Trystin understood. “This way, if you survive, you get a bigger ship as CO on the next tour.”
“You’ve got it.”
Trystin frowned.
“Why the frown?”
“I was thinking about Major Tekanawe.”
“She’ll make a wonderful transport pilot—good and stolid.”
“If she survives corvettes.”
Ulteena’s laugh was short and harsh. “I’ll bet she got perimeter patrols in the Helconya system.”
“That seems …” He frowned again. “I think she did. How did you know?”
“I didn’t. She’s very solid, without much imagination, and those types of pilots are hard to find. People with quick thought, quick reflexes, and the willingness to leave everything behind usually hack the system rather than follow the program to the last line of code—but transport pilots need to follow their orders to the last byte. To follow a schedule.” Ulteena laughed easily. “How would you do at that?”
Trystin laughed, too.
“You see what I mean? Do you really want to be a transport pilot? Or on border patrols off Helconya?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” Ulteena glanced over her shoulder. “Here comes Ardyth. I’ll see you later. Do take care of yourself, Trystin.” She smiled warmly and turned.
Trystin looked at Ardyth, a large and stolid lieutenant, also with pilot’s wings above her name. The two pilots walked toward another officer—male—at the end of the waiting area, but Ulteena turned and gave him a last warm smile.
Trystin returned the smile, trying to keep a puzzled look off his face. He was finding too many unanswered questions, including the one called Ulteena Freyer. He pursed his lips. One minute she was warm, the next formal. Yet she was the type that never did anything without a reason.
Finally, answerless, he hoisted his bags.
29
Trystin paused at the first turn in the walk, where the stone-walled bed still held the purple-flowered sage—sage his father insisted had a pure genetic line to old Earth. He set down the three bags. Bending over, he inhaled, trying to pick up the fresh scent. Smelling the sage was so easy when he crushed the dried leaves, but more difficult with the growing plant.
Springtime had almost left, and the late-afternoon heat that heralded summer oozed in over the garden walls, not that summer was all that hot in Cambria. Why did he always seem to come home in the spring? Coincidence?
He straightened and looked at the stones of the bedding wall that held the sage. He remembered building the wall—chipping and fitting the stones so they would hold without mortar and with no more than the width of a heavy knife blade between any edge. All that as punishment for swinging at Salya because she’d teased him about—who had it been—Patrice?
What had ever happened to Patrice? The last he’d heard, she’d married another Service officer, and they’d been shipped to Arkadya. Arkadya—that was where Ulteena Freyer was headed. Ulteena must have been from a tech family, because Arkadya wasn’t open for colonization—at least it hadn’t been the last time he’d checked.
Trystin bent down again. The blue-shot gray stones of the wall seemed unchanged, still rough in places, despite the fifteen years that had passed since he’d built it. Then, fifteen years wasn’t anything to a stone. Or a translation pilot, his mind added. He pushed away the thought and concentrated on the wall. In some places the gaps had been a bit wider than the back of the replica knife his father had used as a gauge, but not much, and Elsin had just smiled and said, “They’re close enough. You’ll remember, and that’s additional punishment enough.”
At the time, Trystin had just been relieved. Now … he looked at the gaps in the stones, not quite narrow enough, and laughed. But he understood what his father had meant, especially as he stood and wanted to reset the stones. He laughed again before picking up the three heavy kit bags and heading up through the boxwood maze toward the low stone and wood house set amid the gardens. That the house had greater depths and vistas was never apparent, except from within.
Trystin wondered if that reflected all of the Desolls, or if such an image were merely vanity. And what lay in his depths?
He paused again when he came to the bonsai cedar—the same and yet not the same. He could come home, and the cedar was always the same and not the same. Another image? Shaking his head, he walked up the stone-paved path quickly, enjoying the scent of the pines and the heavy but distant odor of the early roses. Was he stalling in the garden, enjoying the plants, because he feared the message beneath the message his father had sent?
After a quick glance back across the gardens, Trystin rapped on the door and waited. He rapped again.
The oak door opened, and a blond woman, wearing the Service uniform, smiled at him.
“Salya! You’re the reason Dad sent that message—and I was so worried.”
“Silly!” Salya hugged him even before he got inside, and his bags scattered across the stones as he hugged his sister back. Then she stood back and looked at the dress green Service uniform. “You really made it—Pilot Officer Desoll.”
“I always said he would,” observed Elsin from the foyer.
Trystin mock-glared. “You had me worried with that message.”
“You had us all worried with pilot training,” pointed out Salya.
“Let the man get inside,” suggested Nynca. “You’ve scattered everything he owns all over the front porch.”
Trystin gathered up his shoulder bag and flight bag, and Salya hoisted the third bag and followed him down to the lower bedroom, the one off the office.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said to her, setting the bags by the closet door.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” Her dark blue eyes studied him for a moment. “My brother. Not even my little brother anymore.”
“I’ll still be your kid brother.”
“Thanks.”
They looked at each other for a long moment.
“I think Mother’s got some goodies waiting. They’ve been waiting for a couple of days.” Salya started out the door and up the half-flight of stairs.
