The Parafaith War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Thank you,” said the mother.

  “Just keep her safe,” Trystin suggested. “I need to go.”

  Behind him, the officer in blue said to the driver, “You stay right here, Billy Bardman. After something like this, you just might be getting your mission call early.”

  If possible, the youth turned even whiter, and shook even more. Trystin suppressed a frown as the officer in blue approached him.

  “I’m Brother Smithson. Jon Smithson.” The tall man in the official blue jacket extended his hand.

  Trystin took the beefy hand and shook it. “Brother Hyriss. Wyllum Hyriss.”

  “That was something you did. Never seen a man move so fast.”

  Trystin forced himself to relax, as if what he had done were commonplace. “Guess you move quickly when you have to.”

  “You headed to Wystuh?”

  Trystin nodded.

  “Well … thanks again, Brother. The Lord be with you.”

  “And with you.”

  Trystin walked back to the car, stopping by the porch of the confectionery store to reclaim the bag of lime balls. What had the officer meant by the reference to the early mission call? Had that been what Peter Warlock had meant by internal social controls against violence? The reference had certainly stunned the young man.

  As he headed to his car, he tried not to frown. He’d already said too many of the wrong things, little things, and now he’d aroused a local peace officer’s curiosity He’d made himself memorable, far too memorable, in saving the children, and the Revenants doted on small children—and he hadn’t even reached Wystuh.

  Brother Khalid would have had far too much to say about his actions, far too much.

  He refrained from wiping his forehead as he drove toward Wystuh. He had to wonder if Headquarters had any idea how bad an idea it had been to send him. It was one thing to do a job, a straightforward mission like holding a perimeter station or defending a system, and to do it well when you didn’t have that much time to think or get to see those you killed up close. It was another to assign a murder and give him the time to think about it. Or to see children and not have the cold-blooded sense to let them die in order to avoid unwanted attention.

  He shook his head. Jynckla he could still handle. Admirals weren’t above the carnage they created. But he couldn’t let children die … and that might be his failure. He took a deep breath.

  61

  Trystin noted the air pollution long before he reached the outskirts of Wystuh—a brownish haze hanging over the big saucerlike depression that held Wystuh and the rings of outlying communities. Although Promised Valley’s geography was the principal reason for Wystuh’s status as the first settlement, the depression and uniform surrounding hills that had speeded the early planoforming were also immensely helpful in creating inversions and concentrating industrial by-products, especially since the Revenants clearly did not plan out the total ecological impacts of their industrialization.

  The scenic highway widened into a divided motorway separated from what appeared to be industrial parks by high white walls. Trystin damped the intensity of his vision again—Wystuh glittered. White light seemed to pour at him from every direction as he entered the city proper.

  Seventh Octagon read the sign for the first turnoff.

  Trystin kept driving, watching the other vehicles carefully. The petrol cars were far more fragile than spacecraft, and the relative motions in close proximity seemed potentially more deadly. He was aiming for the road hotels off the Second Octagon—the ones that catered to Temple visitors.

  Several of the road hotels on the Second Octagon were filled, and Trystin finally pulled into a smaller one—Promise Inn—on the north side of Wystuh. As he got out of the car, he glanced southward. Over the low trees loomed the eight spires of the Temple. He paused.

  “Sort of gets you, doesn’t it, Brother?”

  Trystin turned. A white-haired man in a coat of pale blue, so pale that it was almost white, stood beside a fourdoored blue car three meters away.

  “You don’t realize …”

  “No, you don’t. First time in Wystuh, Brother?”

  “Yes, Brother,” Trystin answered.

  “It’s always good to see one of the returned coming to give thanks to the Lord and the Prophet. Where’re you from originally?”

  “Nephi.”

  “Pilot, aren’t you?” The white-haired man stepped toward Trystin.

  “How’d you know, Brother?” Trystin asked.

  “It’s not hard. Most of the returned are pilots these days, and all of you have an air. It’s hard to explain,” laughed the older man, “but I know it when I see it.” He held out a hand. “Brother Carson Orr.”

  “Brother Wyllum Hyriss.”

  “I’d guess half of Nephi must be named Hyriss.”

  Trystin shrugged. “What can I say?”

  “It’s not your fault. You didn’t pick the name.”

  “No. That’s certainly true.”

  The other man looked at his wrist. “I’m going to be late, but I’ll probably be seeing you around.” He slipped into the car.

  After Brother Orr drove off, Trystin walked across to the office. Inside the glass-walled space, less than five meters square, a gray-haired woman stood behind the counter.

  “I was wondering if you might have a room for the next week or so?”

  “For how many, Brother?” The badge just below the shoulder of the subdued dark-checked dress read Sister Myra. The braided hair and gold band on her left hand confirmed her status.

  “Just for me.”

  “Giving thanks?”

  “And coming to see Wystuh.”

  “For one or a couple, that’s not a problem. A family with two or three wives and children—those suites are all taken. Let’s see. You want to be up or down?”

  “Whichever is quieter,” Trystin answered honestly.

  “Probably the one near the middle on the first floor. It will run you thirty a night or one ninety a week.”

