The Parafaith War (4 page)

Two days passed, and no more revs attacked East Red Three. That didn’t lessen the problems, Trystin reflected, including the ones that hadn’t arrived, like the fuzzy EDI tracks beyond the Belt that probably meant another troid attack. Or the general alert for more paraglider descents. Was that based on Trystin’s interrogations? Or on something more?

Trystin wished he knew, but junior first lieutenants didn’t rate need-to-know on the basis of alerts. At least, the quieter days had left him with enough energy to use the workout room.

He scanned the four screens with greater attention, then concentrated on the satellite plot. Nothing-nothing, as was usually the case. He checked the power screen. The organonutrient supply was down to twenty percent, but the fans were carrying nearly sixty percent of the ambient load.

He coughed, once, then again. Finally taking a deep breath, which just triggered more coughs. Despite Ryla’s efforts, the atmospheric leakage was worse than before the repairs, according to the on-line telltales. There was definitely more than the normal faint acridness of ammonia.

Had the repairs even been done? He went on-line and scanned the entries. No repairs. No deliveries of replacements or spares. “Ryla?” “Yes, ser?”

“The syslog shows maintenance hasn’t fixed our leaks yet. I’m still smelling outside glunk.” “It’s worse down here, ser.”

Trystin supposed it was. Ryla was closer to the bent frames.

“I’ll buy that. What’s with maintenance?” “East Red Six. Most of the lower section wiped out. Then, the big attack on the western line.” “A lot of damage there?”

“Noncom scuttle is that the revs got three stations.” That would certainly explain it. “Thanks. See what I can run down.” “I’d appreciate it, ser.”

Trystin went into the deep-net, only to find a block across the maintenance levels. He grinned. More than one way to find out. The sector feed lines weren’t blocked, and he just sent pulses through the DistribNet.

Of the twenty west-perimeter stations, five came up null. He nodded, but before he could link to Ryla’s console, a mental cling! alerted him to a direct-feed from HQ. “Desoll, East Red Three.”

“Lieutenant, Major Sperto, HQ Ops. We have enough trouble on the west perimeter at the moment without, having to worry about line-pulse tracers from the curious. Since you were the first hit with the new revvie weapon, it’s understandable. Once we sort it out, you’ll know. Now keep off the net unless it’s official. And keep your speculations to yourself.” “Yes, ser.” “We’ll post it when it’s time.” “Yes, ser.”

Trystin swallowed, then linked to Ryla’s console. “Yes, ser.”

“They were hit hard, but HQ zapped me for prying. I’ll let you know when the details come in. Could be as many as five stations’ but that could also be system overload. Keep it to yourself until it’s official.” “Five … bastards! … Thanks, ser.” “I didn’t tell you. Understand?”

“Yes, ser.”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve got something official. Do we have anything that we could use to caulk around that bent mainframe?” “I’ve been trying, ser, but …”

“I know.” The trace gases in the Maran atmosphere, some the said-to-be-temporary results from the re-atmosphering efforts, had a tendency to be corrosive. From Trystin’s point of view, they scarcely seemed temporary.

Another hour of scanning, in between routine checks of equipment status, left Trystin with nothing new on the revs.

Thhrrrrummmmm … Trystin stiffened at the distant rumbling, even before the searing wave of white noise flashed through his implant, and the stars flickered across his internal four-screen display.

His eyes watered, and his head ached, although the atmospheric transit of the water comet headed for the new south sea hadn’t been close enough to actually vibrate the station’s walls. After Trystin straightened and rubbed his forehead, he wondered what the revs would think as the water slowly rose around their island prison. Would they think? Were they really human? And had Yressa found out anything about the revs? Maybe all those he’d transhipped had been fine. “Lieutenant?” “Yes, Ryla?”

“One of the turners is dropping off, down from ninety to a shade over eighty-five. Diagnostics don’t show anything. I’m taking the scooter out.” “Stet. I’ll keep a track.” “Thanks, ser.”

Trystin watched the scooter go out, scanned the perimeter and the satellite plot, checked the maintenance board that Ryla couldn’t while he was on the scooter, and waited. And waited. Then he had more Sustain, and wished he hadn’t as it hit his guts with a jolt.

Cling! The fainter “sound” of the message signal indicated it wasn’t urgent, but he called it up and mentally scrolled through it.