Trystin’s eyes lingered on the room, the single bed, the slightly dusty wooden model of the antique corvette hanging above the desk where his school console had been. Finally, he shook his head and followed his sister.
By the time they reached the great room, Nynca had a tray of miniature cakes on the table, with steaming pots of both green tea and greyer tea on the old carved wooden trivets.
“It looks good,” Trystin observed.
“It had better. Your mother spent most of her endday baking and filling and dicing and slicing.”
“I did help a bit,” added Salya.
“You ate as much as you fixed.” Nynca’s eyes twinkled.
“I imagine she was as deprived as I was,” Trystin said, lifting the pot of greyer tea and filling the heavy green mug. “I can’t imagine that food on Helconya station compares to what comes from your kitchen.” He turned to Salya. “Green or greyer?”
“Green.”
As he filled his sister’s mug, he looked to his father. “Do you want any?”
“The greyer.”
After filling his father’s and sister’s mugs, Trystin just poured the green tea for his mother. She’d never liked greyer tea, calling it perfumed water. “There.”
“He still pours his tea first, but now he’s learned to pour everyone else’s before he gulps his down.” Salya grinned.
“I love you, too.”
As the four settled into the captain’s chairs around the light wood of the game table, Elsin looked toward Trystin. “How does it feel to be a certified pilot?”
Trystin finished munching the chocolate nut cake and sipped his tea, holding up a hand.
“Let him have something to eat, dear. It’s not as though he’ll be disappearing tomorrow.”
“With the Service, you never know.” Salya glanced toward the half-open sli
der to the middle garden, her eyes taking in the fast-moving clouds beyond the trees.
“In some ways, it’s not much different at all, except that you look back and realize you’re doing things you couldn’t have imagined before.”
“Such as?”
“Nestling two hundred tonnes of plastic, metal, and composite up beside a nickel-iron asteroid and floating there in darkness a few degrees above absolute zero.” Trystin took another sip of the tea and held the cup under his nose, letting the steam circle his face, closing his eyes for a moment.
Salya lifted a lemon cream cake. “These are good.”
“Don’t eat too many,” said Elsin. “I do have a special dinner.”
“We’ll eat late. We always do.”
Elsin rose quietly and picked up both the dark gray teapot and the green one, carrying them back into the kitchen. “I can see we’ll need more tea.”
“How are your projects going?” Trystin sipped of the greyer tea.
“We’re getting there.” Salya paused and sipped her tea. “The airspores are beginning to impact the upper troposphere, except you really can’t call it that, and we’re getting some cooling from water comets, although right now what’s left after transit just vaporizes. Still, that overloads the absorptive capability of the surface, and the high-temperature bugs we seeded down on the rocks are beginning to release free oxygen and reduce the CO levels … .”
“When will we be able to live there?”
“This one’s long-term, really long-term. Say eight hundred years, if we’re lucky.”
Nynca shook her head.
“It’s not so bad,” Salya said. “For one thing Helconya’s effectively a sterile planet. That means whatever we do doesn’t get tied up in unforeseen ecological knots. And then there are the ethical concerns … .”
Trystin nodded. “You mean the old arguments about whether a planoformed place would have developed intelligent life in time?”
“Right.” Salya reached for another lemon cake, then put her hand back in her lap and lifted her mug with the other.
“There.” The mostly silver-haired man set both teapots back on their trivets. “I turned down dinner a bit.” He settled back into his chair. “You mean I won’t be called upon to develop integrated biosystems there?”
“Not in this lifetime, Father. Not unless you’re an immortal and have been keeping it from us.”
Elsin ran a hand over his thin hair. “Does this look like an immortal’s hair?”
Both Salya and Trystin chuckled.
“Where are you going?” Nynca looked at Trystin.
“I don’t know.” Trystin’s hands flailed for a moment. “I’ve been assigned to a light cruiser—the Willis—and I’m supposed to report to Perdya orbit station after leave—no later than the thirtieth of the month.”
“You’ve got three weeks,” observed Elsin.
“I also have a physical at the main medical center on the fifteenth, but that should only take a half-day.”
“Don’t they give you detachment physicals?” Salya frowned.
“I volunteered for a follow-up study on young officers.” Trystin offered a grin. “There was a pay bonus involved.”
“Trust Trystin to follow the easy credits.” Salya shook her head.
“It’s not that bad. Just an additional physical every two years or so with a follow-up interview. Besides, Dad said I’d need all those credits if I were to become a pilot officer.”
“The psychology people.” Salya snorted. “I told them, ‘No, thank you.’ I didn’t want any of their notes in my files, not even for their money. Just be careful what you tell them.”
Trystin thought about his struggles with the ethical issues of theft. “I’ve tried to be careful.” He picked up another cake.
“They’re sneaky.” Salya looked at the tray, then finally took another lemon square. “This is the last one for me.”
“Who’s counting?” Trystin grinned at his sister. “Feeling guilty? Or worried that someone might see a bulge in the midsection?” He watched Salya blush. She’d always blushed easily.
