The Parafaith War (5 page)

“Here comes first light. Time to see the beautiful badlands of Mara in full color.”

“I’ll be a lot happier someplace farther along, ser, like Safrya.”

“Maybe your next tour will be there.” “Maybe.”

With that, Trystin let Ryla get on with the business of repairs and technical checkups, while he ran through the four screens one at a time before dropping into simultaneous four-screen.

Nearly a stan later, Ryla up-linked. “Lieutenant Desoll, ser?” “Yes, Ryla.”

“Number three cracker’s down to fifty percent and overheating. The datalinks are burned out.”

“You’re cleared out. I’ll watch the rest of the maintenance board.”

“Be a bit before I get the scooter clear. I’ll need a bunch of stuff, ser.”

“That’s fine. Let me know when you clear the bay.” “Stet.”

The noncoms did most of the physical maintenance work, but they didn’t have to worry about burning out their neural systems, either. Trystin rubbed his forehead and shifted his weight, then stood and walked to the armaglass window. The scratched pane showed him far less than his screens, but at times the view through his eyes and the grit-scarred armaglass seemed more real. “Clearing the bay now, ser.”

“Stet.” Trystin walked back and forth, his consciousness more on the screens than on the gray plastic walls that surrounded him.

Kkcchewww!! The itching got worse, and the odor of ammonia was stronger. He forced himself to stop rubbing his nose.

After running through the maintenance screens, Trystin plopped back into his chair and continued scanning, even though the screens and detectors showed nothing beyond the badlands, the building storms, and the reclamation towers and equipment. At least the winds had increased the power from the fans to nearly thirty percent.

Cling! Trystin swallowed the algae cracker, and washed it down with Sustain even as he called up the message.

“All PerCon Stations. DefCon visual plot indicates two paragliders on entry envelopes. Probable landfall coordinates follow. Full alert on perimeter stations. DefCon Two. DefCon Two …”

Trystin plugged the coordinates into his system and crosschecked.

“Shit - . .” This time the indicators suggested that revvie drop was aimed at the midsection of the eastern perimeter stations-a bit south of East Red Three-but that could change, and probably would. The revs were good enough atmospheric pilots that the gliders never came down quite where DefCon said they would. By the time the DefCon and satellite plots had them located and the rockets were away, the gliders were usually empty shells, and the revs were clear and headed for perimeter stations.

He pulsed the scooter and got the relay to Ryla’s suit unit.

“Ryla? How are you coming?”

“Damned cracker’s a mess, ser, but they wouldn’t listen. Mainboard’s pretty much melted solid. Don’t know how it’s working as well as it is.” “Can you wind it up in a stan?” “Be done in less than half that. Not much I can do.” “We got a rev drop in entry.” “I’ll make that even quicker, ser.” “Stet.”

Trystin waited and watched, but even with the satellite plot he couldn’t see any sign of the revvie paragliders. He Fixed and drank another cup of Sustain, and wished he hadn’t as his stomach roiled.

“Ser, I’m back, and we’re buttoned up. Heard anything?” “Not yet.”

Trystin studied the screens, but could only see the few native cacti bending in the wind and grit scudding along the hillsides. Above the higher sections of the badlands, clouds had begun to form. Cling!

“All PerCon Stations. DefCon has confirmed two paraglider landfall near eastern perimeter. Both gliders have been neutralized. Landfall coordinates and estimated time of landfall follow. Full alert on eastern perimeter stations. DefCon One. DefCon One …”

The coordinates were east and slightly south of East Red Three, almost where predicted, surprisingly-and less than five kays right down the wash. The landfall had been nearly three quarters of a standard hour earlier.

Trystin pursed his lips and took another full scan. With the coordinates, and by straining the resolution capabilities of the system, he thought he could make out a badlands valley containing discolored soil and a few long objects that might have been glider components. Why didn’t the system have better resolution? The capabilities had been there for centuries. Was it the cost?

He linked to Ryla’s console. “Ryla, we could have company anytime.” “I was afraid you’d say that.” “Sorry.” “Damned revs.”

Having no answer to that sentiment, Trystin took another full screen-by-screen scan before dropping into balanced four-screen.

