The Parafaith War (25 page)

Folsom cracked the hatch to the station lock. “Take what’s left of whatever day today is off, and tomorrow go collect your orders-and your wings-in personnel. I do have to finish the record-keeping and data entries.” Then

he grinned. “The techs were right about the dust on the line, even if the engineers deny it.”

Trystin began to unstrap. Then he gathered his gear and armor, not shaking his head until the commander was out of the lock and out of sight.’

He was a pilot officer … after nearly two years. Why didn’t he feel like one?

As he waited for the shuttle to the orbit station at Chevel Alpha, Trystin glanced at the orders, the top

hard copy already smudged from his continual scanning, and then down at the antique wings on his tunic above his name. He still couldn’t quite believe they were there. One thing that had helped was the clear increase in his pay, although the notation that went with the itemization was somewhat sobering-“extra hazard pay.” Of course, it would swell his Pilot’s Trust translation account. He shook his head and looked back at the hard copy of his orders.

“… on or about 15 quint 791 … report to Medical Center, Cambria, for Farhkan f/up study… . Upon completion of home leave, no later than 30 quint, report Perdya orbit station and wait for arrival of U.C.S. Willis and assignment as pilot officer… . Report Service commander orbit station for temporary duties as necessary… .”

In short, first he had to have another physical, right after his flight-training detachment physical, and he hadn’t even gotten a corvette, but second officer on a light cruiser. It could have been worse. He could have been assigned as second officer on a troop carrier or a cargo bus. And while he was waiting for his ship to arrive, he’d be assigned every grunge duty the orbit-station commander had.

He folded the orders and slipped them into the thin case next to the message from his father, asking Trystin, when his training was complete, to let them know if he would be getting home leave and when. Elsin had added a cryptic phrase about not needing to worry, and that made Trystin worry. Why did people always say not to worry? Still, he had sent the message, wondering if it would get there before or after he did. With translation errors, one never could be sure, although his actual detachment had taken more than a week of hurrying and waiting, including his detachment physical and implant calibration.

At his feet were three bags, the two he’d brought and the third with his armor and associated pilot gear. He glanced at the status board, but there was no status information on the shuttle yet.

While he’d heard of many Coalition ships, the Willis hadn’t been one of them. So he’d looked up the name. Kimberly Willis had been a corvette force leader in the Harmony raid and almost single-handedly responsible for destruction of the troid battlecruiser Mahmet. According to some battle analysts, the destruction of the Mahmet had ensured the success of the Coalition forces-if success meant less than twenty-five percent of the Coalition ships returned and that none of the revvie ships had survived.

Trystin wasn’t sure he would have been able to translate himself into an enemy troid-not at all.

“Where are you headed?” Ulteena Freyer walked across the shuttle bay toward him.

Trystin still admired her carriage and mind, even as he steeled himself without knowing why. “Perdya. How about you?”

“Arkadya, but I meant your assignment.” “Oh, the Willis. Light cruiser. What about you?” “Chief everything on the Yamamoto-corvette-not that I’d get anything else.” She glanced up at the status board, where glowing letters finally indicated that the shuttle for Chevel Alpha-more accurately, the main orbit station off the planet itself-would be arriving in ten standard minutes.

“They didn’t have any choice?” “It’s simple enough. I’m a major, a very junior major, but a major. You’re a lieutenant. Even if you’re a moderately senior first lieutenant, they can put you anywhere, and almost any pilot will outrank you. No problem.”

Trystin understood. “This way, if you survive, you get a bigger ship as CO on the next tour.” “You’ve got it.” Trystin frowned. “Why the frown?” “I was thinking about Major Tekanawe.” “She’ll make a wonderful transport pilot-good and stolid.” “If she survives corvettes.”

Ulteena’s laugh was short and harsh. “I’ll bet she got perimeter patrols in the Helconya system.”

“That seems …” He frowned again. “I think she did. How did you know?”

“I didn’t. She’s very solid, without much imagination, and those types of pilots are hard to find. People with quick thought, quick reflexes, and the willingness to leave everything behind usually hack the system rather than follow the program to the last line of code-but transport pilots need to follow their orders to the last byte. To follow a schedule.” Ulteena laughed easily. “How would you do at that?” Trystin laughed, too.

