“You going to kill me now? Turn me into fertilizer?” The blue eyes were bleak, and Trystin almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“No.” Not yet, thought Trystin. Not that I care. After triggering the door, he slipped outside and let the door seal the rev inside.
Outside, Trystin dropped a physiological overlay in place to call up some reserves for a few minutes, then took a series of deep breaths, letting the strength flow back into him. He’d pay for it later.
Even after months of sporadic interrogations, he still wasn’t used to the mindless hatred the revs had been indoctrinated with or the fact that they saw Coalition officers as golems, more machines than human. Trystin didn’t appear different from any other human, and looked, unfortunately, more like a rev than an Eco-Tech. He wasn’t wired with metal—his implant was totally organic and invisible.
After a last deep breath, he triggered the second door and stepped around the moving grate and into the next cell, link-closing it behind him.
“You creatures really are part of the machinery.” Another blond-haired blue-eyed rev, older than the first, studied him. “Indoc or interrogation?”
“Interrogation.” Trystin noted the muscular tightening. “I wouldn’t.”
“Golems, aren’t you? All machine, no soul.” The muscles relaxed, but not totally. “Worse than the Immortals. You even look like a son of the Prophet. Did they re-create you in that image?”
“Hardly. I was born this way.” Trystin continued to monitor the rev’s muscular tension. “Did you really expect that a glider with only four squads could do much?”
“Hoped” was the subvocalization. “That wasn’t my duty, ser.”
Trystin tried not to frown. The “ser” bothered him. “Did you really want to throw away a squad of angels?”
“No.” There was no conflict between the answer and the subvocal message.
The man was clearly an officer who’d been thoroughly briefed on Coalition officers’ capabilities. Trystin pushed. “Why are you hiding that you’re an officer?”
“I’m not hiding anything. You never asked.”
“Why were you in the first attack?”
“Why not?”
Trystin wanted to shake his head. All the subvocalization detection wouldn’t help in the slightest if he couldn’t keep the other man off balance.
“What’s your rank?”
“Assistant Force Leader.”
“What squad was the Force Leader with?”
“Second” was followed by the verbal, “He stayed with the other squads.”
“What do you really hope to get from these attacks?” Trystin let his voice become more conversational.
“Officially, that would be for others to say, ser.”
“What do you want?”
“To wipe that mechanically superior grin off your young face.”
“Do you want to live?”
The subvocalized “Yes” was followed by, “I’m not that certain survival is an option. You people don’t seem to believe in the sacredness of life.”
“Do you?” snapped Trystin.
“Yes.”
“Then why are you out here trying to kill us?” Trystin wished he had bitten back the words. The man was getting to him. How could anyone who belonged to a faith, a system, that sent thousands of young troopers out to die, just to wear the Eco-Tech systems down for conquest—how could he claim that life was sacred?
“ … abominations … not real life …” “You surrendered your souls.”
“Is that why the troid ship was carrying an EMP-Slam?”
“Yes.” “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“How many more troid ships followed yours?”
“Three … think.” “That’s certainly none of my business.”
“How many wings cleared the troid before you?”
“None.” “I don’t know.”
“How many come after you?”
“ … three … more …” “I’m not a pilot, ser.”
“How many troids are scheduled to attack Mara in the next year?”
“I don’t know. Until the land belongs to the Lord.”
“Are all your troops—”
“They aren’t troops. They’re missionaries.”
“Excuse me. Are all your armed missionaries wearing the new suits?”
“Of course.”
“When will you start bringing in heavier weapons?”
“Soon.” “When the Lord wills.”
Trystin looked at the composed man who stood there in what amounted to a white shipsuit. All the telltales and scans indicated, prisoner or not, that the rev was indeed as composed as he looked. “Won’t you ever stop?”
“No. Not while we’re about the Lord’s business.”
“Why does the Lord’s business just involve our real estate? Why don’t you go after the Hyndjis or the Argentis?”
“ … go after abominations …” “We follow the Lord’s will.”
Trystin shook his head, and stepped back.
“While I believe, nothing you say, golem, can shake me.”
As the cell door shut, Trystin was certainly aware of the truth of the rev officer’s convictions, and that nothing any outsider could say would shake his faith. Outside in the corridor, Trystin gathered himself together before entering the third cell, trying to ignore the more prevalent odor of ammonia and the ultrafine grit that seemed to settle everywhere in the blocks.
Trystin triggered the grate and stepped into the third cell.
The cold green eyes of the third rev looked at Trystin impassively, then his body lurched upward and toward the tech officer, almost as though independent of the rev himself.
Red seared through Trystin’s system, more quickly than the mentally scripted alert system, or the report of electromuscular generation, and the door was opening as he kicked the rev back and threw himself out the door, triggering its emergency closure before he was quite clear of the cell.
His boots scraped the door, and some of the force of the explosion skidded him along the smooth stones of Block B, but he scrambled to his feet and looked back toward the bulging grate-door to the third cell. Wisps of greasy smoke curled through the bent frame of the door.
Blood dripped from the side of his jaw as Trystin scanned the corridor, then shook his head, and called his implant into the maintenance level. Only the single cell was damaged.