“Trystin Desoll, LT, SecWatch, East Red Three, from SOUSEAREC. Re yours of 1452 14/10/788 concerning new rev biologicals. Status check confirmed your data on bioelectric and organic explosion potentials. Three revs neutralized and transferred to RESCOM FFS.”

He nodded. At least he’d gotten the word to Yressa in time. He stood and walked back to the galley for synthetic cheese and less synthetic algae crackers. Any more Sustain, and he’d be floating in the command seat.

In the small cooler was something wrapped in foil. Trystin edged it open, and then closed it. Real cheese. His mouth watered, but he left the package there. It was probably Gerfel’s, and represented who knew how many creds of translation costs alone. Mara wasn’t ready for any form of milk animals-not yet anyway, or not out of the tunnels and domes.

Finally, he took a few algae crackers and chewed them slowly.

The scooter blip in the three-screen had turned and was heading back to the station. Trystin held his breath as fine dust churned, but Ryla managed to right the scooter without digging it into the soil. Once the second-stage creepers were established, the soil got Firmer as the biosphere got more complex. But the second-stage work hadn’t gotten more than a hundred kays from Klyseen so far, and that meant that handling vehicles along the perimeter remained tricky. It was all too easy to bury a scooter in the fine soil.

As the scooter neared the station, Trystin called the tech. “Ryla? Find anything?”

“No, ser. I think the turner’s whole mainboard is cooking, but I can’t tell for sure. Going to have to put in a requisition for a replacement, but nothing will happen until it blows. Don’t believe us techs until the electronics roast into silicon junk.”

“All right. Let me know when the scooter’s in and everything’s secure.” The telltales would show that Ryla was back and that the doors were closed, but not his condition. Trystin waited.

“Lieutenant. Back on maintenance board.” “You got it.”

“Anything new on the revs, ser?” “RESCOM Says they’re working on it.” “They’ll work till endday at the end of time.” The non-corn snorted.

Trystin shifted his weight, then stood and paced around the command area, his eyes straying to the armaglass window that offered a far less accurate view than the two-screen inside his mind.

Another ding!-not so faint, this time. Trystin moistened his lips with his tongue and scrolled up the message.

“All PerCon Stations, from RESCOM and PerCon. Be alert to possibility that rev captives may contain biological-based organic explosives not detectable by current first-level scan systems. Until further notice, take no captives. Take no captives. See DistribNet data RSC-1410-2.”

While Trystin wasn’t that fond of the revs, the “take no captives” directive bothered him. Yet what could PerCon do? Any rev could be booby-trapped to take out a station or worse. Why did the revs do it? He shook his head as he sat back down in the command seat.

After taking another complete four-screen scan, Trystin called up the Research Command data bulletin and scrolled through it, noting that it was a more scientific presentation of what he had discovered. “Ryla? How are the crackers doing?” “They’re hovering around eighty percent, ser.” “How about that turner?”

“It’s hanging in there, but it doesn’t feel right. Anything new?”

“Not about the western stations. PerCon has ordered a no-captives directive because of their organic traps.” “Bastards. How can they do that to their own?” “I don’t know. Something about their faith, I guess.” Trystin paused. “I’ll let you know if there’s a new status.” “Thanks, ser.”

Trystin went back to checking the perimeter, checking the badlands, checking the power flow, and, in between four-screen scans, calling up rev backgrounders from the databanks. None of it was helpful, except to refresh his knowledge. The revs-Revenants of the Prophet-were a messianic, xenophobic, evangelistic culture whose members seemed universally to believe their mission was to claim the universe for the sons and daughters of the Prophet in the name of God.

Trystin shook his head. Was there a God? If so, what human could presume to know his mind? And how could such a god be good if he or she or it allowed followers to destroy any race or culture that opposed the expansion of the revs? He shrugged. If there were no god, then such claims were merely an excuse for destruction and expansion. Of course, that kind of rationalization was all too human. He snorted.

Cling! At the in-feed alert, he called up the message. “All PerCon Stations. DefCon visual plot indicates three paragliders on entry envelopes. Probably landfall coordinates follow. Full alert on perimeter stations. DefCon Two. DefCon Two …”

Trystin plugged the coordinates into his system and crosschecked, but the indicators were that the revvie drop was aimed at the western perimeter stations-just what they needed with as many as twenty percent of the western stations either destroyed or marginally functional.

