After taking another complete four-screen scan, Trystin called up the Research Command data bulletin and scrolled through it, noting that it was a more scientific presentation of what he had discovered.
“Ryla? How are the crackers doing?”
“They’re hovering around eighty percent, ser.”
“How about that turner?”
“It’s hanging in there, but it doesn’t feel right. Anything new?”
“Not about the western stations. PerCon has ordered a no-captives directive because of their organic traps.”
“Bastards. How can they do that to their own?”
“I don’t know. Something about their faith, I guess.” Trystin paused. “I’ll let you know if there’s a new status.”
“Thanks, ser.”
Trystin went back to checking the perimeter, checking the badlands, checking the power flow, and, in between four-screen scans, calling up rev backgrounders from the databanks. None of it was helpful, except to refresh his knowledge. The revs—Revenants of the Prophet—were a messianic, xenophobic, evangelistic culture whose members seemed universally to believe their mission was to claim the universe for the sons and daughters of the Prophet in the name of God.
Trystin shook his head. Was there a God? If so, what human could presume to know his mind? And how could such a god be good if he or she or it allowed followers to destroy any race or culture that opposed the expansion of the revs? He shrugged. If there were no god, then such claims were merely an excuse for destruction and expansion. Of course, that kind of rationalization was all too human. He snorted.
Cling! At the in-feed alert, he called up the message.
“All PerCon Stations. DefCom visual plot indicates three paragliders on entry envelopes. Probably landfall coordinates follow. Full alert on perimeter stations. DefCon Two. DefCon TWO …”
Trystin plugged the coordinates into his system and cross-checked, but the indicators were that the revvie drop was aimed at the western perimeter stations—just what they needed with as many as twenty percent of the western stations either destroyed or marginally functional.
Over the next standard hour, he watched, but nothing came up anywhere within his screens, or within the satellite plot covering the eastern line.
He got more Sustain, noting the increasing odor of ammonia. Or was it the decreasing effect of Gerfel’s incense? He did manage to keep his hands off the cheese, and tried not to drool when he thought about it.
Then it was back to the screens, more watching, more scanning—but nothing, as usual, until the in-feed alert—cling!
“All East Perimeter PerCon Stations. DefCon visual plot indicates three paragliders have impacted beyond west perimeter. DefCon Two stand down. DefCon Two stand down.”
Trystin stood and stretched, then walked over to the small galley and began to rummage in the cooler. He deserved something, even if it were only synthetic cheese on algae crackers.
5
The whole building stank, not only with ammonia, but with weedgrass, and the combined stench had overwhelmed Gerfel’s latest incense-burning.
As Trystin entered the command center, he wanted to claw at his nose. The invisible grit from the sandy soil was so fine that it drifted through all but the tightest seals, and the station’s seals were less than perfectly tight.
“I’m taking the midday shuttle,” Voren said. “I don’t care if I have to sleep sitting up coming and going. I’ve got to get out of this stench.” He rubbed a nose that was noticeably red.
“Lucky you.” Trystin coughed, then sneezed.
“You could go to Klyseen tonight and get back on the 0440. Otherwise, you won’t sleep.”
“I just might. I just might.” Trystin wrinkled his nose, trying not to sneeze again.
“Oh, Gerfel’s off-night’s tonight. Hirachi’s rotating duty now, but he won’t be here until the late shuttle. He never is.” Voren’s eyes glazed as he logged off duty. “Also, Jynstin is coming with me. Think you two can handle it for a while?”
“We should be able to.”
“It’s all yours.”
“I’ve got it.” Trystin linked with the system and logged in.
Voren walked toward the stairs, then turned. “That cheese of Gerfel’s?”
Trystin nodded.
“She said I could finish it. I couldn’t. It’s too rich. You can have the last of it. She told me it was better to share.”
Trystin had often wondered what else the two had shared. “Thanks. I did drool over it when I was eating algae crackers.”
“So did I, except I asked Gerfel. You’ve got to ask, young fellow.”
Trystin shook his head at Voren’s directness. Voren was less than a year older and Trystin’s senior by only six months, even if the combination of shadowed heavy whiskers and hair over every centimeter of his body conveyed the impression of greater age.
“Ask and you shall receive.” Voren headed for the steps down to the showers and his cubicle.
At times, Trystin wished he had the other’s directness. Then again, he really didn’t want to be that kind of person. Or was he just deceiving himself? He settled into the command chair and began his checks, but Voren had left everything clean. The fans were contributing ten percent of the power load with the light winds, and the organonutrient tanks were down to fifteen percent. He shook his head and pulsed through a follow-up order for the nutrients, citing the low fuel level.
Then he went through the messages. Nothing new, but the earlier general warning about possible additional revvie paraglider assaults remained current. If even a third of the wings had gotten clear of the troid, there would be far too many revs running around Mara. Although most survived low metabolic state through high-temp planetary entry, Trystin shivered, thinking about what the rev troopers—or missionaries—went through and how few ever returned.
He coughed again, then, noting that Ryla had finally come on, linked to the noncom console.
“Ryla?”
“Yes, ser?”
