The Parafaith War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Trystin took the chair across from his father and waited.

  “I suppose … I suppose I should have sent you some messages, but I didn’t know that they would have gotten there these days, and what could you have done? Except worry, and you didn’t need that, not then.” Elsin looked at the table. “When I got your message the day before yesterday … then there was no way to let you know—”

  “What happened? When?”

  “Almost four months ago … Quiella came to visit …”

  Trystin vaguely remembered his cousin Quiella as a quiet little blond girl, always into books—she loved the old-fashioned paper books in his father’s study.

  “ … they went out to go shopping … that was the first of the riots—”

  “Riots … ?”

  “Oh, yes … we’ve had several … antirev riots … it’s been a month since the last one.”

  “Couple of them saw Quiella—that blond hair—she’s very beautiful, shy as ever, though.” Elsin shook his head. “They overturned the car, tried to drag Quiella away. Your mother keyed in the old combat reflexes and unarmed combat module—she maimed or killed a bunch of them, held them off until the Domestic Service patrols got there.” Elsin paused and took another sip of tea. “Her system couldn’t take it. She died that night.”

  “They’re supposed to deactivate implants.” Trystin could feel his own eyes burning. “They’re supposed to—”

  “We reactivated about two years ago. It’s not that hard if you know systems. We worried about something like this”

  The younger man shook his head and stared at the tea. After a long silence he asked, “How’s Quiella?”

  “All right. She comes to see me every week. She’s a sweet child.” Elsin took another deep breath. “Courageous in her own way. Don’t know as I could come to visit me. She’s sweet. It helps, and I tell her that. Selfish old man, I guess.”

  Trystin got up and walked around the table, putting his hands on his father’s shoulders. “No you’re not. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “How could you?”

  Trystin squeezed his father’s shoulders again before walking over to the window and looking out at the rain falling on the garden. He was afraid to ask the next question, half knowing the answer. Instead, he watched the rain pour down on the pines and the flowers and herbs, the heavy drops beating down the leaves.

  Then he looked at the empty place beside his father, and his eyes burned. His mother—she never said that much, just did what had to be done. He swallowed and looked back at the rain. He wanted to hit someone … something … but that wouldn’t do much. After all, a mental voice told him sardonically, isn’t that what everyone’s doing?

  “What else can people do?” he muttered.

  “What did you say?” asked his father.

  “Nothing. Just arguing with myself.” He swallowed and pulled himself together before turning from the window. He might as well get hit all at once.

  Elsin took a small sip from the mug, as if waiting fatalistically.

  “Salya? Was she … at Helconya?” Trystin walked toward his father.

  “You knew about Helconya?”

  “Only that there was an attack. I never could find out much in the way of details. Even the main admin office on Mara orbit station couldn’t tell me … about Salya.”

  “Neither could we. Not until Shinji’s cousin returned. All we got—later—was a formal letter—and some medals. And some credits.”

  Trystin waited.

  Elsin looked bleakly toward the window, his eyes focused somewhere else, not on the window, the wall, the rain outside, but some other place in time. “Salya always wanted to build, to create. When she came home, we talked a lot about her work, the technical details, how she engineered the spores.” He looked down at the half-empty mug. “I miss her. I miss Nynca.”

  “Do you know what happened?” Trystin kept his voice soft.

  “Not really. Some of them took surface skimmers, atmospheric tugs, and rammed the revvie scouts. That was what saved the station—that and some heroics by a junior major. She died, too. All the … most anyway … I don’t know if Salya took a skimmer. I don’t think I’ll ever know, and it doesn’t matter. I know Shinji did. Some of them … they never found. They never found him. They never found her.”

  Trystin paced back to the window.

  The heavy rain continued to tear at the garden, and the clouds seemed darker.

  Elsin took a last swallow from his mug, then pushed out his chair, and trundled toward the teapot. “It’s cold here. Haven’t felt this cold in a long time.”

  Trystin turned, watching the slight shuffle in his father’s steps, seeing the even-thinner silver hair. “Everything’s changed.”

  “That happens …” Elsin put the kettle back on to heat.

  “Riots … I can’t believe it. Here? What’s happening?”

  Elsin sighed. “What always happens. People are looking for someone to blame. Our heritage comes from two groups who always denied that they were part of the problem. The early ecologists blamed industrialization for environmental degradation even while they continued to purchase all the goods and services produced by industry. And the forerunners of the parashintos always looked down on and isolated strangers. Under pressure, people often revert to their roots, and the Coalition is under a lot of pressure.”

  Trystin moistened his lips. He’d seen that pressure.

  “Prices keep going up, and it’s hard to get new equipment, especially electroneural or sophisticated electronics or microtronics. They’re talking about conscription to fill support positions in the Service …” The older man’s words trailed off. “Do you want some more tea?”

  “A little, I guess.” Trystin turned from the window and the heavy rain. He picked his mug off the table.

  “You have to watch out now,” Elsin went on. “Always wear your uniform … Cambria may not be all that safe for you—especially around the young ones. The older people still believe in restraint, but not the young ones. They just see the losses and cannot understand why the government does nothing.”