Over the next standard hour, he watched, but nothing came up anywhere within his screens, or within the satellite plot covering the eastern line.

He got more Sustain, noting the increasing odor of ammonia. Or was it the decreasing effect of Gerfel’s incense? He did manage to keep his hands off the cheese, and tried not to drool when he thought about it.

Then it was back to the screens, more watching, more scanning-but nothing, as usual, until the in-feed alert-cling!

“All East Perimeter PerCon Stations. DefCon visual plot indicates three paragliders have impacted beyond west perimeter. DefCon Two stand down. DefCon Two stand down.”

Trystin stood and stretched, then walked over to the small galley and began to rummage in the cooler. He deserved something, even if it were only synthetic cheese on algae crackers.

The whole building stank, not only with ammonia, but with weedgrass, and the combined stench had overwhelmed Gerfel’s latest incense-burning. As Trystin entered the command center, he wanted to claw at his nose. The invisible grit from the sandy soil was so fine that it drifted through all but the tightest seals, and the station’s seals were less than perfectly tight.

“I’m taking the midday shuttle,” Voren said. “I don’t care if I have to sleep sitting up coming and going. I’ve got to get out of this stench.” He rubbed a nose that was noticeably red.

“Lucky you.” Trystin coughed, then sneezed. “You could go to Klyseen tonight and get back on the 0440. Otherwise, you won’t sleep.”

“I just might. I just might.” Trystin wrinkled his nose, trying not to sneeze again.

“Oh, Gerfel’s off-night’s tonight. Hirachi’s rotating duty now, but he won’t be here until the late shuttle. He never is.” Voren’s eyes glazed as he logged off duty. “Also, Jynstin is coming with me. Think you two can handle it for a while?” “We should be able to.” “It’s all yours.”

“I’ve got it.” Trystin linked with the system and logged in.

Voren walked toward the stairs, then turned. “That cheese of Gerfel’s?”

Trystin nodded.

“She said I could finish it. I couldn’t. It’s too rich. You can have the last of it. She told me it was better to share.”

Trystin had often wondered what else the two had shared. “Thanks. I did drool over it when I was eating algae crackers.”

“So did I, except I asked Gerfel. You’ve got to ask, young fellow.”

Trystin shook his head at Voren’s directness. Voren was less than a year older and Trystin’s senior by only six months, even if the combination of shadowed heavy whiskers and hair over every centimeter of his body conveyed the impression of greater age.

“Ask and you shall receive.” Voren headed for the steps down to the showers and his cubicle.

At times, Trystin wished he had the other’s directness. Then again, he really didn’t want to be that kind of person. Or was he just deceiving himself? He settled into the command chair and began his checks, but Voren had left everything clean. The fans were contributing ten percent of the power load with the light winds, and the organonutrient tanks were down to fifteen percent. He shook his head and pulsed through a follow-up order for the nutrients, citing the low fuel level.

Then he went through the messages. Nothing new, but the earlier general warning about possible additional revvie paraglider assaults remained current. If even a third of the wings had gotten clear of the troid, there would be far too many revs running around Mara. Although most survived low metabolic state through high-temp planetary entry, Trystin shivered, thinking about what the rev troopers-or missionaries-went through and how few ever returned.

He coughed again, then, noting that Ryla had finally come on, linked to the noncom console. “Ryla?” “Yes, ser?”

“I take it that maintenance has far more to deal with than our bent frame and leaky seals?”

“Yes, ser. I’ve been using that quick-caulk stuff, but it only lasts a few stans before the air pressure and everything eats through it.” “Isn’t there anything better?”

“Sure. Inert stabilized fluorocarbons-except they aren’t exactly stabilized here…”

“Yeah … no thanks. Tell me again why we’re trying to reclaim this place.”

“The word is that someone thought it was a good idea at the time.”

“And the revs want to take it from us.” “That makes more sense. They’ve all got eight kids a family,”

“How about five per sister, with five or six sisters per patriarch?” asked Trystin. “Wouldn’t mind being a patriarch.” “You want the odds on that? Only the ones that survive their missions get to be patriarchs. And I don’t care much for their missions.” Not when they come as living weapons, thought Trystin. “Me, neither.”