The Parafaith War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “How do you like being a devil?” asked James quietly as he eased into one of the briefing-room chairs.

  “Oh …” Trystin paused. “Better a live devil than a dead angel, I guess … though I wonder sometimes.”

  “So do I.”

  They sat waiting for Commander Atsugi.

  42

  A good third of the telltales in front of Trystin winked amber, and the net crackled under the system overloads. He calculated the vectors to the oncoming revs and triggered the torp releases.

  “Fire one!”

  “Fire two!”

  “Both loaders jammed, ser!” That was the response from weapons.

  The oncoming revvie corvettes, five blue blips, shields locked tight together, loomed nearer in the representational screen, closing to less than a fraction of a lightminute.

  The single torp from the Willis flashed harmlessly against the joined screens.

  His guts jumped up in his throat as Trystin dumped all the power maintaining the ship’s grav into the shields. The accumulators began to hiccup, and power surges created static across the net, as more of the telltales flashed amber, then red.

  The ventilators’ hissing died away, and the odor of burning insulation seeped from the ducts.

  None of the other Coalition ships were close enough to blunt the revvie attack, and Trystin yanked the ship’s nose almost straight up, then jammed on max overload power from the fusactor and the accumulators. The fusactor lined out at one hundred twenty percent.

  The rest of the telltales began to switch from amber to red, a movement that began to cascade across the board in front of Trystin.

  Even with the ventilation system down and all the power shifted into the thrusters, the blue blips closed in on the Willis. The accumulators gave a last hiccuping surge, and crashed.

  Abruptly, Trystin shut down all external radiation and applied full desensitization.

  Crump! The ship actually shuddered with the torp explosion, not a direct hit, but close enough, and a faint hissing grew into a low roar, and what felt like a wind swept across the cockpit.

  The telltales gleamed red, those that remained operational. Then the cockpit boards began to blank out. The emergency lights on the left side of the cockpit flashed, then went black.

  Crump! With the near-impact of another torp, the Willis shuddered.

  Trystin’s ears popped as the atmosphere poured out of the Willis. He unstrapped and clawed his way, weightless, through the air toward the armor rack, feeling his eyes bulge as he did, trying to keep his mouth shut.

  All the lights failed, and the entire cockpit went black. Trystin groped for the armor behind the pilot’s couch, trying to hold on to the couch against the air loss that threatened to rip him out of the cockpit, feeling his skin bulge, his closed eyes close to popping from his face, the air seeping from his nose, and vacuum burning down his nasal passages—

  He bolted upright in his bunk, gasping, sweat pouring down his face, his underwear as soaked as after an engagement.

  He tried to laugh—the dream had been an engagement, a brutal one—but with the dryness in his throat, all that occurred was a rasping cough.

  Slowly, slowly, he swung his bare feet onto the cold metal deck and lowered his head into his hands.

  “Frig … frig …” he muttered to himself.

  Like all violent nightmares, it had felt so real. His heart was still pounding, his mouth dry. Even his eyes felt like they had been vacuum-burned.

  Why now? What did it mean? That his subconscious was telling him that he was running out of time and tricks?

  How long could he keep pulling new tactics out of his ass? How long could he push the Willis to the edge of the envelope before systems failed in a catastrophic cascade? Just like the one he had experienced in the nightmare.

  For a time, he just held his head.

  At that moment, the whole damned war seemed so futile. Both sides just kept escalating, yet what could he do? There was no doubt that the revs wouldn’t stop, even if the Coalition surrendered Mara and half—or all—of its planoformed real estate.

  He took a long shuddering breath, and stood in the darkness, walking in a small circle in his cabin, letting the air from the ventilators dry him and his soaked underwear.

  Tomorrow he’d be all right. He would be. Tomorrow.

  He kept walking in tight circles, trying not to think about the dream. It had only been a dream. A dream. Just a dream.

  43

  As the Willis slipped up to Mara orbit station, Trystin scanned the representational screen again, still amazed at the numbers of EDI traces.

  Nearly a dozen corvettes crisscrossed the orbit of Mara, trying to track down inbound paragliders. According to the official reports, the paraglider neutralization ratio was seventy percent.

  Trystin snorted. Seventy percent of the verified troid launches, but he’d seen the official paraglider counts, and those counts were half what he’d seen—and he’d been there when the rev gliders had spewed forth from the troids.

  Nearly a year and a half earlier, when he and the Willis had arrived from Perdya, the standard force had been three cruisers and a dozen corvettes at outer orbit control. Now, outer orbit control was twice its former size, and host to nearly three times the number of ships. And nearly three times as many corvettes patrolled Mara as part of the stepped-up effort to try to stop the assault gliders.

  The greater numbers allowed use of interlinked shields and multiple formations, and the newer longer-range torps had helped even more, but not enough. Each troid ship had more and more scouts, and the revvie scouts were now nearly as big and as fast as the Coalition corvettes—and they carried more torps.

  A red-tinged pulse clung to the screen representation of the orbit station itself—just a single red pulse.

  “There’s a Farhkan ship docked here, ser.”