  Trystin nodded. “The uniform means nothing to them. Saw that already.” He lifted his mug and held it as his father poured the steaming tea into it.

  “It’s getting worse. All the politicans are looking for someone to blame, and it’s always the revs. ‘If it weren’t for the greedy Revenants …’” Elsin snorted. “The revs are what they’ve always been—an expansionistic and opportunistic culture with a high birth rate. That’s never been the question. We just didn’t want to pay the price by stopping them earlier, and we’ve been an easier target, because we’ve always tried to stop them, rather than take the fight to them. The Argentis would have started by destroying Wystuh, but we have this horror of total destruction.”

  Trystin took a cautious sip of his tea, nearly burning his tongue.

  “No politician wants to admit either that horror or our unwillingness to take the fight to them. So it’s who hates the revs worse now. The Democratic Capitalists almost took the assembly in last month’s elections, and Fuseli is pushing for a total conversion to armament production. The Greens have held him off, but they’re losing ground. I doubt the new government will last another three months.” Elsin shook his head before refilling his mug. “Politics. It doesn’t solve anything, and it doesn’t bring them back.” He looked out at the rain that continued to fall. “Sure as hell doesn’t.”

  “No.” Trystin stood shoulder to shoulder with his father, and they watched the clouds and the rain. “No, it doesn’t.”

  48

  After a quick swipe of the card through the reader, Trystin slipped off the surtrans. He tried not to wince at the fifteen-cred fare, more than triple the fare the last time. The three other officers in front of him didn’t even seem to notice.

  He followed them up the wide stone steps to the main Service medical center on Perdya. The rysya and trefil plants in the stone flower boxes be
side the steps appeared beaten down from the heavy rain of the past few days, and flower petals were plastered on the edges of the steps. While the day was gray, the clouds were higher and thinner, and no rain had fallen since the night before.

  Once inside the med center, he walked straight to the information console.

  “Major Desoll, reporting for a follow-up physical.”

  The civilian technician at the front console stared at him for a moment. “A physical?”

  “The Farhkan study”

  “What was your name?”

  “Desoll. D-E-S-O-L-L.”

  After a few keystrokes and a quick study of the screen, the technician looked up. “Second floor, all the way to the rear on the south wing. Dr. Kynkara’s in charge.”

  “Thank you.”

  The civilian did not answer, looking away.

  Instead of glaring at her, Trystin walked across the polished stone floor to the wide ramp, passing a commander and a major engaged in a conversation. Neither looked up.

  Trystin found his way to the far end of the south wing and another technician at another console.

  “Yes, ser?” The dark-haired woman looked up at him, waiting, her slightly slanted eyes skeptical.

  “Major Desoll. The Farhkan follow-up study.”

  “Follow me.” She stood and led him down the same side corridor and around the same two corners as he had walked the last time. The same four cubicles and diagnostic consoles waited. Two had open doors. She looked at Trystin. “Run your ID through, ser.”

  Trystin ran it through the reader, and she tapped several keys on the console keyboard. The console ready light winked green.

  “I’m sure you know how this works. After you’re done, go to gamma four at the end of the corridor. Wait there for the doctor.”

  Trystin nodded, not feeling particularly thankful for the cool reception, but the technician was gone. He closed the door, disrobed, and submitted himself to the chilly ministrations of the cold console. After dressing, he walked to the end of the corridor and took a seat next to a dark-haired lieutenant.

  The lieutenant glanced at Trystin, then saw the name, rank, and decorations, and looked away, coldly.

  “Lieutenant Rifori?”

  The lieutenant followed the doctor into the office. Shortly, the doctor left, and the door shut.

  “It shouldn’t be long, Major.” Dr. Kynkara, her short hair graying, paused.

  “Thank you.” Trystin gave her a brief smile, grateful for the momentary glimpse of humanity. Somehow, he expected coldness in battle and on the perimeter line, but not in a medical center. And not in Cambria.

  The doctor entered the office adjoining the one where the interview was taking place and closed the door behind her.

  Lieutenant Rifori left within ten minutes, a puzzled look on his face, until he saw Trystin, and his face hardened again before he turned and rapped on the staff office door.

  After Rifori left, Dr. Kynkara ushered Trystin into her office.

  The alien wore the same uniform/clothing as every Farhkan Trystin had met. Were they all the same? And would he be talking with Rhule Ghere once again or would it be Jhule? How many Farhkans were involved? Was the agenda going to be theft once more?

  Trystin inhaled slowly, taking in the vaguely familiar odor, the mixed scents of an unfamiliar flower, a muskiness, and cleanliness.

  “Major, this is Rhule Ghere. He is a senior … physician … in the Farhkan … hegemony.”

  “I’ve met Dr. Ghere.” Vaguely surprised that his voice was so calm, Trystin nodded to Ghere.

  The not-quite-human figure wore the same shimmering gray fatigues. The red eyes still peered out from the iron-gray hair and square face, and the wide single-nostril nose flapped with each breath above the protruding crystalline teeth.

  “Greetings, Major Desoll.”

  Again, as they had before, the words scripted through his mind, but Trystin knew somehow that the use of the implant was a fiction, a convenient one for the Farhkans.

