The Parafaith War (50 page)

The key raised a few other questions-like why he’d never told the Service. Was it just his stubbornness? Or some subconscious suggestion by the Farhkans? Trystin shivered.

Did the Service know? They couldn’t. They would have taken him apart like a broken timepiece to get something they thought was a key to the Revenant Temples. Had he repressed the key-and letting, anyone besides his father know-because he unconsciously knew what the Service would have done?

Was there any doubt? Was deep space cold? Slowly, after swallowing and taking a deep breath, he called up the protocol that the Farhkan had given him, as well as the override command line his father had designed. He concentrated, trying to match them, but, while they seemed at least vaguely similar, there was no real way to tell unless the systems were in full use. The open-weave receptors were shut down, and the main Temple doors were closed at the moment.

Trystin stood there for a time, but without either success or failure.

Did he have enough faith to walk through those gates when they were operational? This time he did shudder. He had two days to decide. Were they enough? Were they too much?

Faith? What did the Revenants know about faith? “Brother? Are you all right?” A young sister stood in front of Trystin, wearing the blue sash of a Temple Guide. He shook his head. “Yes, I mean. Sister.” “It is overwhelming sometimes. Even I look up there and get the chills.” She smiled, only a friendly smile, and Trystin momentarily wanted to hug her. “You haven’t been here before, have you?”

“No. This is my first visit to the Temple.” “I hope it won’t be the last.”

“That’s not my decision, but the Lord’s.” Trystin offered a smile. After what he’d just been through, that was about how he felt.

“It makes you feel that way, but you’ll get over it.” “Thank you. Sister. May your faith always so comfort you.” He hoped he could find enough faith to do what looked to be necessary. Still, there might be a way out. He needed to check the Ministry of Missions, more closely than he’d been able to do from the car.

“May yours be of comfort also,” she answered before turning to another visitor to the Temple Square. Trystin slowly walked around the Square, taking in the eight Arks that surrounded the Temple, studying their apparent exits and entrances, and using his implant and his hearing to trace what seemed to be underground passages from the Arks to the Temple itself.

Finally, after walking around the Temple for over an hour, he started down East Kingdom Avenue, toward the Ministry of Missions, where Jynckia had his office. Even East Kingdom Avenue, while almost dust-free, had patches in the bright white pavement.

He walked by the Ministry of Missions, neither hurrying nor dawdling. The entrance to the heavy-walled, four-story Ministry building was definitely, if unobtrusively, guarded and the heavy lasers concealed there were even more obvious than those hidden in the Temple gates. The two doormen were also heavily armed, although Trystin could have taken care of them. He just couldn’t have taken care of the lasers.

That almost mandated an effort to enter the Temple. He walked back to the car without retracing his steps past the Ministry. He still needed to find a place to dump the leftover electronics. He needed to think some more, a lot more, about the application and conversion and uses of faith. And about his faith in the Farhkans and his father.

He tried not to shiver as he started the internal-combustion engine, repressing thoughts about how to counterfeit a prophet without becoming a martyr-or a statistic

The crowds hurried toward the Temple, flooding past the eight Arks and the Fountain of Life, and Trystin tried to remain inconspicuous as he walked toward the Temple, equipment strapped in place under the white coat.

Following two young women in long white outfits, he stepped toward the gate, ignoring the glance of the uniformed Soldier of the Lord standing in the alcove.

“Abomination! Abomination of the Lord!” The words rang out through the entire Square. Revenants of all ages turned toward the Temple gates.

Trystin looked around with the others, although his heart was pounding and his body was cloaked in instant cold sweat. “Abomination of the Lord!”

The Soldier of the Lord, hard-eyed, turned toward Trystin, but before he could act, a lance of light flared from the Temple gates toward Trystin-burning, BURNING, BURNING!!!!

Trystin sat bolt upright in bed. His arms twitched, and a faint burning ran through his whole body. He forced himself to take a deep breath, then another, and a third, but he kept shuddering. He wiped his forehead on the counterpane. Finally, he got up, and soft light flooded the room. It was only slightly after midnight, and he walked into the fresher, where he splashed cold water on his face. He shivered again.

Clearly, his subconscious was telling him that trying to walk into the Temple was suicidal, not to mention foolish, ill-considered, and just plain stupid.

