In some ways, the perimeter setup didn’t make the best military sense, because the installations were too close to the perimeter, but the reclamation equipment was there because its job was to change deadland and badland into something more receptive to the cross-gene engineered plantings that were laid down in patterns following the initial soil cracking.
So … the perimeter defense installations were set, and periodically moved forward, to protect the most expensive and critical equipment from the revvie attacks. And the greenery followed, kays and kays behind.
Trystin’s principal duty was to protect the equipment, and the installation, just like every other Service officer’s job on the Maran perimeter was. Or in the Helconyan satellite stations. Or in the Sasktoon perimeter lines, or the Safryan Belt installations, now that Safrya was basically habitable.
With the thought of Helconya, he wondered how Salya’s biologicals were going. She’d always had that kind of bent, enjoying their father’s gardens from the time she could reach out to the flowers. Trystin smiled. His older sister had talent, talent beyond screen-watching and neutralizing revs.
At 09:06.51, his senses seared alert-red, and Trystin overlined the four-split with the command options.
What looked to be another squad of revs had poured from over the steepest hill, sliding through the local equivalent of a cross between a cactus and scrub brush. They carried long objects larger than the standard assault rifles. Trystin could count nearly two full squads of the lightningstreaked suits, their new heat-shielding clearly effective against the sensors.
“Revs at zero eight nine—” Ryla’s observation came late.
Ping! Ping! Crumpt!
The three-screen identified the heavy penetrating shells and the boosted rocket pryers as they impacted the composite armor of the sector building. Trystin belatedly shielded the fans, then dumped the attack report on-line.
Both the weapons and the revs were aimed, not at the rear, and main, reclamation towers, but toward the sector building housing Trystin, the sector maintenance-equipment center, and the sector perimeter-defense center.
Ping! Crumpt! Crumpt!
The explosions sent vibrations through the building.
“Heavy shells, ser!”
The revs surged forward.
Crumpt! Crumpt! The sector building shook with the impact of the shells and pryers, and Trystin could feel the damage-assessment reports building in the backfile. He triggered the antipersonnel gattlings. After the day before, he had no desire to risk more revvie booby traps, and this was the most heavily armed group of revs he’d personally seen. Osberyl-tipped, depleted uranium shells fragmented 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, finding minor damage, jammed internal portals, but a ninety-two-plus status. While atmospheric integrity remained, his hand touched the emergency respirator pak in his belt for reassurance, long after his mind had returned to four-screen to survey the area to the east of the sector building.
He shook his head and went on-line to send a follow-up report to PerCon.
“Perimeter Control, from East Red Three, station under attack by single squad. Have neutralized revs. Will follow up with analysis.”
The reddish sands showed only fragments of synthfab and a spray of brownish lumps—that and a superficial fusing of the soil’s silicon, a fusing that pointed like an antique arrow toward the command center.
“What was that, ser?”
“Something new, Ryla. Still analyzing.”
“They just exploded, ser.”
Trystin had already called up the visuals and frozen them. The explosion had taken place faster than the scanner speed, but from what Trystin could tell, the gattlings’ antipersonnel shrapnel had triggered something.
He froze the attack visuals and went back to four-scan for another sweep of East Red Three, but the visuals and the heat sensors showed a three-kay clearance, not that the sensors were all that accurate if the revs came in with insulation—like the last two waves had.
He flicked back to the visuals and full sensor screens of the attack, trying not to shake his head as he did. At least two of the revs had literally turned into the human equivalent of shaped charges with the impact of the heavy gattling shrapnel. He studied the suit shapes again and frowned.
“Ryla?”
“Yes, ser?”
“You filed that report on the new revvie suit fabric, didn’t you?”
“Yesterday”
“Take a look at the attack visuals and the energy flows. They’ll be in your screens in a moment. It looks like the fabric has something like one-way energy reflection that works with explosives.” From what Trystin could tell from the screen recordings, the fabric—at least the part in front of the back-carried respirator paks—had turned the biolectric explosion forward and toward the sector building. If the revs had been much closer …
He did shake his head.
Better heat-sensor insulation, more scout coverage, more glider wings, bioelectric suicide traps, hand-carried heavy weapons, and now this.
“Bastards … you mean they’re turning their troops into shaped charges?”
