The Parafaith War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I cannot answer those questions. You must.” Ghere pursed those too-thin lips. “As for worthy … yes, you are worthy. In the sense that a doctor is worthy to bear suffering, or an … But it is not a blessing. In the closest analogue from Farhkan, the word might translate as ‘Kyrsesuffer.’ It is better translated as a curse, and those of our people to whom it is offered accept it reluctantly. Some refuse.”

  “Refuse the gift of never growing old?” Trystin was still angry at the evasions.

  Ghere laughed, a sharp bark that even Trystin did not hear as humor. “Refuse the gift of seeing people make the same mistakes generation after generation? Refuse the gift of becoming more and more distant from those around you as you understand the fragility of life, and the joy created by that fragility—a joy that will become more foreign to you with each decade?”

  Trystin looked at his hands again.

  “As you see more, you will become wiser. As you become wiser, you must risk more and more to persuade others that you are not aloof, that you are not a person apart. And that will cause them both to respect you and fear you. More.”

  The silence drew out. Finally, Trystin threw another question at the Farhkan. “Why did you keep questioning me about theft?”

  “You know the answer. Your species seeks absolutes.”

  And he did. Theft was not the question. They had badgered Ulteena about mathematics, and others about some aspect of their beliefs—all absolutes. What they had pushed him to see was that life offered no absolutes, no hard truths. While many speculated about that simple observation, the Farhkans had prodded and pushed. Why?

  Trystin began to speak, slowly. “The only absolute truth is change, and death is the only way to stop change. Life is a series of judgments on changing situations, and no ideal, no belief fits every solution. Yet humans need to believe in something beyond themselves. Perhaps all intelligences do. If we do not act on higher motivations, then we can justify any action, no matter how horrible, as necessary for our survival. We are endlessly caught between the need for high moral absolutes—which will fail enough that any absolute can be demonstrated as false—and our tendency for individual judgments to degenerate into selfgratifying and unethical narcissism. Trying to force absolutes on others results in death and destruction, yet failing to act beyond one’s self also leads to death and destruction, generally a lot sooner.”

  “That is true, and simple. Yet your species still fails to accept that.” Ghere stood. “It is time to go.”

  “Go? Where?”

  “You requested refueling and assistance. We have provided that.” Again, the hard humorless bark followed the unspoken words. “Now you must return to your people. Your ship is ready.”

  Wordlessly, Trystin followed the Farhkan along the wide and nearly empty corridors of the station, a station that felt more ancient, much more ancient than the Temple on Orum or even the crystal canyons of the Dhellicor Gorge or the seaswept Cliffs of Cambria. How long had the station been there? How old were the Farhkans?

  “Old enough to know better, and young enough to hope.” The words bore humor and sadness as they ran through his head.

  Ghere paused outside the open lock to the Paquawrat. “A safe trip to you, Major Desoll.”

  “Thank you … again.”

  “Do not thank me.” Ghere nodded and stood silently.

  “All right. I won’t. But I appreciate being alive.”

  “That is good. May it always be so.”

  After another long silence, Trystin slipped through the open lock. The ship was spotless, certainly not the way he had left it, and held the musky clean odor of Farhkans.

  Trystin stepped back, using his implant to close the door as he slipped into the tiny cockpit. Except … was it the implant? Could he believe Ghere? Or worse, how could he fail to believe the alien?

  After checking through the ship, he strapped into the couch and began the checklist, still amazed at the clarity and speed with which he interfaced with the ship’s net. Almost no time seemed to have passed when he pulsed the station.

  “Farhka Station, this is Coalition ship Paquawrat. Requesting departure instructions.”

  “Coalition ship Paquawrat, this is Farhka. Are you ready to depart?”

  Even through the direct-feed, the alienness of the words came through as silver-edged, shining, and impossibly distant.

  “Ready to depart.” As ready as you are.

  Beyond the hull, he could feel the cold light of the stars.