But the problem he faced was that turning Jynckia into an example of the Lord for perpetuating slaughter wouldn’t have the impact he needed if it didn’t happen in the Temple itself. And he couldn’t “disappear” in the streets the way he could behind a flash of light in the Temple.

His other problem was that he didn’t know how open the Temple’s net really was. Still …

He splashed his face again, trying to cool his flushed skin. He could just try to enter the Temple, not too obviously, and feel out the systems. If his efforts didn’t work, he could just slip away and try something else. No one knew him, not really.

He took a deep breath and used a towel to blot away the water.

Why nightmares? He didn’t recall having had many nightmares until the last few years. He hadn’t even had nightmares when he’d been on the Maran perimeter. He’d only had nightmares when he’d started to think about the war, really think, and to understand that he could die, that - he could be killed. Was that why those who ran societies liked their soldiers young? So they didn’t have the age or the experience to think about the stupidities of the wars they fought-or might fight? He tried to laugh, but couldn’t.

His face still damp, he began to walk around the room in the darkness, breathing deeply. The burning that ran in lines throughout his body slowly faded, but did not quite disappear, continuing to tingle through all his nerves.

After taking another drink of water, and breathing deeply for several minutes longer, he ran through a short set of stretching exercises, trying to work out the muscular knots created by the nightmare.

Then he washed his face again, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed. But he lay for a long time, looking into the darkness.

After completing another drive around central Wystuh, and the Temple area, Trystin slipped the car into the space in front of his room. All the spaces near the ends of the building-and the staircases-were taken. He stepped from the coolness of the car into the heat, but did not wipe his forehead as he walked toward the room.

Once inside, he checked the space, visually, and with implant-enhanced senses, but he could find no trace that anyone had been there, not that he was any expert. The walls that had been carefully painted and repainted looked the same, as did the well-scrubbed carpet that was beginning to fray near the door.

He washed his hands and face, blotted some smudges off the white coat, and stepped back into the late-afternoon heat. He walked by the office, and the sister who had checked him into the room lifted a hand and waved. He smiled and waved back.

Only a handful of tables were taken in the small restaurant adjoining the Promise Inn. “One, Brother?” asked the gray-haired hostess. “Please.” Trystin followed her to a small table for two along the wall. A pale green cloth covered the table, and the two napkins also appeared to be of real cotton or linen.

“The special is beefalo stew with noodles and greens. That comes with dessert, and a drink, and it’s seven and a quarter.” “Thank you.”

“A pleasure. Brother.” The hostess smiled and left Trystin.

His stomach rumbled, and he glanced quickly at the menu. Although the food was heavy, the Revenants did serve good cooking-everywhere he had eaten so far.

“Have you decided, ser?” The waitress was also an older sister, wearing rings and braided hair, and not a checked dress, but a gold-colored tunic and long matching trousers.

“I’ll have the stew special, with limeade.” He wished he could get tea, but real tea and cafe were forbidden on the Revenant worlds, and anise tea tasted like weak liquid candy.

“I’ll bring the limeade right away.” A single older man sat at the table by the door, hands cupped around a glass, eyes staring into space. The corner table held four women, all wearing what seemed to be matching dresses and conversing animatedly. “… Heber’s Farewell-that was something …” “… going to be a pilot, not just a plain missionary …” “… missionary’s a missionary - . . equal in the sight of the Lord …” “You ask me … doesn’t matter …” “Sarah’s daughter … her Farewell …” “… doesn’t seem right, her wanting to be an Angel . . -such a sweet child she was …”

“… strong-willed, though … that’s what Becki told

me…”

Trystin nodded to himself. He had the feeling that overtly strong-willed women got a lot of mission calls. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” Trystin ignored the growling in his stomach and took a sip of the limeade, waiting for his beefalo stew to arrive.

“Brother Hyriss!” Carson Orr walked straight across the room toward Trystin’s table with a broad smile.

“Brother Orr.” Trystin stood. Orr’s appearance wasn’t exactly coincidence. “What a coincidence.”

“Would you mind if I joined you for a moment? Just for some lemonade. I’ll have to be going shortly.” “Of course not.”

The older waitress, silvered golden hair braided neatly, stopped. “Will you be having dinner. Brother?”