  “They dock here every so often, the insidious aliens.”

  Trystin reflected. The Farhkan that had interviewed him in Klyseen would have had to use the orbit station, but he hadn’t seemed insidious. Persistent, but not insidious.

  “Iron Mace two, cleared into gamma three.”

  “Stet, Control, approaching gamma three this time.”

  Trystin pulsed the thrusters ever so slightly and then trimmed the ship with the attitude jets. The clunk was barely perceptible.

  “Very neat … as usual.” James stretched.

  Trystin magnetized the holdtights, and they went through the shutdown checklist.

  After the power changeover, Keiko’s voice came through the speakers. “Lieutenant? There’s a tech here with something official for you.”

  James looked at Trystin.

  Trystin looked back and shrugged.

  “Don’t tell me they’re detaching you. I know SysCon’s short of pilots, but … it is a little early.”

  Trystin could understand James’s concerns. The captain had the tactical and political savvy, but not the instinctive and reactive abilities. They made a good team. Without a second as good as Trystin, the Willis could have been another energy-conversion statistic. Without some of James’s insight, Trystin would have gotten himself backed into situations from which extrication would have been difficult, if not impossible. But he still had nightmares … and they were getting more frequent.

  Trystin unstrapped and walked aft to the quarterdeck.

  “Lieutenant Desoll?” The harried-looking tech thrust a folder at Trystin. “This is for you, ser.” Then the tech, with several other folders under his arm, was gone.

  Keiko and Liam, who had appeared from nowhere, watched as he opened the envelope folder.

  He read, and then he laughed, shaking his head. “I have to go get a special physical in the station’s medical center. That’s all.” He knew why the Farhkan ship was docked there, probably making the annual or biennial trip, or whatever rounds the Farhkan doctors needed to make.

  “We’re still stuck with him,” James said with a smile
.

  “What can I say?” He frowned. “This says ‘soonest,’ and I’d better hurry.”

  He headed back toward his stateroom.

  “The Farhkan study?” asked James.

  Trystin stopped. “Yes.”

  “That came after my time. How do you see them?”

  Trystin paused. “Strange. Not what you expect. Somehow too alien and too human all at the same time.”

  “Insidious. They’ve got their own agenda, and we’d be better off without it, but we need their help.”

  “I’d like to know what they really want,” Trystin admitted.

  “So would half of Service HQ, but we need the technology, and they parcel it out in return for seemingly useless information. Insidious … worse than the revs.” James shook his head, then added, “I may be out when you get back. Liam needs to check with logistics. He’s still having problems with the loaders. So touch base with him. All right?”

  “We’ll work something out.”

  After a quick shower, Trystin pulled on his informal greens, rather than a shipsuit, and headed for the med center.

  The station still reeked of plastic and weedgrass—oily weedgrass—and of too many people.

  When Trystin walked into the med center, buried down on the fifth level, and checked in, a familiar face greeted him.

  “Sit down, Trystin. It’ll be a while.” Major Ulteena Freyer smiled ironically at him.

  Trystin sat down. “I didn’t know you were here—in Parvati system, I mean.”

  “I haven’t been here long. I’m the new CO of the Mishima.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I’m not sure about that. You’ve been getting pounded pretty heavily.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Safrya. They got a bunch of troids, but the lag time meant—”

  “Lag time?”

  “Safyra took less time to planoform than Mara has. The early projections were just the opposite.”

  Trystin nodded, finally understanding. The Revenants usually targeted the planets where real estate was closest to habitable, but Mara had lagged, and Safyra had proved far easier, due to more frozen CO2 and buried water than discovered in the initial survey. But the revvie troid ship attacks had been planned thirty to fifty years earlier, right after the Harmony mess.

  “Of course, that doesn’t always hold true. Look at the mess that just happened in the Helconya system.”

  “What mess?” Trystin’s voice sharpened.

  “You haven’t heard? They sent a big troid through there. I guess we managed to hold them off, but some of their scouts actually attacked the planoforming orbit stations before they were destroyed. Someone from your group—Tekanawe—a major, I think, spearheaded the counterattack. She got the Star. Posthumously.”

  Trystin shook his head. That was all he could do. How could he find out about Salya?

  “Are you all right?”

  “Damned revs …” He pursed his lips. How could he find out? “Is there any way to find out more?”

  Ulteena shook her head. “I don’t think so. I had a cousin there, but no one would tell me anything. What’s the matter?”

  “My sister was in charge of one of the biological airspore projects.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ulteena looked at him, her dark eyes showing concern. “She could be just fine. They told me the stations survived, and if they did—”

  “Some of the people did.” Trystin moistened his lips. “I hope so. I hope so.”

  “You’re close to her.”

  Trystin nodded.

  “I’m sorry. You might try the admin office. Sometimes, they know—transfers and the like.”

  “Thanks. It’s a thought.” Trystin licked his lips. Salya—how could he find out?

  They looked up as a technician appeared.

  “Lieutenant Matsumi?”

  A stocky officer got up and followed the tech.

  “Sometimes … sometimes, I’d just like to smash them all.” Trystin forced his fists to unclench.