“You see what I mean? Do you really want to be a transport pilot? Or on border patrols off Helconya?” “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Ulteena glanced over her shoulder. “Here comes Ardyth. I’ll see you later. Do take care of yourself, Trystin.” She smiled warmly and turned.

Trystin looked at Ardyth, a large and stolid lieutenant, also with pilot’s wings above her name. The two pilots walked toward another officer-male-at the end of the waiting area, but Ulteena turned and gave him a last warm smile. Trystin returned the smile, trying to keep a puzzled look ff his face. He was finding too many unanswered questions, including the one called Ulteena Freyer. He pursed his lips. One minute she was warm, the next formal. Yet she was the type that never did anything without a reason. Finally, answerless, he hoisted his bags.

Trystin paused at the first turn in the walk, where the stone-walled bed still held the purple-flowered sage-sage his father insisted had a pure genetic line to old Earth. He set down the three bags. Bending over, he inhaled, trying to pick up the fresh scent. Smelling the sage was so easy when he crushed the dried leaves, but more difficult with the growing plant.

Springtime had almost left, and the late-afternoon heat that heralded summer oozed in over the garden walls, not that summer was all that hot in Cambria. Why did he always seem to come home in the spring? Coincidence?

He straightened and looked at the stones of the bedding wall that held the sage. He remembered building the wall-chipping and fitting the stones so they would hold without mortar and with no more than the width of a heavy knife blade between any edge. All that as punishment for swinging at Salya because she’d teased him about-who had it been-Patrice?

What had ever happened to Patrice? The last he’d heard, she’d married another Service officer, and they’d been shipped to Arkadya. Arkadya-that was where Ulteena Freyer was headed. Ulteena must have been from a tech family, because Arkadya wasn’t open for colonization-at least it hadn’t been the last time he’d checked.

Trystin bent down again. The blue-shot gray stones of the wall seemed unchanged, still rough in places, despite the fifteen years that had passed since he’d built it. Then, fifteen years wasn’t anything to a stone. Or a translation pilot, his mind added. He pushed away the thought and concentrated on the wall. In some places the gaps had been a bit wider than the back of the replica knife his father had used as a gauge, but not much, and Elsin had just smiled and said, “They’re close enough. You’ll remember, and that’s additional punishment enough.”

At the time, Trystin had just been relieved. Now … he looked at the gaps in the stones, not quite narrow enough, and laughed. But he understood what his father had meant, especially as he stood and wanted to reset the stones. He laughed again before picking up the three heavy kit bags and heading up through the boxwood maze toward the low stone and wood house set amid the gardens. That the house had greater depths and vistas was never apparent, except from within.

Trystin wondered if that reflected all of the Desolls, or if such an image were merely vanity. And what lay in his depths?

He paused again when he came to the bonsai cedar-the same and yet not the same. He could come home, and the cedar was always the same and not the same. Another image? Shaking his head, he walked up the stone-paved path quickly, enjoying the scent of the pines and the heavy but distant odor of the early roses. Was he stalling in the garden, enjoying the plants, because he feared the message beneath the message his father had sent?

After a quick glance back across the gardens, Trystin rapped on the door and waited. He rapped again.

The oak door opened, and a blond woman, wearing the Service uniform, smiled at him.

“Salya! You’re the reason Dad sent that message-and I was so worried.”

“Silly!” Salya hugged him even before he got inside, and his bags scattered across the stones as he hugged his sister back. Then she stood back and looked at the dress green Service uniform. “You really made it-Pilot Officer Desoll.”

“I always said he would,” observed Elsin from the foyer. Trystin mock-glared. “You had me worried with that message.”

“You had us all worried with pilot training,” pointed out Salya.

“Let the man get inside,” suggested Nynca. “You’ve scattered everything he owns all over the front porch.”

Trystin gathered up his shoulder bag and flight bag, and Salya hoisted the third bag and followed him down to the lower bedroom, the one off the office.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said to her, setting the bags by the closet door.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” Her dark blue eyes studied him for a moment. “My brother. Not even my little brother anymore.” “I’ll still be your kid brother.” “Thanks.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. “I think Mother’s got some goodies waiting. They’ve been waiting for a couple of days.” Salya started out the door and up the half-flight of stairs.