“I take it that maintenance has far more to deal with than our bent frame and leaky seals?”
“Yes, ser. I’ve been using that quick-caulk stuff, but it only lasts a few stans before the air pressure and everything eats through it.”
“Isn’t there anything better?”
“Sure. Inert stabilized fluorocarbons—except they aren’t exactly stabilized here …”
“Yeah … no thanks. Tell me again why we’re trying to reclaim this place.”
“The word is that someone thought it was a good idea at the time.”
“And the revs want to take it from us.”
“That makes more sense. They’ve all got eight kids a family.”
“How about five per sister, with five or six sisters per patriarch?” asked Trystin.
“Wouldn’t mind being a patriarch.”
“You want the odds on that? Only the ones that survive their missions get to be patriarchs. And I don’t care much for their missions.” Not when they come as living weapons, thought Trystin.
“Me, neither.”
“Here comes first light. Time to see the beautiful badlands of Mara in full color.”
“I’ll be a lot happier someplace farther along, ser, like Safrya.”
“Maybe your next tour will be there.”
“Maybe.”
With that, Trystin let Ryla get on with the business of repairs and technical checkups, while he ran through the four screens one at a time before dropping into simultaneous four-screen.
Nearly a stan later, Ryla up-linked. “Lieutenant Desoll, ser?”
“Yes, Ryla.”
“Number three cracker’s down to fifty percent and overheating. The datalinks are burned out.”
“You’re cleared out. I’ll watch the rest of the maintenance board.”
“Be a bit before I get the scooter clear. I’ll need a bunch of stuff, ser.”
“That’s fine. Let me know when you clear the bay.”
<
br /> “Stet.”
The noncoms did most of the physical maintenance work, but they didn’t have to worry about burning out their neural systems, either. Trystin rubbed his forehead and shifted his weight, then stood and walked to the armaglass window. The scratched pane showed him far less than his screens, but at times the view through his eyes and the grit-scarred armaglass seemed more real.
“Clearing the bay now, ser.”
“Stet.” Trystin walked back and forth, his consciousness more on the screens than on the gray plastic walls that surrounded him.
Kkcchewww!! The itching got worse, and the odor of ammonia was stronger. He forced himself to stop rubbing his nose.
After running through the maintenance screens, Trystin plopped back into his chair and continued scanning, even though the screens and detectors showed nothing beyond the badlands, the building storms, and the reclamation towers and equipment. At least the winds had increased the power from the fans to nearly thirty percent.
Cling! Trystin swallowed the algae cracker, and washed it down with Sustain even as he called up the message.
“All PerCon Stations. DefCom visual plot indicates two paragliders on entry envelopes. Probable landfall coordinates follow. Full alert on perimeter stations. DefCon Two. DefCon Two …”
Trystin plugged the coordinates into his system and cross-checked.
“Shit …” This time the indicators suggested that revvie drop was aimed at the midsection of the eastern perimeter stations—a bit south of East Red Three—but that could change, and probably would. The revs were good enough atmospheric pilots that the gliders never came down quite where DefCom said they would. By the time the DefCom and satellite plots had them located and the rockets were away, the gliders were usually empty shells, and the revs were clear and headed for perimeter stations.
He pulsed the scooter and got the relay to Ryla’s suit unit.
“Ryla? How are you coming?”
“Damned cracker’s a mess, ser, but they wouldn’t listen. Mainboard’s pretty much melted solid. Don’t know how it’s working as well as it is.”
“Can you wind it up in a stan?”
“Be done in less than half that. Not much I can do.”
“We got a rev drop in entry.”
“I’ll make that even quicker, ser.”
“Stet.”
Trystin waited and watched, but even with the satellite plot he couldn’t see any sign of the revvie paragliders. He fixed and drank another cup of Sustain, and wished he hadn’t as his stomach roiled.
“Ser, I’m back, and we’re buttoned up. Heard anything?”
“Not yet.”
Trystin studied the screens, but could only see the few native cacti bending in the wind and grit scudding along the hillsides. Above the higher sections of the badlands, clouds had begun to form.
Cling!
“All PerCon Stations. DefCom has confirmed two paraglider landfall near eastern perimeter. Both gliders have been neutralized. Landfall coordinates and estimated time of landfall follow. Full alert on eastern perimeter stations. DefCon One. DefCon One …”
The coordinates were east and slightly south of East Red Three, almost where predicted, surprisingly—and less than five kays right down the wash. The landfall had been nearly three quarters of a standard hour earlier.
Trystin pursed his lips and took another full scan. With the coordinates, and by straining the resolution capabilities of the system, he thought he could make out a badlands valley containing discolored soil and a few long objects that might have been glider components. Why didn’t the system have better resolution? The capabilities had been there for centuries. Was it the cost?
He linked to Ryla’s console. “Ryla, we could have company anytime.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Sorry.”
“Damned revs.”
Having no answer to that sentiment, Trystin took another full screen-by-screen scan before dropping into balanced four-screen.
At 14:16.13, alert-red spilled through the system, although Trystin had already called up the command options when a flicker of dust appeared on the farthest hill.