At 14:16.13, alert-red spilled through the system, although Trystin had already called up the command options when a flicker of dust appeared on the farthest hill.

Ping! Ping! Crumpt! Without a rev in sight, the first round of shells impacted the station’s composite armor.

Trystin triggered the shields, both for the station entries and the fans. A single red signal flashed-the shield for the main vehicle-entry door on the south side of the station had jammed, not that there was a thing Trystin could do about it. “Revs!”

“Got ‘em, Ryla.” Except that he didn’t directly, only through the impacts of their weapons. Visual shielding? Trystin checked the impact angles of the incomings with a visual replay, then reset one of his rockets into a high-arc trajectory toward the dust puff on the far hill.

Crumpt! Crumpt! The building shivered again under the revvie rockets.

Using full scan, Trystin watched his rocket, noting the detonation on his screen. Outside of the gout of red soil, there were no additional explosions, but there were also no more shells impacting on the command center.

The lieutenant nodded. His calculations had been good enough to silence the revs, but only momentarily. He recalculated, assuming forward or sideways motion to keep the revs out of the direct line of the gattlings. Crumpt! Crumpt! Crumpt!

“The maintenance-door shield’s jammed, ser.” “Stet. Happened when I dropped the shields, but I figured I couldn’t do much in the middle of an attack. You all right there?”

“I’d better be, ser. No place else to go that’s any safer-except the bolthole, and I’m not one for burying myself.” There was a pause before the noncom asked, “What they got there?”

“Something that screens them, and a lot of rockets.” As he spoke, Trystin released another spread of rockets, then simultaneously sent an attack report to PerCon.

Crumpt! Crumpt! The next round of revvie rockets slammed into the station, and Trystin winced as he watched for the impact of his own rockets.

Not only was there a gout of dirt, but a secondary explosion on the flatter slope of one of the hills beyond the perimeter.

Crumpt! Another rocket slammed the station. Clearly, not enough of a secondary explosion. Trystin recalculated and released another spread of rockets. Crumpt! Ping!

Some of the revs were close enough for rifle fire, and Trystin didn’t like that at all, not when he couldn’t see much and when the revs had some form of new heatshielding clearly effective against the sensors. Ping! Ping! Crumpt)

Finally, the three-screen identified the source of the shells and the boosted rocket pryers and reverse-tracked them to the backside of the nearest hill to the northeast. As usual, the revs had their weapons aimed at the station building itself, rather than at the heavy reclamation equipment.

Still wondering why that seemed to be so, Trystin used a spread of rockets to reply, since the revs were out of gattling range. Ping! Crumpt! Crumpt!

Another series of explosions, these visible on the short-range direct scanners, dotted the hillside-and one small secondary explosion followed.

A series of distortions seemed to flow downhill toward the station, and Trystin flicked through scanning frequencies until he found one that gave him what amounted to flickering outlines.

Even with the use of all screens and sensors, Trystin couldn’t seem to get a hard count on the revs, as if the sensors and the optical scanners were facing some sort of interference. He could see that, again, some of the flickering Figures carried the longer assault rifles.

Crumpt! Crumpt! Crumpt! The entire station building shivered.

Now that the revs were in range, Trystin triggered the antipersonnel gattlings and the antisuit bomblets, but the revs seemed to have avoided the artificial cacti with the bomblets, except for a few stragglers on one side.

After the earlier attacks, Trystin had no desire to risk more revvie booby traps, and this was the most heavily armed group of revs he’d personally seen. The exterior sensors relayed the sprayed fragmenting of the osberyl-tipped depleted uranium shells across the revvie line. CRUUMPTTT!!!!

The entire sector control building rocked with the explosion, and Trystin dropped from four-screen into status, flashing through the maintenance lines. Crumpt! Crumpt!

So many subsystems reported overload or damage that the backfile flared red. Trystin couldn’t even have counted the impaired systems. AIR SYSTEM INTEGRITY LOST!! Some atmospheric integrity remained, but not enough for breathing. Trystin shoved the emergency respirator over his face, and jammed the tube into the seat pak. Crumpt!

