The Parafaith War

1 

Trystin Desoll shifted in the control seat of East Red Three and tried to ignore the acrid smell of plastic decaying under the corrosive assault of Mara’s atmosphere and the faint hint of ammonia that lurked in the corners of the perimeter station. Both odors mingled with the false citrus of too many glasses of Sustain mixed in the small galley behind the duty screens, and with the staleness of air recycled and reprocessed too many times.
At 13:02.51, his implant-enhanced senses seared alert-red, and Trystin stiffened, fingers reaching, implant clicking in. As his direct-feed commands flared through the station net, he could sense the shields dropping into place even before the faint vibrations through the station confirmed the electroneural signals.
“Revs at zero nine two—”
Before Ryla’s words had reached his ears, Trystin triggered the direct-feed for the eastern sector, splitting his mental screen into the four all-too-familiar images. In the upper right were the forward reclamation towers, still well behind the eastern perimeter; in the upper left the line of brown-suited attackers; in the lower right the computer enhancement showing the various hidden defense emplacements, the attackers, and the probability figures for each system, the numbers changing as the revs moved toward the towers. The lower left simply showed the entire sector as if from a satellite plot, with a colored dot showing the location of the downed—and since destroyed—paraglider, a reconstruction of the probable revvie tracks, East Red Three itself, and the hazy spot where another storm was forming over the badlands to the northeast.
Trystin scanned the revvie communications band, ran the comps, realizing that the revs had almost reached the perimeter before the sensors had discovered them. He triggered the line of antisuit bomblets, checking the display that seemed to scroll before his eyes against each clickback, finally nodding as the mental images indicated that all the bomblets had vaporized. Immediately, the lower left display showed the slowing of the revs’ advance.
Nearly simultaneously, he fired off a standard attack report to Perimeter Control, to keep them informed, not that they could help him now, but PerCon would be all over him if he reported the attack after the fact. That was one reason for the implant and standard format—it took less than an instant.
To take out the revs, Trystin could have gone with the gattlings, or with the laser, but the input from the scanners indicated new reflectives on the revvie suits. Besides, he preferred giving some of the revs a chance to survive, a preference that some of the other perimeter officers, especially Quentar, who was one of the duty officers in East Red Two immediately to the north, suggested might be Trystin’s undoing.
According to the net’s computations, there was a ninety-percent probability that the revvie assault had originated from the downed paraglider that had hit the badlands less than a day earlier. The radar-transparent paraglider had come from the revvie troid ship that had gotten through the SysCon DefNet before being neutralized by the backups. How many assault wings had gotten free before the neutralization was another question. So was how much equipment the revs had pulled out of the glider before the patrol wing had lobbed in rockets and scorched it out of existence.
Trystin needed to find out. So some of the revs would survive, not that they’d necessarily enjoy the experience.
“Ryla. Get the wagon ready for revvie pickup.” Voice was slower than direct-feed, but the noncoms weren’t equipped to handle direct-feed.
“Yes, ser. We need info, ser?”
“That’s affirmative. Looks like a follow-up from that troid ship. The sensors didn’t register. Run a sampling on the suit fabric of a deader. If it’s new, let HQ know.”
“Stet, ser.”
“There’s at least one deader…the bomblets impacted a rev. The others are in shock, mostly milling around.”
“We can use the organics. I won’t be taking the wagon until they’re almost stiffed.”
“That’s fine, so long as you get a couple. Use Block B. No double-celling, and if there are more than ten alive, use the end cells in A.”
“Stet, ser.”
Trystin refocused on the close-up of a dozen figures—probably men, given the revvie ratios—in outside combat suits, the solid brown with the white lightnings of the Prophet running up the sleeves. The respirator hoods and low backpacks gave them a hulking appearance, even as the synthfab coveralls began to shred.
“Pretty new suits, ser,” added Ryla.
“Only twenty years old,” snorted Trystin.
“Still don’t feel sorry for ’em, ser.”
“No. You don’t have to. Out.” Trystin went back to the overhead view, clicking in the enhancers and trying to see if another squad of revs had surfaced anywhere in the red-brown hills beyond the perimeter.
With the ambient heat and the gusting winds, only motion analysis had much chance of picking up revs at any distance. The satellite feed didn’t have tight enough discrimination for something as small as a trooper, not one in camouflage brown, and the high-intensity scanners on the perimeter towers lost discrimination beyond five kays—or the nearest hilltop.
Besides the revs, the near scanners were now showing the storm buildup, and that bothered Trystin. The revs, if there were any more in his sector, could almost walk to the perimeter behind the storm front, if it drifted westward—except the revs already had arrived almost unnoticed, and they shouldn’t have been able to do that.
He flicked into the meteorological module. “Interrogative storm, badlands, outsector.”
“Not projected to intersect perimeter line at this time.” The words, and the supporting data, seemed to scroll across his mental screen before he clicked back into surveillance.
The screens showed no other revs, no sign of anything besides the badlands, the growing storm, and the normal backdrop. He took a deep swallow of Sustain from the cup in the holder, then swallowed before he clicked on-net, direct-feed priority to Ulteena, the sector watch to the south, and to Quentar, who was now on duty at East Red Two to the north.
“Trystin in East Red Three. Just had a revvie thrust from that paraglider. Single squad. Sensors didn’t pick up revs until late. Might be something new.”
“Thanks, Trystin. Nothing on the screens here. We’ll keep a watch.” Ulteena projected almost a cuddly feel through the net. Trystin snorted to himself. Her neutralization ratio was the highest on the eastern perimeter.
“Stet, buddy,” came back from Quentar. “Clear here. We’ll up-scan, though. Remember. The only safe rev’s a dead rev.”
“Just wanted you to know.”
“Stet.”
Trystin wiped his forehead, damp despite the cooling system. He sniffed. The station still smelled of Sustain, ammonia, and a bit of the floral incense Gerfel had burned to mask the acridness of the station’s odors.
“Ser?” called Ryla. “They’re all down. I’m taking the wagon.”
“Stet. Ryla?”
“Yes, ser?”
“If it moves, nail it.”
“Yes, ser.”
Trystin wiped his forehead again. He didn’t need a non-com being wiped out by a deader play. Thanos knew when the station would get a permanent replacement if that happened, and he was already dead on his feet. The last thing he wanted to do was break in another tech.
He refocused on the split screens, but there...