She shook her head. “No. Now that we know what to look for—and how to do it with the existing equipment—we’ve found and neutralized their caches/depots, whatever you want to call them. We’ve pushed them back to square one.” Mitsui stood. “That information was sent to the perimeter stations this morning—those we have left.”
“So I won’t have to worry about a full-sized Sasakiclass tank—or whatever the revs call theirs—rolling over my station new month?”
“No, Lieutenant, you won’t. You may wish it were that simple.” She flashed a smile, a cool knowing smile. “I hope you’re up and around before long.” With a last nod, she walked out.
Trystin sat silent for a moment. Quentar, and who knew who else—dead because better scanners cost too much? How did that make the Coalition different from the revs? He pursed his lips. It was different. At least, the Eco-Techs didn’t turn soldiers into living bombs.
He shook his head, then reached for the packet. After setting it in his lap, he opened it and riffled through the stack of papers. Then he set them flat and picked up the first one, a single sheet announcing that all Service tours would be extended by six standard months unless the needs of the Service required an earlier change of assignment.
Translated loosely, reflected Trystin, all short-term Service contracts were being extended. If you wanted to request or accept something more dangerous, the Service would be happy to oblige, all too happy to oblige you.
The second sheet was more interesting. Trystin scanned the page.
“ … Desoll, Trystin, Lieutenant, Service of the Ecological-Technocracy Coalition … results of your voluntary physical and the Farhkan follow-up study positive … retained in the follow-up cohort … annual pay bonus increased to five percent … reevaluation after next physical scheduled tentatively for Unodec 790 …”
Whatever he’d said to the Farhkan hadn’t been enough to get him thrown out of that study. But what did they want? Would he ever find out?
Still … the extra pay was nice, even though he wasn’t spending half of what he was making anyway. How could you spend credits when there wasn’t anywhere to spend them? Even the best restaurants in Klyseen weren’t that expensive, and they were about the only luxury the settlement boasted.
He smiled. Even the thought of that food started him drooling. The med center provided better food than a perimeter station, but not much better.
The next sheet he studied for a long time. There were five sheets, all identical copies—hard-copy orders. Voluntary, but orders. Propped up in the med center bed, with tubes and wires running to what was left of his right leg, Trystin kept looking at the hard-copy orders in his hands. Hard-copy orders, yet. He shook his head as he read the words in the second section.
“ … by accepting this assignment, you, Trystin Desoll, accept indefinite assignment in the Service, subject to the needs of the Service and the peoples of the Ecological-Technocracy Coalition … . Upon recovery and assuming full medical approval and clearance for duty, report to Chevel Beta for commencement of training no later than—”
Chevel Beta—that was the Service installation for training military pilots for deep-space combat and translation. Originally, he’d requested pilot training, but his request had been “deferred.”
What had changed? Was it the revvie attack? He frowned. How could it have been? Service Headquarters on Perdya must have issued the orders as soon as they found out, because they knew he’d been wounded.
Did he still want to be a deep-space pilot? That meant he was basically being asked to volunteer for almost permanent isolation from his parents—and Salya—at least after the first few years. While translation slip/error wasn’t that great for any interstellar jump, the cumulative effect was considerable. He’d still be young when his sister was frail and gray.
Tap …
He looked toward the door. There Ezildya stood, a tentative smile in place. He slipped the orders into the folder and put the folder in the single drawer of the table beside the bed. “Come on in. I don’t bite.” He looked at the harness around the leg. “I can’t even move that much.”
Ezildya edged up beside the bed, then bent over and kissed his cheek. The faint scent of fleurisle drifted to him, but dark circles ringed her eyes. “How is the leg?”
“It hurts. The med techs say it will be fine, maybe even a little stronger than the original, but probably won’t be quite as sensitive in places.”
“What happened?” She hoisted herself into the high-backed stool.
“What happens when people shoot things at each other. I got hit in the leg. Twice, I think.”
“And they have to rebuild and partly reclone your leg?”
“Two days in shredded armor were more of a problem than the original wound. There was no way to get to us for a while.” Trystin tried to shift his weight in the bed and was rewarded with a twinge of fire that ran from his lower leg all the way up into his back.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“When I try to move. The med techs say that’s a good sign. That’s easy for them to say. It’s not their leg.” He paused. “I’m glad you came.”
“I didn’t know for a while. I thought you were dead.” She pinched her lips together. “A lot of the perimeter stations were destroyed.”
“I heard that earlier today. I guess I was lucky.”
Ezildya glanced toward the harness and raised her eyebrows.
“The alternatives were a lot worse.” He frowned. “How did you find out I was here?”
“There was a public briefing sheet—not public, I guess, but for all of us in tech support. You and some major were mentioned as blunting the rev attack. It said you were wounded. After that”—she shrugged—“it was just a matter of finding out where you were.”
“I’m sorry. I should have sent a message, but”—he glanced around the small bare cubicle and then at his leg—“I’m not exactly mobile.”
“I can see that.” Ezildya gave him a brief smile.