  73

  As the Paquawrat slipped out of translation and dropped into the outskirts of the Chevel system, Trystin scanned the EDI once, then again. After checking the limited number of drives and ships registering, he checked a third time.

  Then he fingered his chin for a moment before directing the Paquawrat in-system toward Chevel Beta, absently triggered the temporal comparators to determine his specific translation error. Although Ghere had indicated the initial error was on the magnitude of thirteen years, since the Farhkans had no such system, or not one adapted for human use, he had no idea exactly how much translation error he had piled up along the way, in addition to the two years he’d spent being “rebuilt.”

  He checked the EDI again, but nothing had changed from the first scan. There also seemed to be no EDI activity around Chevel Beta, strange indeed for the principal training facility it had been when he had left. Had there been that much change?

  Cling!

  With the sound of the comparators, he called up the numbers and swallowed. Both Ghere—and Ulteena—had been right. The time since he had left Braha totaled fifteen years, seven months, five days, thirteen hours, and twentyone minutes. Slewing a ship at the moment of translation had definitely compounded the translation error. Somehow the numbers seemed more real on the comparator than they had when “spoken” by Ghere.

  He did shake his head, more than once, as the Paquawrat arrowed into Chevel system. The drives he caught on the EDI were greenish, not blue. So the Coalition still held the system. Had the Revenants been defeated? Or had the war moved elsewhere?

  Finally, after another deep breath, he pulsed off his message. “Chevel Control, this is Coalition ship Paquawrat, code name Holy Roller one. Holy Roller one.”

  Only static greeted his effort. He switched to the universal frequency and repeated the message.

  “Unidentified craft, say again.”

  “I say again, this is Coalition ship Paquawrat, code name Holy Roller one. Holy Roller one. Estimated translation and envelope error is approximately one five years.”

  A long period of relative silence followed, punctuated only by static. Finally, an answer came.

  “Holy Roller one, request authentication red.”

  Trystin called up the authentication tables, trying not to sigh, then pulsed off the codes, wondering why there seemed to be such consternation. Yes, he’d had compounded translation error and time out for medical rebuilding, totaling, if the comparators were correct, more than fifteen years, but a fifteen-year error wasn’t exactly unheard of for Intelligence missions with multiple translations, especially through rev systems.

  “Authentication red follows …”

  “Holy Roller one … cleared to epsilon area, orbit station, Chevel Alpha. Chevel Alpha.”

  Trystin had caught the surprise in the voice. Why the surprise? Had translation error been eliminated? That was certainly possible. And Chevel Alpha? What had happened at Beta?

  He checked the EDI again. The ships in Chevel system were definitely Coalition ships, but there were no traces where Beta had been. None. A Revenant attack?

  Finally, Chevel Alpha loomed up even in the short-range screens.

  “Chevel Control, this is Holy Roller one, ready to commence approach.”

  “Holy Roller one, you are cleared to epsilon one. Epsilon one.”

  “Stet. Commencing approach to epsilon one this time.”

  The new/improved implant made the approach like glass, and Trystin sl
id the Paquawrat into the lock with barely a measurable impact.

  He applied the magnetic holdtights, and pulsed control. “Holy Roller locked at epsilon one. Shutting down this time.”

  “Cleared to shutdown … smooth approach.”

  “Thank you.”

  Trystin unstrapped, checked through the ship, and then triggered the lock.

  A short black-haired major waited at the lock, with two armed guards behind him.

  “Ser!” The major snapped a salute at Trystin. Trystin, puzzled as he was, returned it, even though he wasn’t in uniform, just a shipsuit. He realized he could sense the entire station’s net, even read the protocols behind the net. At that he frowned. He didn’t recall that kind of clarity before. What else had the Farhkans done to him?

  As they cleared the lock tube and entered the main corridor, Trystin tried not to gape. Behind the roped-off area stood at least two dozen service personnel, and Trystin could hear the murmurs without even raising his sensitivity.