  “Let me know when you’re done,” requested the doctor as she left.

  “I will.” Trystin waited until the door closed and the Farhkan’s comm bloc dropped over the room. He settled into the plastic chair opposite Ghere.

  “What do you feel about theft these days?” asked the Farhkan.

  “I still don’t like it. How do you feel about lying? Or is misrepresentation on the nonverbal level not lying?”

  Ghere snorted, and Trystin. wasn’t sure the sound was a laugh.

  “You are bright enough to get into trouble, Major.”

  “You make that sound like a threat, Doctor.” Trystin added the next words on a subvocal level through the implant. “Do your mental abilities include the induction of heart attacks or cerebral ‘accidents’?”

  “I did not mean my words as a threat.” Ghere seemed unruffled. “You have thought, as I hoped you might, but you have not thought deeply enough.”

  “How about answering the question?”

  “That is a fair request. Yes, we can talk mind-to-mind, but not to everyone of your species. The implant is symptomatic of ability. That is, it is difficult to convey more than simple thoughts to those who do not have the ability to mentally organize thoughts before speaking them. Thus …”

  Trystin nodded. Ghere’s thoughts/words made sense, but whether they were fully accurate was another question.

  “ … and we cannot physically affect another entity directly by mental means …”

  Directly? That bothered Trystin, although he couldn’t immediately figure out an indirect means. “How about indirectly?”

  “No more than you can with spoken words.” A silent laugh followed. “Now, you might do me the honor of responding to my request about your feelings on theft.”

  “Theft isn’t simple. It sounds simple, but it’s not. If I waste people’s time with endless chatter, am I stealing their time? How do I know? I’d have to guess whether they wanted to talk or they didn’t. If I steal food to live, it is theft, but is it so immoral if those I steal from have plenty?”

  “You still do not wish to admit you are a thief?”

  Trystin shrugged. “You want a simple answer to a question that isn’t simple.”

  “Is not a failure to answer a question a form of lying?”

  Trystin felt what he thought had to be amusement, and he answered. “Not if you don’t know the answer. Perhaps I should tell you that I don’t know if I am a thief.”

  “You steal, or you do not.”

  “When you can give me a definition of theft, then I’ll think about answering the question.”

  “That is not the objective. In your own terms, are you a thief?”

  Trystin paused. “The simple answer is no.”

  “You should think about whether it is the correct answer.” After a mental silence, Ghere added, “Is there a correct answer? Is your correct answer good for another being?”

  “Probably not, but I also don’t want to live in a society where people are free to steal everything under the sun.”

  “So some theft is acceptable? You do not believe all theft is unacceptable?”

  Trystin’s forehead felt damp. The questions were simple enough, but a lot more was going on than trying to answer questions. A lot more, and he could feel the anger building inside him. Everywhere he looked, something was hidden, as if everyone—except his father—had something to gain by concealment. And everyone was judging.

  “Is some lying acceptable?” asked Ghere, interrupting Trystin’s thoughts.

  “That depends on what you mean by lying. And by acceptable.”

  “It is strange. You humans pride yourself on beliefs and values that you claim are absolute, and then you refuse to accept the judgments you have created by those values.”

  “That gives you the right to judge us?” snapped Trystin.

  “I have not ever made such a claim. I have asked you to judge yourself, and you have refused.”

 
“And if I had? If I had said I were a thief … then what?”

  The snort that seemed like laughter followed. “Then I would have asked you how you could be a thief when you pay for what you use.”

  “Then why did you bother? You weren’t going to accept any answer I gave.” Trystin could feel the anger building, anger fueled as much by the cold reception in the med center as by the Farhkan game-playing.

  “Because understanding what cannot be answered or resolved is the beginning of wisdom.”

  “Why do you care about our wisdom? What is your agenda? Why do you subject me … and presumably others … to unanswerable questions?”

  “We do live in the same galaxy, and your species is somewhat … aggressive.”

  “And you’re not? You haven’t destroyed human ships? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “I would not try that.” Ghere paused. “We only destroyed those ships that attempted to attack us, to commit theft, if you will.”

  “You don’t like theft. You’ve made that clear. So why do you bother with us poor peons of the galaxy? Why not just wipe us out? Get rid of the local vermin?”

  “That poses a difficulty. Several.” Again, the Farhkan paused. “Such an attempt would not be wise.”

  “You couldn’t do it, is that it? So you’d rather figure out how we work enough to destroy us from within?”

  The Farhkan laugh followed. “If we must … we will … accomplish such destruction … but it would be futile. A fool’s victory, and the price would be as high for us as for you—as you may see someday.”

  Trystin sat in the chair. The cold certainty behind Ghere’s words chilled his anger. Yet how could destroying humanity also destroy the Farhkans?

  Ghere offered nothing.

  “All right. I’ll bite. You’ve got the technology to destroy us, but it’s so terrible that you’ll destroy a chunk of the galaxy too, and you with it?”

  “No.” This time the laugh was bitter. “The galaxy would appear almost unchanged. I choose not to answer that question. That answer you must find.”