“How are things going for you? You look tired.”
“I am. We’ve all been on extra shifts. I think everyone in Klyseen is working every moment that they’re not sleeping.”
Trystin reached out and fluffed the black hair. “I’m glad you came.”
“So am I.” She shook her head.
“What’s the matter?”
“I guess I’m tired. You seem … different.” She shook her head again. “I must be tired. You are you …”
“I hope so.” He looked to his right leg. “At least, most of me is me.”
“Is it true … you spent two days in armor with a wounded leg? There’s not enough oxygen …”
“I tubed into the scooter and aux supplies after the revs stopped coming. Then Hisin helped me.” Trystin saw the confusion. “Hisin was the tech. I put him in the bolthole. Techs don’t have heavy armor. We’re there to protect them, and they run the reclamation side of the stations. You know that. Anyway, once things were clear, he helped me, and we waited.”
“And you were rescued, and you’re a hero.”
“I was rescued. I’m not a hero.”
Ezildya shook her head again. “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be cheering you up, and I’m really too tired to do a good job.”
Trystin touched her cheek. “Maybe you’d better go home and get some sleep. I’m glad you came, but I don’t want to be the cause of your—” He forced a laugh. “I guess I’m not thinking too well, either.”
“Good-bye, Trystin. Take care.” Ezildya slipped from the stool and bent forward to kiss his cheek.
“You, too.”
He watched as she walked to the door, turned, and gave him a small wave.
After she left, he released a deep breath. Something was bothering her, but what? He shook his head, then looked toward the table that contained the orders for pilot training. Pilot training—if he still wanted it.
14
“Examination of the genetic codes of all intelligen
t beings thus far discovered indicates a genetic predisposition to procreation at a precoded span in each organism’s life. Although that procreation range occurs comparatively later in the life span of an organism with greater cognitive capacity, in all organisms studied to date that range coincides with the range of greatest physical health … .
“Thus, achieving individual organic physical nondegradation (‘physical immortality’), defined as removal of all genetic tendencies for organic self-destruction on the cellular level, will by definition increase the reproductive rate beyond a neutral populace growth rate.
“Over a sufficient period of time, any organism with a positive level of populace growth—no matter how small that growth rate—unless checked by outside forces, will come to require virtually all the resources within its ability to acquire … .
“Any habitat can support a small number of virtual immortals or a much larger number of mortals … . Technology depends on a certain critical mass, however, often smaller than the number of immortals that can be supported by a given habitat … .
“The dilemma faced by any species with the capability to achieve individual physical immortality is whether to reject such physical immortality, to adapt genetic codes to lower populace growth, to develop cultural norms for stable populace growth, or to use technology to accommodate increasing habitat needs … .
“The use of technology to increase usable habitat will, in sufficient time, result in conflict with other species, and, in historical practice, the elimination of either the attacking or defending species as a threat to the other … .
“Can a species which refuses to adapt, either through genetic, biological, or cultural means, its reproductive expansion to its habitats be termed intelligent? Can mere survival of a species which employs diverse technology be termed a proof of intelligence? If one subculture of a species in conflict with another subculture demonstrates the ability and the will to limit its expansion, should we regard the favorably behaving and the unfavorably behaving subcultures as differing species? How can a species, even ours, ethically justify the use of force against another species on the grounds that the other species will in time use force to eliminate our species? Should we …
“These are the questions this colloquy has attempted to bring forth for discussion … .”
Findings of the Colloquy
[Translated from the Farhkan]
1227 E.N.P
15
As he waited for Ezildya, Trystin stared out through the closed glasstic door at the courtyard below and the small gardens where pebbled paths separated the differing shades of green into quiltlike patterns. A mother and her daughter picked beans from a plot in the far corner and placed them in a large brown sack.
The light of the setting sun turned the courtyard dome into a translucent pink, the last light of Parvati reflecting through the red skies of Mara.
The whispering of slippers on the hard floor alerted Trystin, and he turned. “Even through the dome, it’s red.”
“Yes. Like blood. That’s fitting, these days, I suppose.” In loose exercise clothes, Ezildya stood with her hands on the quilted spread that lay folded across the back of the cushioned plastic love seat. “How long have you been out of the med center?”
“A couple of hours.”
“You came to see me. That was nice.” Ezildya remained behind the chair, her faint golden skin somehow pale, her dark eyes fixed on Trystin.
“You came to see me when I was laid up.”
“Yes, I did. What will you do now? Go back to your station? Or are they sending you somewhere else as a reward?”
“I’ve been offered orders to Chevel Beta. The orders were cut right after this … latest mess.”
“Did they give you a reason?” Ezildya lifted her hands from the spread.
Trystin looked back at her, seeing both bleakness and relief in her eyes. “Just the standard wording. You know, the phrase that says, for the needs of the Service, and for further training before your next assignment?”
“Your next assignment?”
“Pilot training.”
She winced. “You’re willing to give up everyone, aren’t you?”