  Trystin paused, knowing that would probably be expected, even for a returned missionary.

  “We’re less than most, Brother …”

  “Hyriss,” he supplied. Then he shrugged and smiled. “It’ll be a long time before I’m here again.”

  “You never know. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “His will be done,” Trystin responded with the accepted response and pulled out the credit strip. His hand brushed the hip that was beginning to ache from what he knew would be a bad bruise.

  “Credit strip—you have a job already?”

  “I’m a cargo pilot.”

  As she ran the strip through the reader, Sister Myra shook her head. “You couldn’t get me up there.” She handed him back the strip and a plastic oblong. “Here’s your door-reader. Your room is 117. The juice in the cooler comes with the room. So drink what you want. The restaurant opens at six in the morning and closes at eleven.”

  “Thank you.”

  Trystin smiled and walked back to the car, listening with extended hearing as the sister turned to the other woman who had entered.

  “ … he looks sad behind the smile …”

  “ … wouldn’t you be with what he’s seen?”

  “ … almost too handsome …”

  Too handsome? That was hard to believe, especially on a planet of generally especially handsome people. And thinking about what he’d seen? Most Eco-Techs wouldn’t have said the Revenants thought about the privations of their military missions.

  He pulled the car up in front of 117 and brought in his bag, setting it on the luggage rack, then opening it and hanging out the other suits. He took off his own coat and hung it up, before pulling out the halfway well-thumbed Book of Toren he’d received so many light-years away He set the book on the table and studied the room.

  The videolink console—manual style—appeared to have only a handful of channel selections. He flicked it on, and the holos came up around him slo
wly, with a slight fuzziness. The surround-sound was also somewhat distorted, possibly by the age of the console.

  “The Wystuh Evening News is brought to you by Bayliss …” The image of a green package of something was thrust almost to Trystin’s nose.

  Trystin flicked to another channel.

  “Know Your Scripture—the Quiz Show of the Book!”

  He flicked again and got what appeared to be some sort of drama, where tall figures in combat suits with lightning bolts assaulted and overwhelmed short figures in black suits. He seemed to be carried along with the missionary troops. With a sigh, he tried another selection.

  The volume of the music stunned him.

  “ … listen to the Prophet! Listen to the Prophet, yeah, yeah, yeah …”

  He flicked again.

  “ … if you want to order this genuine replica of Nephi’s urn—”

  Trystin flicked off the videolink. The words were different, and the selections fewer and more religious, but the quality similar to what was broadcast in Cambria—un—fortunately.

  He picked up the Book of Toren and sat down, flipping through the pages, then stopping, recognizing the passage, absently surprised that he had.

  “ … for no man who commits his soul unto the Lord can fail in His sight, for the Lord is generous …” Trystin frowned. Generous? He flipped to another section.

  “ … do not say, better my cousin than my neighbor, for all men and women are cousins in the sight of the Lord, and all are neighbors …”

  Trystin wiped his forehead. As his continued studies of Revenant materials kept demonstrating, consistency def initely wasn’t a part of the theology. How could the Revenants believe what he had just read, and then make war on the Coalition? Did religion allow a greater inconsistency between internal and external actions? Could he somehow exploit that?

  He shifted his weight in the old chair, and his hip throbbed.

  Could he use the business about neighbors? How? What did it have to do with an assassination? Somehow, somehow, he had to come up with a way to carry out his mission that made it more than a mere assassination. An assassination wouldn’t be enough. That he knew already.

  Once more, he blotted his forehead, before flipping the pages of the Book of Toren, seeking another scriptural passage. He needed some sort of inspiration—and a way to escape in one piece.

  62

  As he sat with the once-hot cider in front of him, looking at an empty plate that had held a stack of pancakes he’d never thought he’d finish, Trystin glanced through the window to the corner of the Promise Inn and then to the spires of the Temple beyond the trees.

  The Temple—always the Temple—that was already clear enough.

  What was it that the revvie officer had said so long ago—back on Mara? Something about while he believed, nothing could change his mind. Trystin nodded to himself. That meant that the belief structure of the Revenants had to be either changed or destroyed. And how could he do that?

  He took a sip of the lukewarm cider, and looked back at the Temple spires. He didn’t know how to change a belief structure—but he’d better figure out how, and fast. Otherwise, he was stuck carrying out a meaningless mission with a slim chance of survival.

  With a shrug, he stood up. In the meantime, he’d better continue on with the preplanned mission, until he could come up with something better. He just hoped he could.

  After paying for the breakfast, Trystin settled into the car and began his shopping trip, although he wasn’t shopping for quite the same reason other returned missionaries might be. They missed the luxuries and were setting up households or giving presents. Trystin was looking for components convertible to weapons. The problem with passing Revenant screening was that he would have to build what he needed from other components, preferably commonly available items. While that wasn’t a technical problem, it took time. Then again, he could use that time to try to come up with more than an assassination.

