded. “Ever kill any revs?” He nodded again. “How many?” “Enough.”

“Ever get a commendation?” Trystin nodded reluctantly.

“My brother’s a perimeter tech. He says not many officers get commendations. That true?”

“I don’t know.” He added absently, “I only know of one other officer who did.” . “Who was he?”

“She. Major Ulteena Freyer. She’s the CO of the Yamamoto-corvette somewhere.” “Must be a tough woman.” “She is. Doesn’t look that way, though.” “Like you.” “Me? I’m not tough.”

Muriami laughed. “Service wouldn’t send spring flowers here. The captain’d eat them alive.” “The captain?” Trystin grinned. So did Muriami. “Do you know where Tech Muralto is?” “Up in station maintenance.”

“When she gets back, would you tell her that I need to talk with her?” “Yes, ser.”

With a nod, Trystin turned and headed for his stateroom, his implant still tuned to the ship’s net and status board. After a second thought, he paused by the mess for a cup of the strong green tea, which he carried into his room. Setting the tea by the console, he sat down in the

plastic chair and opened the fusactor manual. He had to start somewhere.

When he got too bored, he’d go down to the tiny exercise room behind the mess-or go back to studying Revenant culture. While he understood why the economics worked, he still couldn’t figure why people bought into it. Maybe he never would. Maybe Quentar was right-but Quentar was dead. He began to read the fusactor manual.

“Tradition. It’s important.” The captain set his empty cup on the narrow mess table.

“Yes.” Trystin tried not to yawn as he stretched and got up to pour another cup of tea from the samovar. “Pour me some, would you?”

Trystin picked up James’s cup and refilled it, setting it in front of the captain. In the corner, Albertini, the junior tech, sipped instant cafe. Trystin wrinkled his nose at the raw odor. He’d never liked cafe. After refilling his own mug with the strong green tea, he sat down across from the captain.

The Willis was cinched up to the ready lock, on standby in case any revvie scouts or ships should appear. For the last two weeks, after leaving Mara, the Willis had been rotated through standby duty on Parvati station, but the system had been quiet. Standby meant the crew could be anywhere aboard, so long as the captain and the second were on the link.

“Tradition,” repeated the major. “Even words have a tradition.” He paused. “Have you ever heard Moritaki?” “No. ” Trystin took a long sip of the plain green tea, not nearly so good as what his father brewed, but better than Sustain or cafe. Cling!

Trystin jolted alert in his seat. So did James. Albertini, not direct-linked, saw the reaction and mumbled, “Oh, frig … trouble …”

“Iron Mace two, badboy at your zero two zero, elevation amber, eighty light-mins. Incoming at plus four.” The direct-feed comm shivered through both pilots.

“Control, Iron Mace two. Powering up this time,” announced James.

Trystin emptied his cup and racked it, then scurried forward and mentally called up the checklist.

“Prepare for separation. Prepare for separation.” James’s voice blared through the speakers.

They both strapped into their couches, and Trystin continued running through the short checklist while James linked the data from control into the ship’s data banks. “We’re ready for changeover,” Trystin reported. “Stand by for power changeover.” “Standing by,” Trystin affirmed. “Ready for changeover,” acknowledged Keiko from the duty tech station behind Trystin.

The lights flickered; the ventilators’ hum stopped, then resumed; and the gravity dropped to point five, ship standard. Trystin’s stomach twisted, and he proceeded through the rest of the checklist, using the mental screens, occasionally crosschecking the manual screens before him.

He could still remember the first time he had sensed the full pilot data load, and how it had threatened to drown him. His lips curled momentarily. “Ready to separate, ser,” he reported. James nodded, his eyes half-glazed with his concentration on the data and nav plots.

“Outer Control, demagnetizing this time.” After the acknowledgment from James, Trystin sent the report.

“Iron Mace two, understand demagnetizing. Cleared for separation this time. Maintain low thrust for three.” “Stet, Control. Will maintain low thrust for three.”

Trystin relayed the instructions to James, trying to ignore the sweat heading up on the major’s forehead. “Iron Mace two, separating this time …” On the representational screen the amber point that was the Willis began to move away from the red square that represented the outer orbit station. “You have the con. Lieutenant.” “I have it, ser. “Trystin smoothed out the power flows, trying to rest the accumulators and slowly boosting the flow from the fusactor.