“Ryla! Air system’s down. Get into your respak!” No response, and a check-pulse indicated that the non-corn’s system was off-line. There was nothing Trystin could do, not in the middle of an attack. If he didn’t stop the revs, then it wouldn’t matter what shape Ryla was in. Jumping from the command center, Trystin yanked the combat suit from the locker and stuffed himself into it, automatically disconnecting the respirator tube and holding his breath as he dropped the helmet in place and made the seals. He hated the damned armor, both for the restriction in his net access, and even more for the price he’d pay in using it, but the revs, or some of them, were in the station-or they would be before long.

He kicked his reflexes up, ignoring the buzzing sensation that the boost gave him, and pulled the heavy-duty slug thrower out of its rack, along with several clips. Then he headed for the steps to the station’s lower level.

As he neared the staircase, the vibrations warned him, and he eased to the side, then dropped flat, waiting.

Two ghostlike and wavering Figures, faintly brownish, charged up the stairs. Only slightly more clear were the outlines of the assault rifles that each carried. Trystin squeezed the trigger on his own rifle just twice. Both figures tumbled backward, and seemed to disappear at the bottom of the stairway. No movement-or flickering images. Even before they had disappeared, Trystin moved toward the maintenance chute with the ladder, designed for emergency access to the station’s half-buried lower level.

As he moved, he scanned the net wide-band to see if he could intercept any revvie communications. The net didn’t seem able to take the command, and he came up with nothing. With a gauntleted hand, he flipped up the lever on the shaft door and swung inside, setting his feet on the rung just below floor level and reaching back to close the door behind him. Whhummmp!

The electronic scream of the net crashing ran through Trystin like a knife down his spine, and his Fingers opened, half-deadened from the neural impact. Even with the implant cutouts dropping him off-line, Trystin stiffened and half slid down the three meters to the floor of the shaft, his hands barely breaking his fall with half-grasps of the metal rungs. He twisted off the ladder at the bottom, and his hip smashed into a side brace. Stars flashed across his eyes, and stabbing lines of pain lashed him:

Finally, he levered himself upright, feeling almost blind with all outside inputs to his implant cut off and the system down. He eased open the lower door a crack and looked into the maintenance room behind the vehicle garage-no revs in sight. The door to the garage was closed, as was the one to the lower-level main corridor. The station was dim, almost dark, with the power system off-line.

Slowly, he moved toward the corridor, his rifle ready. Underfoot he could feel vibrations, but couldn’t sense their source. Again, he cracked the next door and looked down the corridor, using his internal controls to step up his night vision.

Two more of the barely discernible ghost-suited Figures crouched with their backs to him, as if looking around the corner and up the stairwell.

Three quick shots were enough, and Trystin hurried toward the bodies, even harder to see when the revs were not moving. He still hugged the wall, not trusting that they were indeed dead.

Ping! Ping! Ping! More shots came from the end of the corridor ahead.

Trystin skidded down behind the half-visible bodies and tried to scan the section of the hall that led to the lock to the garage and the vehicle door where the armor shield had jammed. Ping! Ping!

Shells spanged and pinged off the inside of the outer station wall behind and to the left of Trystin. His own breathing sounded like an overloaded ventilator, and he forced himself to breathe more deliberately as he fired three shots down the dim corridor. Ping! Spang!

Plastcrete fragments from the revs’ shots showered Trystin as he squeezed off two more rounds. He felt that there were only two revs crouched at the end of the corridor, but they had pushed in a turner blade for a shield-far more effective than the dead rev bodies he crouched behind.

Stifling a sigh, Trystin cranked up his reflexes to high and leaped sideways, then charged the revs. From a standing position, he had enough height to fire over the low turner blade-and sprayed the area in an effort to neutralize the revs he could see only as intermittent distortions. Ping!

Only one shot came his way-one that creased his helmet.

He lowered his reflexes back to one notch above normal and crouched on his side of the turner blade, almost hyperventilating in an effort to relieve his oxygen debt, feeling both his overloaded suit and body straining.

“Shit …” he muttered. No system defenses, and who knew how many revs left. He could barely see the revs, and only if they moved. He was running through a stan’s worth of oxygen in half that time by upping his metabolism to stay alive.

He remained concealed, but could hear nothing through the suit’s limited “ears.”