Ping! Ping! Crumpt! Without a rev in sight, the first round of shells impacted the station’s composite armor.
Trystin triggered the shields, both for the station entries and the fans. A single red signal flashed—the shield for the main vehicle-entry door on the south side of the station had jammed, not that there was a thing Trystin could do about it.
“Revs!”
“Got’em, Ryla.” Except that he didn’t directly, only through the impacts of their weapons. Visual shielding? Trystin checked the impact angles of the incomings with a visual replay, then reset one of his rockets into a higharc trajectory toward the dust puff on the far hill.
Crumpt! Crumpt! The building shivered again under the revvie rockets.
Using full scan, Trystin watched his rocket, noting the detonation on his screen. Outside of the gout of red soil, there were no additional explosions, but there were also no more shells impacting on the command center.
The lieutenant nodded. His calculations had been good enough to silence the revs, but only momentarily. He recalculated, assuming forward or sideways motion to keep the revs out of the direct line of the gattlings.
Crumpt! Crumpt! Crumpt!
“The maintenance-door shield’s jammed, ser.”
“Stet. Happened when I dropped the shields, but I figured I couldn’t do much in the middle of an attack. You all right there?”
“I’d better be, ser. No place else to go that’s any safer—except the bolthole, and I’m not one for burying myself.” There was a pause before the noncom asked, “What they got there?”
“Something that screens them, and a lot of rockets.” As he spoke, Trystin released another spread of rockets, then simultaneously sent an attack report to PerCon.
Crumpt! Crumpt! The next round of revvie rockets slammed into the station, and Trystin winced as he watched for the impact of his own rockets.
Not only was there a gout of dirt, but a secondary explosion on the flatter slope of one of the hills beyond the perimeter.
Crumpt! Another rocket slammed the station.
Clearly, not enough of a secondary explosion. Trystin recalculated and released another spread of rockets.
Crumpt! Ping!
Some of the revs were close enough for rifle fire, and Trystin didn’t like that at all, not when he couldn’t see much and when the revs had some form of new heat-shielding clearly effective against the sensors.
Ping! Ping! Crumpt!
Finally, the three-screen identified the source of the shells and the boosted rocket pryers and reverse-tracked them to the backside of the nearest hill to the northeast. As usual, the revs had their weapons aimed at the station building itself, rather than at the heavy reclamation equipment.
Still wondering why that seemed to be so, Trystin used a spread of rockets to reply, since the revs were out of gattling range.
Ping! Crumpt! Crumpt!
Another series of explosions, these visible on the short-range direct scanners, dotted the hillside—and one small secondary explosion followed.
A series of distortions seemed to flow downhill toward the station, and Trystin flicked through scanning frequencies until he found one that gave him what amounted to flickering outlines.
Even with the use of all screens and sensors, Trystin couldn’t seem to get a hard count on the revs, as if the sensors and the optical scanners were facing some sort of interference. He could see that, again, some of the flickering figures carried the longer assault rifles.
Crumpt! Crumpt! Crumpt! The entire station building shivered.
Now that the revs were in range, Trystin triggered the antipersonnel gattlings and the antisuit bomblets, but the revs seemed to have avoided the artificial cacti with the bomblets, except for a few stragglers on one side.
After the earlier attacks, Trystin h
ad no desire to risk more revvie booby traps, and this was the most heavily armed group of revs he’d personally seen. The exterior sensors relayed the sprayed fragmenting of the osberyl-tipped depleted uranium shells 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.
Crumpt! Crumpt!
So many subsystems reported overload or damage that the backfile flared red. Trystin couldn’t even have counted the impaired systems.
AIR SYSTEM INTEGRITY LOST!!
Some atmospheric integrity remained, but not enough for breathing. Trystin shoved the emergency respirator over his face, and jammed the tube into the seat pak.
Crumpt!
“Ryla! Air system’s down. Get into your respak!”
No response, and a check-pulse indicated that the noncom’s system was off-line. There was nothing Trystin could do, not in the middle of an attack. If he didn’t stop the revs, then it wouldn’t matter what shape Ryla was in.
Jumping from the command center, Trystin yanked the combat suit from the locker and stuffed himself into it, automatically disconnecting the respirator tube and holding his breath as he dropped the helmet in place and made the seals. He hated the damned armor, both for the restriction in his net access, and even more for the price he’d pay in using it, but the revs, or some of them, were in the station—or they would be before long.
He kicked his reflexes up, ignoring the buzzing sensation that the boost gave him, and pulled the heavy-duty slug thrower out of its rack, along with several clips. Then he headed for the steps to the station’s lower level.
As he neared the staircase, the vibrations warned him, and he eased to the side, then dropped flat, waiting.
Two ghostlike and wavering figures, faintly brownish, charged up the stairs. Only slightly more clear were the outlines of the assault rifles that each carried.
Trystin squeezed the trigger on his own rifle just twice.
Both figures tumbled backward, and seemed to disappear at the bottom of the stairway. No movement—or flickering images. Even before they had disappeared, Trystin moved toward the maintenance chute with the ladder, designed for emergency access to the station’s halfburied lower level.
The Parafaith War Page 4