  “Force works—to a degree. If the other side survives, though, it can make things worse,” observed Ulteena.

  “I could destroy Wystuh and everything on the continent, perhaps life on all of Orum.”

  Ulteena nodded.

  “Don’t humor me. It’s simple enough. Take the largest translation ship available and accelerate it to the max with subtranslation drives—beefed-up versions of what we use for torps. Then aim it at Orum.” Trystin wiped his forehead.

  “What would stop them from doing the same thing?”

  “Theoretically, nothing. Except the revs need living space more than we do. Right now, we’re fighting on their terms, where every person we lose hurts us more than the thousands they lose.”

  “The planning staff won’t buy that sort of destruction.”

  “What kind would they prefer?” asked Trystin.

  “You’re also proposing using a bigger hammer. They could decide to use an even bigger one—like running troid ships into planets, and where would that leave any of us?”

  “About as dead as we’re going to be if this war continues the way it is.”

  “It isn’t that bad.”

  “No? How about this?” Trystin deepened his voice and quoted, “‘Ye shall consume all the people which the Lord thy God shall deliver unto thee; thine eyes shall have no pity upon them …’ That’s from their friggin’ Book of Toren.”

  “You are cynical, Trystin. You’ve got that open, trusting face, but … a lot more goes on than most people see.” Ulteena half laughed, half frowned. “Maybe that’s why …”

  “Why what?” he asked belatedly.

  “Nothing.” She smiled, an expression half wry, half warm. “It won’t be long before you get the third bar. Promotions are stepping up.”

  “More casualties. It makes sense.”

  Ulteena lowered her voice, and Trystin had to kick in intensified hearing. “There are more and more battles where Coalition ships are unaccounted for.”

  “So?”

  “There’s a rumor. If you slew the ship and apply power just as you translate—it increases the translation error severalfold, maybe more.”

  “Pilots are doing that?”

  “It’s better than waiting for a torp spread you won’t survive, isn’t it?”

  “But that means you’d have to climb—”

  “If you get a chance, keep your eyes open, Trystin. You’ll see what I mean.” Ulteena shifted her weight in the plastic chair as a tech approached.

  “Major Freyer?”

  “Take care, Trystin.” Her hand brushed his almost cansually, except for the pressure of her fingers on his skin, and she was gone, following the med tech.

  The warmth of her touch lingered, and he wanted to shake his head. What was she saying? In how many ways? One moment she was almost approachable, and in the next she was talking about pilots translating to escape being torched. Certainly, that made a sort of sense. Even Commander Folsom had pointed out that returning to fight was better than being fried. But stretching out translation effect to avoid returning to combat immediately—or at all?

  Was Ulteena telling him that the whole war was useless, to escape with his skin if he could? He took a deep breath. Was it that bad? He tried to consider it—rationally, as his father would have said. Both sides were putting more effort and materiel into the war, and all that seemed to be happening was that more people were being killed and more materiel being lost. Could the Coalition do anything any differently? He snorted. How would he know? Those on the front lines knew little enough about the big picture and had too many concerns about staying alive.

  All too soon, the tech was back.

  “Lieutenant Desoll?”

  He did not see Ulteena as he headed for the diagnostic console, nor as he later waited for his interview.

  A squat dark-haired doctor reclaimed him from the narrow plastic chair outside two adjoining offices in the corner of the medical bay,
where the odor of disinfectant warred with weedgrass, plastic, and ozone. Trystin’s nose itched, but he did not rub it as he rose and followed the woman.

  “Lieutenant Desoll, I’m Dr. Suruki.” The Service physician nodded her head toward the Farhkan. “This is Dr. Naille Jhule.”

  “Greetings, Lieutenant.” Again, Trystin could feel the words scripting through his implant.

  “Greetings.”

  This Farhkan was different from Ghere, even if the green tusks and red eyes were the same.

  “You know the drill, Lieutenant. I’ll be in the next office.” Suruki shut the door.

  The comm block dropped around the room as Trystin settled into one chair and the Farhkan into the other.

  The alien’s tongue flickered, not quite touching the green crystalline teeth. “Are all human cultures composed of thieves, Lieutenant?”

  Trystin took a deep breath. Why did all the Farhkans focus on theft and ethics? “As I told Dr. Ghere, I suspect that all intelligent cultures must practice theft in some basic degree in order to survive.”

  “Are you a thief?”

  “As I also told Dr. Ghere, the way that question is phrased bothers me. Yes, I have taken others’ lives so that I, or others, might live. I suppose that could be termed theft, but I don’t know that that makes me a thief.”

  “Is it the word or the idea that bothers you the most?”

  Trystin shrugged. “I’ve pretty much admitted that the term ‘thief’ bothers me.”

  “If you do not admit you are a thief, does that not make you a liar?”

  Trystin swallowed. More ethics. “That assumes that I accept your definition … and the values behind that definition.”

  The Farhkan did not respond immediately.

  Trystin waited.

  “Should values change from species to species?”

  “They do. Whether they should is another question.”

  “Should your species and mine have different interpretations of what values are the most important?”