  “ … tall bastard … not in uniform …”

  “ … fifteen years they say … big hero before that …”

  “ … know who he was?”

  “Commander wouldn’t say …”

  The guards glanced at the small crowd, then at Trystin, but the major kept walking, leading Trystin to a private lift shaft. What had they let out about him? A big hero?

  “All the way to the top, ser.” The major stepped into the polarized-gravity shaft.

  Trystin swung on and off after the major.

  After exiting the shaft, they walked another thirty meters to a heavy door with the words printed in gold beside it—Station Commander.

  “Go on in, ser. You’re expected.”

  The two guards took up positions flanking the door.

  “Thank you, Major,” Trystin said.

  “Yes, ser.”

  With a look at the door, Trystin slowly touched it and entered.

  Standing by the console was a trim commander with dark hair lightly streaked with gray and a young face. “You’re God, you know? Or the closest thing to Him.”

  “God? All I was trying to do was shake some sense into them.” Trystin smiled as he studied the trim and still athletic-looking woman. The name on the uniform confirmed what he’d hoped, almost expected. She’d anticipated everything. He wanted to grin, to hug her, but fear and formality held him. Too many years lay between them, and he didn’t know if she felt the same way he did, or if she’d found someone else. Fifteen years was a long time for love barely expressed. “God? From a faked death?”

  “You underestimated the power of religion. You became the Prophet returned.” Ulteena Freyer laughed. “Did you really think they’d give up their faith? Rather than give up their faith, they made your mission part of it—a very important part.” She smiled warmly at him. “Please take a seat.”

  “I was trying to foment a little dissension.” He paused. “No, that’s too flippant. How about trying to make the system less warlike—injecting a little love?” He snorted. “Through violence, of course, like all religious reformers.” He wondered how much Ulteena knew, and how much he should reveal.

  “Dissension? They’re more unified than ever, these days.” She paused. “You did bring more ‘love,’ as you put it, into their culture, and they are, thanks also to you, more peaceful.”

  “Me?” Trystin shook his head and sat down beside the low table on which rested a tray containing tea and breads. “That’s hard to believe.” He moistened his lips. Ghere had said he had done well, but he hadn’t wanted to believe the alien. Was that because he couldn’t believe anything good could come from a dressed-up assassination? His eyes crossed to Ulteena. She didn’t look fifteen years older—a few perhaps, but not fifteen.

  “You’d better get used to it. You’re part of history now.”

  Part of history? He looked at the worn carpet on the station floor and then back at Ulteena. Competent as she appeared, he could sense a vulnerability. Strange that he’d never seen it before. “I’m glad to see you survived the Mishima. Very glad,” he added, afraid to say more.

  “So am I. I’m also glad you didn’t start in on the commander business, especially since commanders take second seat to prophets these days. Anyway, you’re a full commander too, even if you didn’t know it.”

  “A recent promotion?”

  “Hardly. Not too recent.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Ulteena Freyer shook her head. “We need to get the formalities out of the way. You tell me what you did and why, first, before … Please do …” She gestured to the tray. “Feel free to have some. Oh …” She rattled off a code.

  Trystin smiled. “So you’re my debriefing officer?”

  “They wanted you to be comfortable, and I’m about the only one left that you knew. That may be why they kept me around. Please have some tea.” She settled into the seat across the low table from him.

  The only one? Trystin felt very alone, and his eyes rested on Ulteena for a long moment before he spoke. “Thank you. I will.” He took a deep breath. “It sounds simple, but it wasn’t. I just asked one question—what earthly good a plain assassination of an admiral and archbishop would do. I couldn’t see that it would do anything. I also didn’t see that returning without doing something would be terribly good for my health, especially with my heritage.”

  Ulteena nodded.