“I don’t know that it’s quite that bad—just the ones who are captured or killed by high-impact charges.”
“That’s most of them, isn’t it?” asked the noncom. “What about the ones you sent to Yressa?”
“Shit … talk to you later.”
He remembered to unshield the fans—he worried about the power drain, since the promised organonutrient tanker hadn’t shown yet. A fusactor would have been more practical in some ways, but the Eco-Tech compact kept nuclear power in orbit and deep-space ships. He kept checking the sensors and the satellite plot, even as he direct-fed his third urgent report to PerCon in as many days—and then copied both reports to the South Ocean reclamation station where Yressa directed the rev captives.
He wiped his forehead. What did the revs want? For every one of their troops to be killed? Was Quentar right in claiming the only safe rev was a dead rev?
He took another scan of the maintenance status of the station before linking to Ryla’s console.
“Yes, ser?”
“Most of it can wait, but that side door on the lower level is leaking, and it’s getting worse.”
“I’d already flagged that, ser, and I’ll try to get it sealed.”
“How about the other doors?”
“I might be able to handle it later, and maybe tonight …”
“Thanks.”
Trystin went back to a full-concentration scan of the four screens before leaning back in the command seat and letting the systems work for him.
If the information he’d gotten from the captured revs had been correct, there couldn’t be too many more squads from the downed paraglider. On the other hand, there could be as many as sixty gliders on their way down to Mara, although Trystin doubted that the DefNet had been that lax.
HHsstttt … ssss … The long, low crackle hiss-burned through the implant, and Trystin checked the metplot, noting that wind shift had apparently resulted in a storm buildup earlier than usual.
He shook his head, not really wanting to damp the system’s sensitivity. Instead he continued to study the four screens, wincing at each burst of static. Still, the rising winds were good for the power system.
The mental cling! alerted Trystin to the incoming, and he called it up on his internal screen.
“Trystin Desoll, LT, SecWatch, East Red Three, from Perimeter Control. Re yours of 0926 14/10/788. Send full datadump to PerCon and to RESCOM.”
With a deep breath Trystin began compiling the datadump requested by PerCon, although it took little enough time, objectively. It just seemed like forever. He tagged the dump with a cover transmittal and pulsed it out.
“Perimeter Control/RESCOM [Klyseen], from Trystin Desoll,
LT, SecWatch, East Red Three. As per request, datadump follows.”
Was it only 1100? He hoped Yressa and the research people could check on the latest rev captives and that he hadn’t sent them troyens. He wiped his forehead. How could anyone know that the revs were getting even sneakier?
He scanned the screens with full concentration, but nothing showed to the east besides the red sandy soil, the hills, the ammonia cacti, the weedgrass clumps, and the gathering clouds that promised headaches later in the day.
After standing and stretching, Trystin walked around the command seat. He really didn’t need to stay that close to the main console. The direct neural input was faster, but the rules were there in case the implant-based systems went, and he had to run the defenses manually—not that he wanted to. Not being able to react fast enough was a good way to get killed, and manual operation was far slower. But using a defective net was also a quick way to overloading his implant—and to neural burnout.
Finally, he walked back to the galley to refill the cup of Sustain, and then trotted back up to the command seat.
Outside, in the thin atmosphere, the precrackers turned soil, and the crackers cracked it. To the west, the planters dropped the cross-gene plantings in patterns. To the south, the latest water comet melted, and the water-vapor content of the atmosphere climbed marginally, and bit by bit the amount of oxygen rose.
Beyond the red-blue haze that was the sky, more troid ships were flung out of the revvie systems, and more paragliders and troops were on their way toward Mara, and Trystin. Why did the revs beat on the Coalition, rather than the Hyndji systems or the Argenti plutocracy? Was it because ecologic technology was the closest thing to the genetic manipulation that had created the immortals? Or because the Coalition was closer and had more potentially habitable real estate? And why did all the revs seem so certain about the rectitude of their ways?
He took another sip of Sustain and studied the screens, waiting for Gerfel. Tonight, no matter how he felt, no matter how bad the exercise room smelled, he was going through his workout. Tonight.
He studied the screens and sipped Sustain.
4
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 reatmosphering 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 dom
es.
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 noncom 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 twoscreen inside his mind.
Another cling!—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 firstlevel 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.
The Parafaith War Page 3