Now the smell of explosives, smoke, and charred meat joined the fainter odor of ammonia. Trystin swallowed hard.
“Ser!”
“We’ve got a new wrinkle, Ryla. Put this on-line, for all perimeter stations—no … I’ll do it.” Trystin took another deep breath and walked slowly back up toward the control center. After the heavy door to Block B closed behind him, he off-lined the unarmed combat step-up and the acute hearing and slogged toward the console seat, where he slumped as he coded the transmission. He took a long swallow of Sustain and walked to the galley to mix more as he direct-fed the message through his implant.
“PerCon, from East Red Three. New rev tactic. Bioelectric detonation of organic explosives …” After checking the data picked up by the scanners, he went on to summarize the use of biologically generated electric fields to detonate pseudomuscle or bone mass that was actually a form of plasex. “ … thus, scanners pick up no electronic components. The electric generation is apparently triggered by a crude form of biofeedback. Could be dangerous for interrogators or others in direct rev contact.”
He poured the Sustain powder into the glass and stirred, taking the glass back to the console seat with him.
Almost as the report went direct-feed, Ulteena clicked in.
“Sounds nasty. How are you, machman?”
“Sore. Few cuts. Angry. Why don’t they leave us alone?”
“’Cause the Prophet says we’re the ungodly and golems. Or worse—descendants of the cursed immortals.”
“Shit, we both fought the immortals. That’s why old Earth a
nd Newton are charred cinders.”
“They’ve got a selective memory for history. You know that. So get some rest, and snap clean.”
“I will. I will. After I download the interrogations and the info.”
“Always the one to do it proper.” Her voice—direct-fed or not—gentled.
“I try.”
“I know.” The last transmission was even softer before she off-lined.
He wondered what Ulteena looked like, since they’d never synced off duty. He shrugged. Probably not at all cuddly, but with shoulders broader than his and a nose sharper than a skimmer prow.
With another deep breath, he clicked into the log and began to itemize the results of the interrogation, including the facts that there might be as many as another sixty paragliders swirling into Mara’s atmosphere, if they weren’t already, not to mention that the troid ships were now carrying thirty in-system scouts, and that three more squads from the downed glider had yet to show up. He added the business about the insulation and the continued determination of the revs that Mara would fall to the Prophet.
“Ser?”
“Yes, Ryla?”
“You were right about the fabric on the revvie suits. Something new, and it’s not only heat-shielding, but wavetransparent. I direct-lined the results to HQ, and they asked me to send a sample on the shuttle. It’ll be ready for the afternoon pickup.”
“Stet.”
When the log-out report was in-lined and out on the DistribNet, Trystin sat back in the command seat. Then he sat up and refocused on the scanners in the two cells holding the revs he hadn’t interrogated.
They scanned clean, right down to muscle density.
“Trystin?”
He looked up.
Gerfel stood beside him, stocky, dark-skinned, and dark-haired. “You ought to be careful. Could have been a rev.”
“Shit … good luck. Revs up to some new stuff. In-feed the log before you scan.”
“Before?”
“I mean it. They got new suit shields and new tricks.”
“Praise their friggin’ prophet.”
“I wouldn’t.” He paused. “We pulled in five—in Block B. I only got through three of them. One of them exploded—suicide-type. There are two left. Can you handle them?”
“Can I handle them? I’ve been doing this longer than you have.”
“I know. But B three is a mess. Rev was a live bomb. Bioorganic explosives. I did scans on the last two. They look clean, but be careful. Bastards really explode in your face.”
“So that’s why you look like that.”
“Yeah. Be careful.”
“I will. Especially now.” Gerfel paused and offered a slight smile. “One thing I like about you, Trystin. You’re lucky, and that counts for a lot.”
“Can’t always afford to count on it.” Trystin climbed out of the command seat.
“No. But it helps.”
“You ready?”
“I’ve got it.”
Trystin logged out and off-lined, sensing Gerfel’s aura on the net as she slipped in. He cleared his throat. “The incense helps. Thanks.”
“Not enough, pretty boy, but I’m glad it takes some of the edge off.”
He forced a smile before turning. His legs felt watery as he walked toward his cubicle.
“Off-line, Ryla. Gerfel’s on. Call her if another batch of revs pops up before you’re relieved.” It wasn’t likely, not with the noncom relief a half a stan after the duty officer, but Trystin didn’t know what else to say.
“Stet, ser.”
He trudged onward, thinking that he really should be going to the exercise room. He really should, but his feet carried him toward his cubicle, and his bunk.
He managed to lie down and close his eyes before the wave of blackness washed over him. Eight and a half hours on-line with an hour of step-up—too much, far too much.
2
“And He will love thee and bless thee and multiply thee; He will also bless the fruit of thy womb, and the fruit of thy land, thy corn, thy wine, and thine oil and all the works of thy forges and the works of the tools of thy tools, and the increase of all that He hath given thee in the worlds to which His Prophet hath brought thee, as He swore unto thy fathers and their fathers.
“Ye shall be blessed above all people, in all the worlds and mansions of thy Father, so long as ye shall follow the words of His Prophet.