  “So …” Trystin talked for a good ten minutes. He attributed his success in “partially” subverting the Temple system to training from his father, trying to avoid blatant lies. He only mentioned the Farhkans as his medical saviors, doubting that the all-too-instinctive human revulsion for the immortals had subsided much in so comparatively few years. “In the end, they patched me up and sent me packing. I never saw more than one room and a long corridor, and a shower. I didn’t even know the exact amount of the translation error until I reached Chevel.” He spread his hands. “Now … what happened?”

  “We don’t know all of it. Of course, we found out about the business in the Temple, but that wasn’t all that hard to find out given your growing importance as a key Revenant religious figure. Then came all the rewriting of Scripture, very extensive, I might add, and we managed to get bootleg holos of you. It took more snooping—years really—to discover that your ship did manage to reach translation, because that was something someone in the rev security operation wanted to keep very quiet … .”

  Orr, thought Trystin. He wanted me to be the Prophet. The crazy Revenant actually wanted that.

  “ … we thought you might be coming back, and we alerted the Farhkans, but no one was certain until the Farhkans sent a courier more than a year ago indicating that you had been injured and required extensive medical care. That was when I got extended and transferred here.”

  Trystin nodded.

  “Thankfully, things have been relatively dull for the past few years.”

  “What really happened?” Trystin asked again, finally pouring a cup of tea for himself and for Ulteena.

  “I told you. You’re the Prophet returned.”

  Trystin shook his head. “It happened, and I tried to plan it out, but once it happens it’s still hard to believe that one incident can change a whole religion.”

  “It can if the theocracy in charge wants it to.” Ulteena smiled. “Look. The Revenants—‘rev’ is out these days, by the way, and we have full diplomatic relations—have in effect said that they’ve changed, that the Prophet has revealed the new truth, and that’s just the way it is. They don’t want to know about you, and, with the improvements here, no one in HQ has the slightest interest in upsetting the Revenant leadership. We were hurting too badly, as you know, and so were the Revenants—”

  “I saw that. Everything was quietly getting shabby. Too few returnees. Too many patriarchs with younger and younger wives. Young women desperate for any returnee.”

  “You learned a lot in a short time.” Ulteena raised her
eyebrows. “As I was saying, the Revenants really wanted a way out of the endless missions. So the appearance of a Prophet of love gave them an out. And they took it. Now they have real live holo shots of your self-sacrifice in the Temple, and interviews with people who saw your already healing hands after ‘the Temple was rebuilt.’” Ulteena gave him a wry smile. “Let’s see … ‘another will come to sit at the left hand of the Father.’ The one I liked was ‘how can you bring the word of the Lord to your neighbor when you kill that neighbor before you come close enough to speak?’”

  Trystin groaned.

  “I’m glad you thought those words out—or you were truly inspired.”

  “Mostly I based it on their Scripture, the stuff I had to learn … and I plagiarized.”

  “Inspired plagiarism.” Ulteena took a long sip from the cup. “You did look inspiring in that white suit, but I’m glad you didn’t wear it here. Are the suits in the ship?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Well … we could send them back to Wystuh as genuine relics of the Prophet.” She gave a warm, almost impish smile at Trystin’s open mouth. “We wouldn’t. The suits will vanish. It’s better that way. Then Headquarters can breathe a sigh of relief.”

  “Everything is wonderful now?”

  Ulteena snorted. “Nothing is ever wonderful. We granted them the right to send a few hundred peaceful, Book-toting missionaries to the Coalition every year. They agreed to stop sending troids, but we have to let them meet the last ones en route, and so far that’s worked all right. We gave them the rights to the Vyncette system, and they’re planoforming for all it’s worth, and we’re selling them technology. There are skirmishes over unclaimed outer systems, and we and they have lost a few ships through ‘accidents,’ but it’s much better than the mess we had before you left. We’ve also gotten the rights to ship technology to their home systems, but we have to have Revenant partners. In short, it’s an unholy muddled mess—but we’re not destroying each other.”

  “You look good.”

  “Remarkably well preserved? Almost nine years of translation and time-dilation error help.” She laughed.