  As he drove down West Kingdom Avenue, Trystin was again glad the implant gave him the ability to darken his vision, because Wystuh glittered—glittered with a whiteness that penetrated everything. Every building was white or off-white, and with the yellow-white sunlight of Jerush burning through the pale blue sky, even the shadows cast by the sun were filled with reflected light. At the same time, he could not help but notice something else. While everything was clean, spotless, there were no new buildings under construction. He did not see one—historic preservation or something?

  Entertainment Microtronics Center—that was what the sign read, but Trystin drove by the store twice before he located the parking area, and pulled the rented car into it.

  “Could I help you, Brother?” asked the white-haired manager almost as Trystin stepped into the store. All the older men in supervisory positions everywhere seemed to be white-haired. Was being white-haired something that went with being a patriarch?

  “Yes, except”—he forced a rueful grin—“I am a little out of touch.”

  The older man took in Trystin, looked him squarely in the eyes for an instant, and then offered a smile in return. “I can see that. Well … let me show you what we have here.” He gestured toward a compact black unit with a blank and smooth front, flanked by two speakers.

  “The basic audio system is a laser-read, digitally produced sound. The central system is pretty standard … how good the sound is depends more on the output speakers than on the processing unit …”

  Trystin knew what he wanted, but nodded as the salesman took him through the units.

  He finally settled on the basic unit, plus a small repair kit. After the salesman accepted the credit strip and entered the transaction, he helped Trystin load the equipment in the rear seat of the rented car.

  “Thank you, Brother Hyriss, for choosing us. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Brother Gerstin. I put myself in the hands of the Lord, and this is where I found myself. Peace be with you.”

  “And with you.”

  Trystin couldn’t help but wonder at the other’s effusiveness, as if the salesman hadn’t seen a real customer in months.

  As he drove, his thoughts kept returning to the Revenant officer on Mara and his words—“while I believe.” What could stop that kind of faith? Could anything? Trystin finally smiled a crooked smile. Why fight that blind faith? Why not use it? He still didn’t know how, but he nodded to himself.

  His next stop was a small industrial-supply house on the outskirts of Wystuh. Despite Wystuh’s reputation for nonexistent crime, he wondered how safe the area was as he parked the car in front of the low building whose white walls were almost gray. While not streaked with grime, the walls had been washed enough without recoating to convey the impression of dirt.

  “Help you, Brother?” The greeting was rough, almost dismissive, and the heavyset man looked almost contemptuously at Trystin’s immaculate white suit.

  “I’m looking for a replacement sonic unit on a Rubeck cleaner, model 786.”

  “Hmmm … 786 Rubeck … sure that’s what you want? Lotta wasted power there.”

  “If you need to fix a 786 …” Trystin said.

  “Yeah, you need a 786. Let me see.”

  Trystin walked over to the hard-copy catalog lying on the counter, and began to thumb through it, noting parts and components.

  Thump!

  “Here. Lucky. Had two even.”

  “You also have this Remmer wave guide?” Trystin pointed.

  “Nah … piece of junk. Anything that’ll fit can also take a Murrite.”

  “Could I take a look at the Murrite?”

  “Sure. Carry a lot of those. Good for cleaners, just about anything. They say even the missionary forces use them—not like we do, though. Wouldn’t know. Spent my time on Josephat.”

  Trystin whistled. Josephat was a mining asteroid. The man had to be tough.

  “Only one who returned. Something, anyway. Just a second.”

  Thump! The Murrite looked better than
the Remmer.

  “Looks a lot sturdier.”

  “Easier to adjust, too.”

  “How much?”

  “Three hundred for the sonic unit and seventy-three for the guide.”

  “The last thing I need is the Wembley powerpack.”

  “You need that much power?”

  “It’s a long story …”

  “Cost you more than the rest.”

  “That’s fine.”

  The burly man left and returned with a flat box that he set next to the others.

  “Credit strip?” Trystin asked.

  “Sure. We take anything that converts to dollars. Lot of business lately. Folks doing more repairs. Don’t see how some of the places selling new stuff stay in business.”

  Trystin handed over the strip.

  “What’s a God-fearing returnee like you doing here?”

  Trystin laughed, thinking about faith. “I don’t need to fear the Lord, just men. I’m like everyone else, doing what has to be done.”

  “Good point, Brother. Didn’t need to fear the Lord on Josephat either, just the idiots who thought they knew His will.” He handed back the credit strip.

  “Yes.” Trystin nodded, searching for a proper reply. “The Lord will make His will known in His own way.” He picked up the strip and pocketed it and then stacked the smaller box on the larger. “Peace be with you.”

  “You, too,” grunted the big man, scratching his head.

  After loading the gear in the car, Trystin decided to return to the Promise Inn before completing his rounds. He was getting a feel for what he wanted to do—somehow separating the Lord from those who thought they knew His will was a first step.

  “Rather presumptuous, aren’t you?” he murmured to himself, not answering the question as he eased the car into a space within a few meters of his door at the Promise Inn.

  Trystin carried the first box of console components into his room and returned for the smaller boxes, and the tool kit.

  “Brother Hyriss? Do you need any help?” The older gray-haired sister had walked out to the car from the of fice.