“She doesn’t need to worry,” said Nynca.
“What about this major?” asked Trystin. “Mom and Dad had mentioned—”
“Oh, you mean Shinji? He’s just a friend. He’d like it to be more.”
“Shinji?” asked Nynca. “As in the legend of Shinji Takayama?”
“How did you know his last name?”
“Just a guess.”
Trystin could sense the sadness his mother masked with a quick smile, although he had no idea why a mere name would cause it. “What about him?”
“He’s tall, but not so tall as you. Dark hair, of course, parashinto heritage, but he does have blue eyes.”
“They must be very blue,” opined Nynca.
Salya blushed again.
“And he’s just a friend,” said Trystin with a grin.
“Trystin …” Salya cleared her throat and looked down at the table, then up, brushing back the short blond hair away from her face. “He’s the head of the atmospheric transport section—they do the upper-atmosphere sampling, run the drones, and occasionally they provide shuttle pilots. They’re not deep-space pilots, though.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Perdya, but he’s from Kaneohe, and he went to the Service Academy.” Salya turned to Trystin. “What about your romantic life?”
“It’s nonexistent. Has been since I left Mara.”
“I can’t believe you haven’t found someone—or they haven’t found you.”
“The only one who’s found me is a major who gives me advice and grief in equal doses, with an occasional smile.”
“You’re intrigued, aren’t you?”
Trystin frowned. “I think so. But she’s also scary. Anticipates everything … way in advance.”
“And like a typical man,” laughed Salya, “you’re worried about losing control.”
“I doubt I’d ever have it,” Trystin admitted.
“For men, that’s even worse.” Salya shook her head. “She probably even makes you think the deep thoughts, the ones you’ve always avoided. Like why you’re even in the Service.”
“That’s unfair,” Trystin protested.
“Probably, younger brother.” Salya grinned. “Unfair … but true.”
“Salya … I could start on how you devour men … .”
“I’d rather you didn’t. Let’s talk about your major and why you refuse to be intrigued by her.”
Elsin rose. “I think dinner’s ready. Bring your tea with you.” He picked up both pots and carried them toward the long black table in the dining area. Nynca stood and followed him.
Trystin took a last sip from his mug and looked at Salya, who had raised her eyebrows. “It’s simple enough. She’ll be running a corvette somewhere, and I don’t even know where the Willis operates. With my luck, I won’t see her again until I’m old and gray.”
“I have my doubts about that. I can’t imagine you being old and gray. And life is never simple.”
“Pilots often don’t—”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even hinted at it. You don’t have to say it. We all know.” Salya touched his arm, and he could see the dampness in the corner of her eyes. “Let’s go eat.”
Trystin swallowed and followed his sister.
30
Trystin recovered his card from the surtrans reader, readjusted his beret, and stepped from the surtrans. After crossing the covered stones of the platform, he walked up the wide stone steps to the main Service medical center on Perdya, just off radial three on the east side of Cambria. Beside the steps were stone flower boxes filled with rysya and trefils, each species about to bloom.
Once inside, he headed for the information console.
“Lieutenant Desoll, reporting for a follow-up physical.”
The civilian technician at the front console nodded politely. “What kind of physical, Major?”
“The Farhkan study.” He laughed politely. “And while I wish to be a major, I’m still a lieutenant.”
“I see. You’re one of those. Let me check. What was your name?”
“Desoll. D-E-S-O-L-L.”
“Here we are. Go to the second floor, all the way to the rear on the south wing to Dr. Kynkara’s office. Someone there will tell you where to go from there:”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Major.”
Trystin repressed the urge to correct her again and turned toward the wide ramp. On the way up, he passed two lieutenants, one walking stiffly with the measured gait of someone rehabbed from spine damage. Another casualty from Mara? Or somewhere else? Before Trystin got to the far end of the south wing, he reached another technician at another console.
“Ser?” The dark-haired woman looked up at him, waiting, her slightly slanted eyes skeptical.
“Lieutenant Desoll. I’m here for the Farhkan follow-up study.”
“Follow me, ser.” Without another word, she took off down a side corridor and around two comers until they reached four cubicles. Three had open doors. Inside each was a diagnostic console. “I’m sure you’re familiar with these.” She looked at him. “Your ID, ser?”
Trystin handed it over.
She swiped it through the scanner, and the console ready light winked green. Then she handed it back.
“Just disrobe to your underwear, and let the console take its measurements and samples. When the restraints loosen, you can get dressed. Go to gamma three—that’s at the end of the corridor—and take a seat outside Dr. Kynkara’s office. They’ll find you there.”
“Thank you.” Trystin nodded, but the technician was gone. He disrobed, winced as the cold console enfolded him, and waited as the equipment measured and probed. When he could, he dressed and walked to the end of the corridor, where four plastic chairs lined the wall outside a closed door with the name Kynkara on it.
Somehow, the directions he’d received in the lobby didn’t match where the doctor’s office was, but he’d managed. He sat in the gray plastic chair and waited … and waited … and stood and walked around … and waited.
The Parafaith War Page 21