“It isn’t that way anymore. Translation error is down, generally only a couple of days, sometimes a few hours on the short jumps.”
“Tell that to the people on the Linnaeus. Twelve years, was it, just between Perdya and Kajarta?”
“That was sabotage of the translation system.”
“What about Lieutenant Akihito?”
Trystin flinched. Akihito had been the second test pilot on the translation systems. He’d turned up all right, after everyone thought he’d died when the system had failed, and he had reappeared healthy and still young and enthusiastic—just seventy years out of time and place.
“It does happen, Trystin. My mother lost a year on a routine maintenance test, and she thought she knew what she was doing.” Ezildya’s voice was soft. “And the translation errors build so much … what will your family think?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to Perdya. My father’s always been behind me.” Trystin laughed. “Even when he was convinced I was wrong.”
“What about your mother?”
“She and my father generally agree. She used to be a ship systems engineer. Then she took up music, said it was the closest thing to the music of the spheres. She teaches now.”
Ezildya nodded to herself. “Isn’t this early for another assignment? You’ve only been on the perimeter for ten stamos, not even a full year.”
“Eleven stamos when I leave. A year to fifteen stamos is the normal rotation. It’s just a little early, maybe because schedules don’t match. Besides, there’s no station to go back to, not yet. Saboli—he was here when I got here—he left in less than a year. He said that was because the translation gates are dangerous in Duodec.” Trystin laughed. “I think he was just trying to find a logical reason for an arbitrary decision.”
“Where did he go?” Ezildya’s tone was bland.
“Helconya orbit station. I told him to say hello to Salya. I guess he got there. I got a message from Salya suggesting that he wasn’t her type.”
“What does your sister think about your orders?” Ezildya shook her head. “That’s stupid of me. She wouldn’t know. She couldn’t. What do you think she would say?”
Trystin chuckled. “I don’t know. But she’s the one who always wanted to be in on the Helconya project. She talked about it when she first studied biology.” He shrugged. “I’d have to say that she’d say something like do what you really think you should.”
“I see. You’re all so … messianic. Does that come with the rev heritage, too?”
Trystin took a deep breath, feeling as though he’d been gut-punched. Finally, he asked, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You really don’t believe in people, Trystin. You’re just like the poor revs you killed, except you’re better at it. We’ve made you better. You’re an Eco-Tech with blind faith, supreme confidence, and great hard-wired abilities. Just like the revs, nothing shakes your faith. Not rows of bodies, not almost losing your leg, not the real probability of your own death.” She put her lips together tightly and blinked.
Trystin watched, then, as her cheeks dampened, limped forward, his leg stiff. The hint of fleurisle drifted toward him, a scent somehow misplaced in the oil- and plastictinged air of the Maran domes.
“No.” She put out a hand. “I can’t take any more hope. Do you know what it’s like to lose someone twice? Of course you don’t. You won’t ever lose anyone, because you’ve never let anyone close to your heart.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s more than fair. You believe in your ideals more than in people. What comfort will your ideals give you when you’re finally broken by time and age, or by the revs—not that that will ever happen. You’ll break yourself. No one else could.”
“Ezildya …”
“The grand and great Co
alition may need you, and your type, but I don’t.” Ezildya looked at Trystin.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just go … please, Trystin. If you don’t know, then all my explaining won’t mean a thing. And if you do, then”—she took a deep breath—“I really don’t need to explain.” She paused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so emotional. Just go. Go report to your training. Go save the rest of us. You can’t save me, or yourself, but go save the Coalition.”
Trystin stood there, a coldness seeping through him. He wasn’t like the revs, not at all. Couldn’t she see?
“Just go. You will anyway. Sooner or later. Just go.”
Finally, he turned and walked slowly to the door. Nothing he could say would change her mind. That he knew.
16
The port tube-shuttle whispered to a stop at the EastBreak station. Trystin lifted his kit and shoulder bag and stepped out onto the green and gray tiles of the well-lit underground station. The glow-tubes overhead shed a soft light almost like that of the tunnels in Klyseen, but the air carried the faintest scents of the greenery that lay above and outside the station.
A mother and a small boy walked toward him across the clean and polished tiles of the station floor.
“He’s a lieutenant,” whispered the dark-haired boy, who dropped his mother’s hand to point. “Like Daddy.”
Trystin touched the edge of his beret briefly, then smiled at both the boy and his dark-haired mother. He walked quickly along the lighted tunnel to the steps up to the surtrans station, pausing to swipe his card through the reader to pay for the tube-shuttle-the same two creds it had always been.
As he started up the stairs, he tried not to limp. His leg didn’t hurt, but it was still stiff, despite all the stretching exercises he’d done in rehab and even on the Adams on the way back to Perdya.
At the top, on each side of the wide staircase, framed in blue-stone, were miniature gardens, complete with the bonsai cedars that supposedly dated to the founding of Cambria. Behind them were the carved green marble slabs that bore representations of the evergreens of old Earth— old Earth before the Great Die-off, before the forests had been turned to instant charcoal.
The Parafaith War Page 12