“No. I’d like some lemonade, though.” When she left, Orr turned his pale blue eyes on Trystin. “How are you Finding Wystuh?”

“In some ways, it’s as I thought it would be. In others, different.” Trystin took a small sip of limeade.

“I can imagine that. No place you haven’t been is the way you expect.” Orr smiled. “How are you finding the people?”

“Like most places … friendly. Sometimes, very friendly.” “The unmarried sisters?”

Trystin blushed. He had been more than careful to avoid them.

“Young returnee like you, you ought to be thinking about settling down. You think you have all the time in the world, but life’s not always like that.”

“I’ve already discovered that. The Lord has His own plans for us, not exactly what we might have intended.” That was certainly true enough, reflected Trystin, and he might as well keep building the background for his plan and his escape.

Orr gave Trystin the faintest of quizzical looks. Trystin waited calmly.

“I heard from an old friend. You might have met him. Jon Smithson.”

Trystin raised his eyebrows. His guts twisted. Did he run, or play it out? Did they really know, or was it all cat and mouse? How much time did he have? Or did they think he might lead them to others? “I might have.”

“Big beefy fellow. He works in Dalowan-small town south of Wystuh.”

“Is he a peace officer?” Trystin asked with a hint of curiosity. “I see you recall him.” “I only met him once. Very briefly.” “He said you saved some children.” Trystin forced a short laugh. “I did what had to be done.” He’d known that saving the two might come back to haunt him, but he hadn’t thought it would happen quite so quickly.

“Most folks wouldn’t know how to react quick enough.” “I am a pilot, and that’s something we’re trained in.” “So I’m told.” The waitress set a tall glass by Orr. “Thank you. Sister.” Orr turned back to Trystin. “You fought the golems. Brother Hyriss. Are they machines, or are they human?” softly asked the white-haired man in the pale bluejacket, a blue so pale it was nearly white, so pale that probably only Trystin’s enhanced vision could spot the difference.

“I don’t know,” Trystin answered slowly, trying to answer as a returned missionary, a thoughtful one, might. “The Prophet, bless his name, spoke of abominations, and there are abominations throughout the mansions of heaven.”

“I’d call that a safe answer, and it’s true enough. Yet…” The other shook his head. “The Prophet said that the Lord works in mysterious ways.” He shrugged. “He said that we can’t always fathom His ways ‘cause His ways are not our ways. Me … I’ve found that learning the ways of men is a mite bit easier.”

“That’s certainly true.” Trystin tried to remain composed, faintly amused at Orr’s folksy tone, but knowing it concealed a sharp mind.

“This fellow appears from nowhere, and he looks like a brother. He talks like a brother, and he knows what a brother should know. And by the Prophet’s tongue, his eyes even have that faraway look in them. Heck, I’ve seen enough of the returned to know you can’t counterfeit that. Does that make him a brother?”

“It would seem so.” Trystin continued to smile, still amused in spite of himself, in spite of the situation, in spite of the sweat that ran down his back.

“That’s what I said to myself. I told Jon that, too. And, you know, without a thought for your own safety, you rescued two children you didn’t even know. That’s certainly the act of a good brother.”

“One does what has to be done.” Trystin didn’t miss Orr’s deliberate switch from the impersonal to the personal.

“I’ve got a problem, Brother Hyriss, a real problem. Maybe you could help me out. I’m not sure, not real sure, but from what Jon said, you moved faster than even a top pilot, and that bothers me. Now, I know it shouldn’t. You saved those kids.” Orr pushed his white hair back off his forehead. “But it does. If you were a golem, one of those reflex-enhanced Ecofreaks, you wouldn’t have saved the kids.” He shook his head. “But … if you weren’t … strange … somehow . . - you couldn’t have done it.”

Trystin had to talk his way out of it. He needed time, and if he went into a Revenant medical facility for tests, he wasn’t likely to emerge-not as a whole and sane individual.

“Strange? Is it so strange that I wanted to save a child? Does a name mean that something is so?” Trystin picked up the knife. “I could call this a lily, but does calling it a lily make it one?” He set the knife down and picked up his glass, looking at the limeade for a moment. “What one believes makes all the difference.” Again, he wished the drink were tea rather than limeade. He carefully sipped some until the greenish liquid filled only half the crystal, then lifted the glass. “Is it half full or half empty?”