“Ye shall consume all the people which the Lord thy God shall deliver unto thee; thine eyes shall have no pity upon them; neither shall ye serve their gods, nor the gods of the land, nor the gods of the forge nor the gods of the coin, for those will be a snare unto ye.
“Do not say in thine hearts, those worlds are more than I; how are we to dispossess them?
“Be not afraid of the heathen, nor those that follow the false gods, nor those that would counsel unto thee, let us reason together; for well-crafted words are but a snare, and cannot stand before faith in thy Father the Lord.
“Listen to thy Father, and the words of the Prophet, and ye shall remember what the Lord God did unto Pharaoh, and unto those who surrendered their souls to the god of gold and precious metals, and unto those who saw not the many mansions in thy Father’s house, and despaired in the dust of ancient Sodom, or those who despaired and perished upon the ashes of ancient Earth.
“The graven images of other gods ye shall burn with the fires of the heavens and the depths; ye shalt not take those technologies and those beliefs that are on them, nor take them into thee lest ye be snared therein, for such are an abomination to the Lord thy God, as spoken by His Prophet.
“Ye shall not be afrightened by them, for the Lord thy God is among thee, a mighty god and terrible. And He shall deliver their kings unto thine hand, and thou shalt destroy their names from under heaven. There shall be no man or woman to stand against thee, not even those who once would have lived forever, and ye shall render them unto dust and raise on that dust new mansions in thy Father’s house, as it is His will … .”
Book of Toren
Original Edition
3
At 0650 Trystin, a mug of Sustain in hand, crossed the space between the small galley and the control center, conscious that Voren had been watching from the command chair. The incense odor had died down, but the ammonia remained, as did the citrus-bitter smell of Sustain. Sustain with him.
“You’re looking cheerful.” Voren straightened. “Glad that incense smell is gone.”
“Don’t feel that cheerful.”
Voren’s eyes glazed as he clicked out of the system. Then he stood up. “Hate the swing watch. That extra half hour is murder.”
“Anything happen?”
“No. Been watching for something more from the stupid paraglider—but nothing. Damned revs’ll show up before long, though. Bet on that. But it’s your baby. I’m going to get some sleep.” Voren stood and yawned, then turned and trudged down toward the bunking cubicles, running his hand through his dark brown hair.
After settling into the command seat, Trystin scanned the messages waiting for him. Most were routine, except for three.
“Trystin Desoll, LT, SecWatch, East Red Three, from Perimeter Control. Re yours of 1651 13/10/788 concerning new rev tactic. Appreciate datadump and parameters. Will advise you further.”
Advise him further? About what? What else wasn’t PerCon telling him?
The second one, from Quentar, was shorter.
“Trystin, Weslyn didn’t get your warning in time. Terrible mess. The second squad from the last paraglider dump hit East Red Six about the same time they hit you. Damned revs.”
He hadn’t really known Weslyn—just vaguely remembered him as short and squarish, darker even than the Eco-Tech norm, and one of the newest Service officers on Mara.
The third message was puzzling.
“Trystin Desoll, LT, SecWatch, East Red Three. Report MedCen, Klyseen, Mara, 0900, 10/21/788, for screening as per Farhkan f/up study. Considered duty day.”<
br />
Farhkan follow-up study? What the frig was that? He on-lined his own file for a key-word search, while he went four-screen. The screens showed all defense equipment functioning and ready; no movement along the hundred kays of his perimeter; and no storms building over the badlands, although those didn’t usually appear until midday or later.
Cling. The mental chime alerted him that the system had located the Farhkan references. Trystin scanned through them, nodding as he remembered. When he had just been finishing his Service officer training, he, and all the other trainees about to be commissioned, had received an invitation to take part in a study sponsored by the Farhkan cultural mission. The study involved periodic in-depth physicals and occasional interviews. Participation also provided an annual bonus of nearly three percent of his base pay. He’d signed up, taken the physical, and forgotten about the requirement for follow-ups.
Trystin shrugged. If the physical made it a duty day off the perimeter line, that was an added bonus. He could probably even count on spending part of the day with Ezildya.
Dropping his attention back to full four-screen, he squared himself in the command chair.
“Anything new, ser?” Ryla’s voice snapped through the link.
“Nothing yet. Could be we’ll have a quiet day. They happen sometimes.”
“Sometimes, ser.” Ryla sounded less than certain.
“Did the shuttle get our prisoners? And … raw materials?” Trystin could have checked himself, but he was making conversation.
“Yes, ser. Packed away on the 0440, rear section. Authenticated by Brysan. Mangrin flicked receipt already.”
“Hope Yressa makes the survivors sweat.”
“Me, too.” Ryla paused. “The crackers are down to eighty-five percent. We’ll need an overhaul on the ones in towers four and fourteen in the next month. Could be sooner. I’ll copy you on the report.”
“Stet.”
As the noncom began his daily business of checking, scheduling, and troubleshooting the forward reclamation equipment, Trystin flicked the satellite plot into high resolution and tried to study the hills, but all he really got were blurs and an incipient headache.
The Parafaith War Page 2