Trystin’s eyes lingered on the room, the single bed, the slightly dusty wooden model of the antique corvette hanging above the desk where his school console had been. Finally, he shook his head and followed his sister.

By the time they reached the great room, Nynca had a tray of miniature cakes on the table, with steaming pots of both green tea and greyer tea on the old carved wooden trivets.

“It looks good,” Trystin observed.

“It had better. Your mother spent most of her endday baking and filling and dicing and slicing.” “I did help a bit,” added Salya. “You ate as much as you fixed.” Nynca’s eyes twinkled. “I imagine she was as deprived as I was,” Trystin said, lifting the pot of greyer tea and filling the heavy green mug. “I can’t imagine that food on Helconya station compares to what comes from your kitchen.” He turned to Salya. “Green or greyer?”

“Green.”

As he filled his sister’s mug, he looked to his father. “Do you want any?” “The greyer.” .

After filling his father’s and sister’s mugs, Trystin Just poured the green tea for his mother. She’d never liked greyer tea, calling it perfumed water. “There.”

“He still pours his tea first, but now he’s learned to pour everyone else’s before he gulps his down.” Salya grinned. “I love you, too.”

As the four settled into the captain’s chairs around the light wood of the game table, Elsin looked toward Trystin. “How does it feel to be a certified pilot?”

Trystin finished munching the chocolate nut cake and sipped his tea, holding up a hand.

“Let him have something to eat, dear. It’s not as though he’ll be disappearing tomorrow.”

“With the Service, you never know.” Salya glanced toward the half-open slider to the middle garden, her eyes taking in the fast-moving clouds beyond the trees.

“In some ways, it’s not much different at all, except that you look back and realize you’re doing things you couldn’t have imagined before.” “Such as?”

“Nestling two hundred tonnes of plastic, metal, and composite up beside a nickel-iron asteroid and floating there in darkness a few degrees above absolute zero.” Trystin took another sip of the tea and held the cup under his nose, letting the steam circle his face, closing his eyes for a moment.

Salya lifted a lemon cream cake. “These are good.” “Don’t eat too many,” said Elsin. “I do have a special dinner.” “We’ll eat late. We always do.”

Elsin rose quietly and picked up both the dark gray teapot and the green one, carrying them back into the kitchen. “I can see we’ll need more tea.”

“How are your projects going?” Trystin sipped of the greyer tea.

“We’re getting there.” Salya paused and sipped her tea. “The airspores are beginning to impact the upper troposphere, except you really can’t call it that, and we’re getting some cooling from water comets, although right now what’s left after transit just vaporizes. Still, that overloads the absorptive capability of the surface, and the high-temperature bugs we seeded down on the rocks are beginning to release free oxygen and reduce the CO levels… .” “When will we be able to live there?” “This one’s long-term, really long-term. Say eight hundred years, if we’re lucky.” Nynca shook her head.

“It’s not so bad,” Salya said. “For one thing Helconya’s effectively a sterile planet. That means whatever we do doesn’t get tied up in unforeseen ecological knots. And then there are the ethical concerns… .”

Trystin nodded. “You mean the old arguments about whether a planoformed place would have developed intelligent life in time?”

“Right.” Salya reached for another lemon cake, then put her hand back in her lap and lifted her mug with the other.

“There.” The mostly silver-haired man set both teapots back on their trivets. “I turned down dinner a bit.” He settled back into his chair. “You mean I won’t be called upon to develop integrated biosystems there?”

“Not in this lifetime. Father. Not unless you’re an immortal and have been keeping it from us.”

Elsin ran a hand over his thin hair. “Does this look like an immortal’s hair?” Both Salya and Trystin chuckled. “Where are you going?” Nynca looked at Trystin. “I don’t know.” Trystin’s hands flailed for a moment. “I’ve been assigned to a light cruiser-the Willis-and I’m supposed to report to Perdya orbit station after leave-no later than the thirtieth of the month.” “You’ve got three weeks,” observed Elsin. “I also have a physical at the main medical center on the fifteenth, but that should only take a half-day.”